True Intentions Page 3

  My Jeep does have one big drawback; it's a five speed. A video with me driving a stick shift has to be worth some sort of prize as a funny video for YouTube. I barely have any driving experience to begin with, much less with a five speed. I've only read about them in driver's education. Never in a million years did I think I'd someday actually drive one. Luckily, Gramps has been very patient, taking me out driving for several hours a day. But today, I'm completely on my own . . . . Yikes!

  The noises of some other cars pulling into the lot interrupt my thoughts.

  "Thank God," I mutter, realizing some students here actually have normal looking cars. At least now, there are a couple more needles. Maybe I'll eventually fit in here after all. I turn off the ignition and make my way toward the front office.

  Rim of the World, here I come . . . .

  The weather is extremely pleasant, considering its February and over 60 degrees.

  It's usually only in the 10-20 degree range back home this time of year. At least I have that benefit working in my favor.

  How can I stay depressed with great weather?

  I open the large, framed door to the school with my hunter green backpack strung across my right shoulder. I brought this backpack 'cause it matches the atmosphere here. After all, I'm in the middle of the San Bernardino National Forest.

  Plus, I'd rather carry a backpack over a purse any day.

  There it is, I think to myself, noticing the office sign up ahead.

  I walk briskly to the office, fearful of drawing too much attention from students out in the halls.

  "Miss O'Brian?" a tender voice says in a low tone from behind the desk. I have to search around the counter to see who is actually talking to me. Yet she has a clear view of me coming inside the door.

  "Yes." My voice is barely audible.

  "We have been expecting you. Welcome to Rim of the World High School." A slight smile sweeps across her face while she looks me over. I'd guess she is in her late twenties or early thirties. A stunning diamond sits on her ring finger.

  "Thank you very much," I manage to spit out, attempting an artificial smile. I'm trying not to appear as miserable as I feel starting a new high school in the middle of the year.

  "Here is your welcome packet," she exclaims. Her enthusiasm is nauseating.

  "Enclosed are several important items: a map of our school, your class schedule, your parking pass application, your locker number, and combination, and, lastly, a contact directory of the school faculty."

  By her exaggerated expression to a simple welcome packet, it must be her creation.

  "Oh, uh . . . thank you. This valuable information will be very helpful," I agree, once again throwing out my fake smile.

  Maybe an Oscar could be in my future? I am pretty close to L.A.

  "Please let us know if you have any questions or concerns." Then she looks down, getting reabsorbed with whatever project she was working on prior to my arrival.

  For several moments, I stand against the counter not wanting to leave the safety of the office.

  I think I can, I think I can, I remind myself, remembering my dad reading the story about the little, blue train that overcame self-doubt.

  I can do this.

  I tuck the informational packet under my arm and head out into the unknown.

  It's like driving in a strange, new city without a real-time GPS. Once outside the office, I sit on an older, wooden bench and look for my first classroom on the overly complicated campus map.

  "I wouldn't even bother looking at that dumb thing," says a young, male voice on my left side. I lift my head to see who is talking and to make sure he's actually talking to me.

  There stands a dark-haired boy staring in my direction. His hair hangs in his face. He reaches up with his hand and tucks a few of the longer strands behind his ear, so he can see me better. I stare at his dark, chocolate-brown eyes and notice he has beautiful, long eyelashes. Even without standing, I can tell he is only a few inches taller than my five-foot-six frame. He is nicely dressed in khaki shorts and an orange, polo-type shirt.

  "Is that so?" I ask, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

  "Definitely!" he replies with a smug undertone, and then holds out his hand, patiently waiting for me to shake it. "Hi, I'm Jack Roberts. Is this your first day here, or have you been wondering around here aimlessly since August?"

  I can't help but smile. Someone with a sense of humor . . . . I thought those types were extinct, and this place was grossly overpopulated with arrogant, snotty, anorexic, Barbie types instead.

  "Actually, I have been here since Christmas, but I still am struggling to find my way around with this map."

  He laughs loudly and shakes his head.

