Bad Blood at Madden High

Chapter 5

The art teacher, Miss Marlowe, didn’t waste any time. As soon as Anderson walked into the room, she thrust a set of brushes into his hand and led him to an easel. “Paint,” she instructed.

“Anything in particular?” Anderson asked.

“Yes. Anything, and in particular.”

Water colors. Not Anderson’s best medium, but one he was very familiar with and one which he approached with appreciation. His mother, rest her soul, had taught him first with watercolors, and his fondest memories not spent on a bicycle were of time spent with his mother, some water colors, and the music of James McMurtry.

The five brushes in his hand were Arches brushes, all round, varying in size from 00 to 6. Not bad, thought Anderson. He was impressed that a public high school would have brushes of such quality, not to mention expense, and he wondered if Miss Marlowe hadn’t supplemented the art budget with money of her own. It was well-known that art programs were often the first to be cut, and it was further known that many teachers spent considerable quantities of their own money to make sure their students had what they needed for a quality education. If you can tell a man by his gun, perhaps you can tell an art instructor by the brushes she provides her students, and Anderson was certain that was the case here. The brushes were not new, but they were obviously well-cared-for. He could love a teacher like this, he decided.

The easel to his right was unoccupied, but at the easel to his left was stationed one of the loud girls from his homeroom. He nodded at her, adding a “Hello.”

“Hi. You’re the new guy in homeroom, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Beth,” she said. She had big, round eyes of light brown, full lips, and too much makeup. Her black hair, tied up on her head in a knot, had been highlighted a bit too aggressively, but it was nice hair and Anderson was sure it would be close to perfect if she’d stop putting weird chemicals in it.

“Brooks Anderson,” said Anderson. “How are you doing?”

“Psssh!” said Beth. “I am sooooo not good at art. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“You think art classes are for people who are good in art?” asked Anderson.

“Of course. Who takes band? People good at music. Who takes painting? People who are good at art.”

“But if you were already good at art, what would you need an art class for?”

“It’s not about teaching you to be good at art,” she said. “It’s about putting yourself in situations where you can succeed. And I can’t succeed at this.”

“What is your definition of success? Grades?”

“Grades would work for me.”

“What if you get a bad grade but you learn to paint something that you like the looks of?” asked Anderson.

“You mean a painting that I would really like?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, my GPA is screwed anyway, so I guess that would be cool.”

“Let me tell you something,” said Anderson. “If you approach this with an open mind and a positive attitude, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to paint something decent by the end of the semester. End of the year at the latest.”

“You don’t know me,” said Beth. “I can’t even draw a straight line.”

“What are you trying to paint right now?”

“I don’t know. You got a suggestion?”

“How about something that doesn’t have any straight lines, for starters?”

Beth laughed. “You’re funny. How come you’ve been quiet all day and now you’re all talkative and stuff?”

“I feel pretty comfortable in front of an easel,” confessed Anderson. “I’m still the new kid, so I haven’t found my groove yet. But here,” he paused, taking a slow look across the room, “here, I’m right at home.”

“You do a lot of painting?”

“Once upon a time, I did. It’s been a while.”

“What are you going to paint?” asked Beth.

“I think I’ll close my eyes and paint the first thing I think of,” said Anderson. “Why don’t you do the same thing?”

“That’s too scary!” she said. “If I try to paint whatever I think of, there’s no way it will look right.”

“Can anyone see what’s in your brain?” asked Anderson, who ten minutes ago would have guessed he could see right through her brain, but was reassessing this judgment.

“Of course not.”

“Then nobody will be able to tell you it’s wrong. Just paint something and forget about if it’s recognizable or not. Just get some paint on the paper and move the colors around. You might surprise yourself, and if nothing else, you will get familiar with the brushes, water, and paint, and that will give you a head start for next time.”

“Brilliant advice. I couldn’t have put it better myself,” interrupted Miss Marlowe. “Beth, sweetie, just get the paint on the paper. Try different amounts of water, different pressures with the brush, and different mixtures of paint. If it looks like a huge, happy mess when you’re done, you’ll have done the assignment exactly the way I was hoping.” She turned to Anderson. “Brooks, it sounds like you’re already quite familiar with the medium. Just paint anything you wish for today, so I can see what you’ve got.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing what you’ve got,” said Anderson without thinking.

“Um, what?” asked Miss Marlowe.

Anderson thought quickly. “You know, I’d like to see your work. I can tell from these brushes that you don’t settle for mediocrity; I’ll bet that’s also evident in your work.”

“We’ll discuss my work another time,” said Miss Marlowe. “But of course I would be a hypocrite not to share it. Now get that brush moving.”

Anderson got to work. For the first time since tying his Fat Possum to the rack, he relaxed. For the first time all morning, he was unconcerned about the people around, unencumbered by thoughts of his new environment, and unfettered by the expectations of anyone but his own muse. He let go.

Forty-five minute later, he was interrupted. “Brooks, I did it.”

He looked up from his work, glancing at Beth’s paper.

“I just tried to paint the first thing in my mind, and it was this!”

“This” was a red flower surrounded by green leaves or grass, he couldn’t tell which. The greens were of several different shades and opacities, each shooting up past the red flower and curving outward or off the page. It was rudimentary stuff, but it didn’t stink. He could see why Beth was taking such pleasure in it.

“What made you focus on just the green for most of the painting?” he asked.

“Well, that was Miss Marlowe’s suggestion. I painted the flower first, and then she suggested the grass.”

“It looks terrific,” he said. He meant it.

“Well, Miss Marlowe actually guided my hand on this leaf and this one,” she said, indicating two graceful curves.

“Still. The rest is quite nice.”

“Thank you! Oh my god, I can’t believe I painted something that looks like what it’s supposed to look like!”

“Congratulations. See? You’re going to enjoy this class, and you’re supposedly not an art person.”

“Hey, yours is super-nice, too. How did you get the sunset to look like that?”

“Beats me,” Anderson said modestly. “I guess I just did it.”

“Well, it’s nice. What’s that thing in the foreground?”

He looked at his painting. In the background, sinking behind maroon mountains, was the sun. Most of the middle ground was dusty sand, like one sees in movies where people walk across long deserts. He had tried to use the white of the paper as much as possible here, indicating the kind of washed-out look beaches often had in photographs. In the foreground was a gigantic Shimano derailleur, floating over the sand like a visiting craft from some other planet. The shadow he’d painted beneath the derailleur had been the most challenging piece of the picture, and he wasn’t quite pleased with it. “It’s a derailleur, a bike part,” he said.

“Oh, you ride a bike?” Beth asked.

“Yes.”

“Cool!” The bell rang, and Miss Marlowe instructed students to wash out their brushes and move their paintings to the clothesline in the back of the room.

“Nice work, Brooks,” she said to him as he returned his brushes to the brush caddy on the long counter beneath the window.

“Thank you,” said Anderson, “but I don’t think that’s anything to be especially proud of,” he flicked his eyes in the direction of the painting.

“Not that,” said Miss Marlowe. “I’m talking about being nice to Beth. You really helped her, and I treasure that spirit more than any skill with a brush.”

“Yes ma`am,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

“No, not tomorrow. Tomorrow is an extended ‘A’ Day. That means you have your first three classes only, and they’ll each be twice as long as today’s classes were. So see you Wednesday, when we’ll have twice as much time for paint.”

Chapter 6

At the front of Miss Nohara’s room was a circle of desks, one of which remained unoccupied. Anderson took it quietly, looking at his teacher rather than at his new schoolmates. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“Oh, you’re not late,” said Miss Nohara. “We haven’t even begun yet.”

Anderson allowed himself to look around, since circle-sitting made that a completely normal behavior. He recognized a few of the girls from his lunch table and two nerdy-looking guys from his biology class.