  "Shall I call you Miss Christmas then?" he adds, maintaining a great smile.

  Duh! I have been so preoccupied in saying something witty; I never introduced myself.

  Could I be any ruder?

  "Miss Christmas works fine, or you can always address me as Ava . . . . Ava O'Brian." I smile. I'm struggling to sound casual. "I actually just moved here from Chicago. Yeah, this is my first day here." I look away, praying I'm not blushing.

  Jack again laughs. "Well then, welcome Ava. If you show me your class schedule, I'll be happy to be your personal tour guide and get you to your first class."

  "Gladly." The word practically shoots out of my mouth. After all, he might think of reconsidering his great offer. I pull out the class schedule and hand it over, willing to comply.

  "Sociology with Ms. Gingritch, ouch!" he says, exhaling noisily. He makes a mournful, facial expression as he stares at my schedule. Then he casually hands back the paper. He winks, and then looks down at his wristwatch. "Follow me."

  I swiftly get off the bench without questioning his intentions, even though class doesn't start for another twenty minutes.

  Jack gives me a quick tour of the high school campus, throwing out hints like: this wing houses all the science classes; this one has the foreign language classes. We continue to walk, and he takes the opportunity to quiz me about moving to Lake Arrowhead.

  "Chicago, huh . . . . Are you a Chicago baseball fan?"

  "Yup," I answer without elaborating. My nervousness kicks in causing my breathing to increase and my hands to get slightly clammy.

  I don't want to talk about Aiden.

  "I've never been to Chicago," he adds.

  "You'd enjoy it," I say, keeping conversation on Chicago rather than me personally.

  "So why did you move?"

  Darn— I knew this would come up.

  Unsure of how to evade that topic, I figure the old saying "less is more" will work best in this instance. "We moved here to be closer to family." I feel my heart pounding rapidly in my chest.

  Great! That answer probably opened a new can of worms. Now he will start asking about my family.

  "That's cool. Do you have a lot of family around here?" he says, as if he picked up on my evasiveness.

  "A few in Blue Jay." I'm going to keep this conversation as dry as possible in the hope he'll change the subject.

  He seems unaware of my hints of avoidance, "So, like did your parents divorce or something?"

  Darn . . . . Either he sucks at getting hints, or I'm terrible at this evasiveness technique.

  I contemplate answering his question, but I know it will potentially lead to twenty others.

  I'm never going to get out of this interrogation.

  "So, what is up with all the BMWs and other types of cars around here? Is this place junior Hollywood?" I say, sarcastically redirecting the conversation.

  "I'm not sure what you mean?" he replies, a confused look sweeping across his face.

  You've got to be kidding me!

  Apparently, no one around here notices normal kids our age don't usually have a Mercedes Benz as a first car.

  The way this conversation is going, he probably drives a Mercedes.

  "Never mind," I reply, wishing I had never brought
up this subject.

  Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore.

  I glance around, trying to keep a mental picture of what each building looks like, and what class is in which building.

  Why is this place so darn confusing?

  Back home, our high school was one building with four floors.

  Simple.

  In Lake Arrowhead, I'm in a rat maze.

  As I continue to follow Jack around like a little puppy all over campus, I take notice of the other students staring at us. Not mean stares, but curious ones. In a school with only eight hundred students, they must realize I'm a newbie. People living in California look way different than they do in Chicago. I don't fit in here, not in the least.

  Most girls are dolled up, overly thin, extremely tan, and have blond highlights in their hair—no matter how dark their original hair color. Plus, the majority carries expensive, designer handbags. I'm surrounded by Barbie types, like it's a convention or something.

  The more I watch other students, the more uncomfortable I become. My wardrobe will need a major update to fit in at Lake Arrowhead.

  I glance at Jack. The corners of his lips curve into a smirk as he watches me.

  "So here is your first class, Sociology," he says, pointing to the older, wooden door on my right side. A proud grin now fills his entire face.

  "Thank you for showing me around."