“I hate getting-to-know-you activities,” said Miss Nohara. “So we’re doing something alittle different. Everyone please take three of these,” she instructed, passing a stack of index cards around the room. “Upon them, you will write one question. New students, you will write questions about life at J. Madden High School, which the old-timers will answer. Old-timers, you will write questions—not too personal!”—about the new students. We’ll take turns sharing. And I know I don’t have to remind you all, but for clarity’s sake, I will: Respect differences, and silence indicates agreement. So if you disagree, you need to speak up.”

Anderson jotted down three quick questions, which he put into the galosh Miss Nohara passed around for the new students’ index cards. The old-timers put their cards into an obnoxiously large sombrero.

“Okay, here’s how this goes,” said Miss Nohara. “We’ll make all the old-timers do one question each to start, then we’ll do the new students. You can answer any way you wish, but you only get to take a pass on one question all afternoon, so use your pass wisely.”

She passed the galosh to the girl on her left, who withdrew a card, and said, “I’m Maria, and the question is, ‘Where do I go for a good latte?’ Oh, that’s easy. The Village Idiot is just down the street, and you’ll usually see lots of Madden students there. The bathrooms are clean and the people who work there are either students here or former students, so they’re totally tolerant of people who buy one drink and sit at a table for four hours.”

“Nicely done, Maria,” said Miss Nohara. “Does anyone have anything to add to that?”

“Yes. I’m Chris,” said one of the nerdy guys from Anderson’s biology class. “and there are a few more options. I like the Cuppa Mud, which is a little bit further away, but has power outlets near just about every table. If you want to plug your laptop in, you have no trouble at Cuppa Mud, and the WiFi is free.”

“Thanks, Chris,” said Miss Nohara. “Let’s pass the galosh to the next old-timer.”

The next hour went much the same way, and Anderson found himself enjoying both the activity and the company. These were clearly carefully-picked students who had something interesting to say and who knew how to say it. There were six new students in the room, and most of them seemed to relax in this friendly company. One guy, who’d introduced himself as Craig and was obviously a wrestler or swimmer or both, seemed to feel uncomfortable, but he smiled when it was his turn, he shared what he was asked, and if he didn’t want to be there, he seemed perfectly able to handle the situation.

When the hour was up, Miss Nohara said, “Well, I think an hour is definitely enough time for us, even if we didn’t get through all the questions. New students, did you feel this was a worthwhile activity?”

Anderson spoke up. “Ma`am? I just want to say I’m grateful. This was my favorite thing all day.” The others nodded their heads.

“Old-timers, would you be willing to do this again? Perhaps in a week?”

The others nodded, but Maria said, “Miss Nohara, I think maybe a whole week is too long to wait. New students have lots and lots of new questions in the first few days, and yeah, I know they can just come up and ask us now that they sorta know us, but let’s do this again in a few days.”

“Anyone?” asked Miss Nohara.

“I think Maria’s right,” said Chris. “Let’s do it Thursday.”

“Thursday’s no good for me,” said Miss Nohara. “Faculty meeting.”

“Let’s do it Wednesday, then,” said Maria. “Or is that too soon?”

“No, I think Wednesday would be nice,” said Miss Nohara. “And if we want to do it again or not, we can decide that then. No pressure on anyone to continue. So have a good afternoon, and I’ll see most of you tomorrow or Wednesday. Remember, tomorrow is extended A.”

The students gathered their bags and filed out of the room, almost all of them headed straight for the exits. “You got a ride home?” asked Chris.

“Oh, yeah,” said Anderson. “My ride’s chained to the bike rack.”

“Okay, cool,” said Chris. “I’ll see you, then.”

“Hey,” said a girl who’d been walking with them. Anderson couldn’t remember her name. “I’m riding a bike home, too. What do you have?”

“Gary Fisher,” said Anderson.

“Really? Which one?”

“Fat Possum.”

“Whoa! That’s awesome! How the heck did you afford that?”

“Worked my tail off all summer.”

“That’s terrific. I’m just riding a Kona Clydesdale.”

“That’s not a cheap bike. What was that, eleven hundred?”

“Around there. My dad paid for half of it.”

“Sweet. So you know where the good singletrack is?”

“I think some friends and I could show you some good stuff,” she said. “You have plans Saturday?”

“I don’t reckon so.”

“Reckon. That’s funny. Anyway, yeah. I’ll see if anyone’s interested in riding Saturday and let you know later this week, okay?”

“Sounds good,” said Anderson. “And, I’m sorry, but what was your name again?”

“Summer,” said the girl with a little giggle. Anderson loved it and hated it when they did that. It was impossible not to get turned on by it. “Summer Pak.”

“Brooks Anderson,” said Anderson, even though he was pretty sure she knew his name. “You on your way home?”

“Yes. I have a few things I was supposed to get done before the first day of school and if I don’t get them done today, my parents will toast me.”

“Well okay, then. I think I’ll ride down to that Village Idiot and scope it out,” said Anderson. “Let me know about a ride if it happens.”

“Sure. If not this weekend, then definitely soon,” said Summer. “I don’t take this out in the dirt every so often and she gets moody.”

“I know the feeling.”

—-

Locale: Starbucks Kapalama
Word count, this selection: 2607.
Cumulative word count: 7718.
Words left: 42,282.
Ahead or behind pace: - 8952 words.
Consumables: 1 bottle of water, 1 grande nonfat latte.
Spirits: Tired but satisfied.
Tunage: My new NaNo playlist. The part I heard while writing this selection was

Symphorce, “Touched And Infected”
Kamelot, “Elizabeth: II. Requiem for the Innocent”
Pallas, “For The Greater Glory”
Helloween, “Follow The Sign”
Symphorce, “Your Blood,”“My Soul”
Evergrey, “Unforgivable”
Power of Omens, “With These Words”
Royal Hunt, “Day In Day Out (New Version)”
Dream Theater, “The Root Of All Evil”
Insania, “Forever Alone”
Metallica, “Disposable Heroes”
Metallica, “For Whom The Bells Tolls”
Blind Guardian, “I’m Alive”
Enchant, “The Lizard”
Lana Lane, “Seasons”
Nightwish, “Sacrament Of Wilderness”
Dream Theater, “Lie”
Enchant, “Follow the Sun”
Skyclad, “Any Old Irony?”
Skyclad, “A Clown of Thorns”
Heimdall, “Then Night Will Fall”
Avantasia, “Farewell”
Porcupine Tree, “Idiot Prayer”
Dream Theater, “Panic Attack”
Stratovarius, “Full Moon”
Dark Suns, “The Sun Beyond Your Eden”
Dark Suns, “The Neverending”
Wuthering Heights, “Lost Realms”
Metallica, “Tuesday’s Gone”
Enchant, “Monday”
Angra, “Evil Warnings (Different Vocals)”
Vanden Plas, “Cold Wind”
Mull Muzzler, “Venice Burning”
Evergrey, “I’m Sorry”
Metallica, “Helpless”

Yes. I seem to write best with progressive metal and power metal playing in my ears. With a little bit of thrash.