  He makes eye contact for a second only and then looks down. His voice falters,

  "You'll probably meet tons of new friends during the day, but if you want, come sit with me at lunch."

  I bite my lip. What a really sweet gesture. I feel guilty for my evasiveness. Maybe I should have been more willing to be open with him about moving here.

  "Thanks, Jack. I appreciate that. Can I ask you one last question?"

  "Go for it!" he says, his eyes widening.

  I pull out my welcome packet and look blankly at my locker number. "Where the hell is locker 416B at?"

  He immediately starts laughing.

  * * * * *

  Once I enter Sociology class, I appreciate what Jack meant when he joked about Ms. Gingritch. She is definitely eccentric, to say the least. She's probably in her late forties or fifties with her hair—completely silver—hanging down past her mid-back.

  Her multicolored skirt is full of wrinkles, and she's wearing sandals. I smile. She looks straight out of the 1960s or 1970s.

  The topic of today's lecture is cultural effects on attitudes toward medicine and healthcare. Growing up with parents in, or who were in, the healthcare field, I'm pretty confident I have firsthand knowledge of this material. Plus, Chicago is significantly more culturally diverse than Lake Arrowhead, which has a white population of 84%.

  This place needs to add a field trip outside their small, stuck-up community to teach students about other cultures.

  One girl, Ginger, introduces herself right away before Ms. Gingritch embarrasses me by making the entire class yell out their names—one by one. Ginger must be on an anti-PETA mission. She is wearing black leather pants, black leather heels, a python-skin jacket, and a perfectly matching handbag. Even her backpack resembles gray leather. I watch her mannerisms during the entire class. Although she appears completely clueless, I get the feeling she is actually intelligent. This must be some type of act to get attention. There's another kid named Ryan, a shy boy who occasionally glances over at me in a weird sort of way—like he's either too embarrassed or maybe too shy to make eye contact with me for over 0.01 seconds. With his dark hair and nerdy glasses, he reminds me of Clark Kent from Superman. I wait the entire hour for him to jump up and run into a phone booth.

  I undeniably need to be saved from this place.

  Lastly, there's Richard. He's very tan, and appears to have the same mousy, brown hair as I do, except with blond highlights. He is wearing a white T-shirt. His overly large muscles bulge at the material, causing the fabric to stretch around the biceps. He either works out constantly or is prepping for a professional baseball career.

  Either way, he reminds me of Aiden's friend Taylor back home—and not in a good way.

  By the end of the hour, I wish we'd move to another continent. I may even have a better chance of fitting in on Mars. Everyone here is either high society, fake, stuck-up, or represents an L.A. Barbie doll. I know I'm stereotyping, but I can't help but smile when I remember Mallory finding the Barbie nickname in the online, urban dictionary.

  The Barbie—a fake, shallow, thin-minded person with the looks and metaphoric ego of a Barbie doll.

  Okay. I'm a little harsh.

  I decide to make an effort to move past my attitude this morning, so I reluctantly ask Ginger the location of my next class, English Lit. Of course, she acts, and I do believe it is a complete act, completely clueless.

  "Umm . . . I'm not sure where English classes are held. I don't have an English class this semester."

  I stare at her through squinting eyes.

  How could she be at this school for three years and not know? I understand this place has several buildings, but come on . . . .

  My next thought is to ask Ryan, but I don't. He probably can't make eye contact long enough to advise me where to go. That leaves approaching Richard, which is out of the question. The simple suggestion repulses me. I'll just find it by myself.

  This can't be that hard.

  I glance down at the map, looking for the area I vaguely remember Jack pointing out as the English section.

  I think I can, I think I can.

  I attempt to walk and stare at my map at the same time, something I obviously need to work on. There's a loud thud and an "ouch." I cringe at the thought of who I hit.

  There stands a girl giving me an "are you okay" look rather than the "I'm going to kick your . . . ." look I would have received back in Chicago.

  "I am so sorry." I bend over and pick up the few books I knocked out of her hands during impact.