Chapter 3

There’s a story men tell when they are gathered around each other’s vehicles in the parking lots of the Quik-Snak, car doors flung open, headlights and map-lights illuminating their faces like the spectre of death. It is the story of a man who rode out of town in search of a lost love. This hero barely makes it past the town limits when he falls off his horse and hurts his ankle, rolling into a ditch at the roadside. A rattlesnake bites him in the other ankle, making it impossible for the man to stand. The snake spooks the horse, who runs off in a panic. The man is in pain, and he knows that passersby will happen upon him soon, so he drags himself toward the cover of a bush, where he waits until the sun goes down. The night is as cold as librarian’s glare, and over the course of the first several hours, many people on their way into or out of the town pass by within earshot, but the man clamps his teeth down around a branch from the bush so as not to cry out in pain and be discovered. He has no food or water, but neither does he have the appetite for either. Just before sunup, there is a light rain, which the man has been counting on. He tears a sleeve off of his shirt and lets the drizzle soak the cloth, which he uses to wipe the dirt from his face and hands, for the fall from his horse and the subsequent crawl through the dust have left him a mess. Some rainwater that accumulates on the leaves of the bush is enough to quench his thirst and slick his hair back. Just after daybreak, two ladies on their way into town for a church meeting pass by, and the man calls out to them. They rush to his aid, marvel at how handsome and dapper he looks despite the ordeal through which he has just passed, then take him to breakfast and then to his home, where they take turns over the next two days attending to his needs. His horse comes home moments after he declares himself fit to walk, the two women swear their undying love for the man and say that their lives will be consumed with competing discreetly for his requited affection in a serious-but-friendly contest for his devotion, and the very rattlesnake that had bitten him a few days earlier is killed by a man who is the cook in the restaurant next door. The man, later that evening and dining with one of the ladies who came to his aid, orders rattlesnake chili for supper and devours the snake, sopping up his juices with a crusty piece of bread.

The moral of the tale, say the men who repeat it, is that it matters not what you do, but how cool you look doing it. Though you risk life and limb, you either wind up devouring your enemies or you’ll die alone and under a bush, but at least you’ll leave a pretty corpse.

Chapter 4

First period English. Second period Japanese. Break. Third period Advanced Biology. Fourth period Advanced Biology Lab. Lunch. Fifth period pre-calculus. Sixth period painting. It was a grueling schedule, but it ended pleasantly, if he could survive the day to get there. At the end of his fourth period science class, Anderson’s teacher held him back to chat.

“Brooks,” said Ms. Nohara. “Do you have to be anywhere right after school today?”

Anderson thought longingly of his Fat Possum and of the black asphalt that lie waiting for them both, but answered, “No ma`am.”

“Really, don’t call me ma`am. No is fine, Brooks.”

“Yes, ma`am. I mean sure.”

“I’m inviting some of the new juniors to meet with me and a couple of the old-timers to sort of de-brief about your first day of school. I promise it will be a completely non-threatening situation, and nobody will make you feel uncomfortable. And the old-timers I’ve asked to join us are the nicest students.”

“May I ask their names?” Anderson asked.

“I think I’ll keep that to myself right now, but if you’re wondering how many are girls, I’ll say it’s two girls and two boys.”

“Then I’ll be sure to be there, ma`am. I mean Ms. Nohara.”

“Good! I’ll see you right here after the last bell.”

Anderson made his way to the cafeteria. Walking into homeroom on the first day had not daunted him, but the high school cafeteria, as everyone knows, is the untamed wilderness of the school. Anderson knew that in this unfamiliar territory, he was a marked man and would need every one of his finely honed instincts to steer clear of trouble. He decided before entering that he would not look for a space in which to eat alone; he would look for the nice girls he sat next to in homeroom, and if there wasn’t a seat near them, he’d find other girls with similar assets.

The three homeroom girls were sitting with four others who seemed to be of the same composition, so he asked one of the unfamiliar ones, “Is anyone sitting here?”

“No,” was the answer. It was neither an invitation or a repellent, so Anderson sat down.

“I’m Brooks,” he said. “Just started here.”

The girls all made interested, noncommittal sounds. Anderson new better than to be offended. These were just girls who didn’t talk much, except to each other. Once they got familiar with him, they might initiate a conversation or two, but he knew there was a fair chance that he’d never be completely welcome with them.

“I notice not a single one of you has purchased the school lunch,” Anderson continued. “I brought a lunch today because I didn’t know what to expect. Should I take your home-lunches as a sign that I made the right choice?”

This time, one of the girls said, “Gosh, yes. Don’t even check it out.” There was murmured agreement from some of the others.