  "Not a big deal." She grins.

  I hope her smile is legit, unlike my constant, fake attempts since my arrival in this stuck-up community.

  "I should be paying attention to walking rather than trying to figure out this stupid map," I say, letting my frustration slip.

  "No worries. It happens," she says. "You know, you can always ask one of us, we rarely bite." A bigger smile sweeps across her face, and I realize how pretty she is. Not the typical, fake pretty I've been seeing, but in a simple sort of way. She looks like the girls back home in Illinois.

  "Since I am not in Transylvania, would you know how I can get to Mr.

  Whitmore's English Lit class in room 72A before I injure another innocent student?"

  "Yup . . . . Follow me"

  "Thanks. I'm Ava . . . . Ava O'Brian," I offer, not wanting to make the same mistake I'd made earlier with Jack.

  "Sara Roark."

  Where have I heard that last name before?

  "So I take it you're new here?" she asks.

  Here come all the questions.

  "Yeah. Today is actually my first day. I moved here from Chicago last week."

  Fake smile.

  "Really?" she says with a gasp. Her voice is so exaggerated, someone might think I confessed to a terrible crime. I keep walking, following her steady pace to the best of my ability. At least I can tell we're heading toward the west wing of the school.

  "Why did you move here of all places?"

  "Long story."

  Here it comes. I might as well get a sign stating: Any question you wish for $1 . Then I can get my own BMW.

  "Maybe you can share it with me at lunch? I actually moved here from Chicago like four years ago," she confesses, interrupting my thoughts.

  That's it! Why I recognize the unique last name. In the welcome packet there's mention of the principle's last name. Roark.

  "You're related to Principle Roark?" I blurt out like I solved the mystery on the board game Clue.

  She exhales sharply.

  "Yeah, that's my fathe
r. Don't hold it against me." An ashamed frown fills her face.

  It sucks to have your dad work at the same place you go to school. What the heck am I talking about? I would love to have my dad around me every day versus live the reality of never seeing him again for the rest of my life.

  "Never," I insist. I continue to keep up with her brisk walk down the west wing.

  She abruptly stops. "Okay. Your class is over there on the left. Room numbers are above the doors. I can't take you much farther 'cause my class is on the south side of the school, and I don't want to be late. I'll make you a deal. After English, start heading back this direction, and I'll help you find your next class."

  "Really, thanks a lot."

  "Not, a problem. It's a lot safer than you running over me again," she says, giggling. She waves goodbye. I quickly dash the remainder of the hall, keeping my eyes left as I look for 72A. She's correct, the room is fairly easy to find. I slow down as I head through the door. I have no idea what a shocking realization I'm heading toward in 72A English.

  Chapter Four - Frozen

  I enter English class with only a few minutes to spare before the bell. I hand Mr.

  Whitmore my schedule, and introduce myself.

  "Miss O'Brian, please have a seat in the fourth row, over there," he says, pointing with his index finger. He looks me up and down and then halfheartedly finishes, "Oh, and welcome to Rim of the World High School."

  "Thank you, Mr. Whitmore," I say politely, but quietly, so no one else will hear me. I head hesitantly toward the fourth row. The students stare at me as I do the "walk of shame," or so it seems. Luckily, some students are still entering the classroom and speed walking to their seats. At least they help get some of the attention off me.

  That's when I make brief eye contact with him, certainly the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. He is tall and slender, maybe around six feet. His toned arm muscles bulge from under his light yellow, untucked, button-up shirt. He isn't bulky or overly muscular like steroid Richard, just perfectly toned like a Calvin Kline model. His facial features are well defined, yet boyish. Parts of his dirty, light blond hair fall in his face as he looks down to read our English textbook.

  Crap, this is the fourth row.

  I don't notice anything else in the room except him. As I take my seat in the row in front of him, he momentarily glances up and makes eye contact with me for another second. He has the most amazing teal blue eyes I've ever seen. They look like the color of the Caribbean Ocean—a beautiful aqua teal that mesmerizes me into a trace.