Anderson was about to say something witty when two of the jocks from his homeroom stopped at his table. “Ey, mainland guy,” said the one who’d thrown the pencil at him. “Come sit wit’ us! We get plenny room our table!”

“I appreciate the invitation,” said Anderson, “but I’m pretty comfortable right here.”

“What, four periods in and already scamming da chicks?” asked the jock.

“Whether I am or not is really not something to be discussed in the presence of ladies,” said Anderson.

“Kay, well. I no like cramp yo’ style, but fo’ real, brah. Tomorrow, come sit wit’ us! We sit back deah.” The guys walked off, carrying their lunch trays.

“What in the name of Blackjack Mulligan was that about?” asked Anderson.

The girls just shrugged.

“No, really. Was that guy being friendly to me after what happened in homeroom, or is this some other way to mock the new guy in town?”

“No clue,” said one of the girls. “But just be careful. Those guys are powder kegs in a flint shop.”

“That’s pretty good,” said Anderson. “You mind if I use that?”

The girl giggled. Anderson finished his sandwich and neatly put everything in the brown paper bag. “I’ll be seeing you ladies later. Have a good day.” That giggle, he knew, was his cue to leave them wanting more.

Locale: Starbucks Moanalua
Word count, this selection: 1242.
Cumulative word count: 5111.
Words left: 44,889.
Ahead or behind pace: - 6558 words.
Tunage: Ryo Okumoto, Coming Through.
Consumables: 1 bottle of water, 1 grande nonfat latte, 1 grande nonfat caramel macchiato.
Spirits: Impatient.

I wrote Chapter 2 on Saturday, but thought it really sucked, so I didn’t want to post it. Then, I felt so lousy about it that I didn’t write at all on Sunday, and then school got crazy on Monday, and then I worked at the elections all day Tuesday. So I’m ridiculously behind, but I re-read Chapter 2 this evening and decided it wasn’t as bad as I thought. It did, in fact, give me ideas about where I want the rest of this to go. Here’s chapter 2 and I’ll post chapter 3 later this evening, whatever its length or quality! Thanks for the comments and emails, all you silly encouragers.

Chapter 2

The early bell hadn’t yet rung, yet half the desks in Room 103 were already occupied. Not surprisingly, the desks in the back row remained completely vacant, as if reserved specially for those who were most likely to stroll in tardy. Anderson knew what they would look like when they arrived. Some would be slouched forward, with hands in pockets, baseball caps worn slightly off-center, denims much too large for their bodies, shirts they overpaid for so that they could display some brand-name that they saw someone on television wear. Others would be tan and hairy, wearing shorts tight at the waist but loose around the legs and reaching to mid-calf; their tee-shirts and tank-tops would be decorated with some surf logo. The rest would be tall, brawny fellows with sweatpants and sports jerseys, and they would laugh much too loudly so that everyone knew they were having a better time than anyone else because their stories were funnier and their adventures better and if you weren’t already in on the joke, you never would be.

He wasn’t looking for a fight, but he knew one was coming. He didn’t know when or where or with whom, but he knew it would be soon. Men who have spent their time in classrooms and have paid attention know these things, and Anderson had been in many classrooms. The faint hum of life becomes like a language to a man if he will simply take time to listen, but most men will not. The speed with which they traverse the halls will not allow it, but the man who looks will see, and the man who listens will hear. Anderson was a high-school junior, a man who knew the ways of the schoolyard, and with that sudden change in the air, that slight alteration in the hum of school life, he knew that by day’s end, he would be fighting.

A man who enters a classroom alone, especially when he is entering it for the first time, does not have the advantages of men who enter with others. He must select his seat quickly, eyes scanning the aisles and faces rapidly, assessing the social strata, determining that place where the flora and fauna were most likely to be helpful and least likely to cause harm. A pretty girl here might be appealing, but whose pretty girl was she, and what kind of a brain did she have in that pretty head? Answers needed to be formulated on the fly, while the newcomer’s eyes dart from desk to desk and his feet carry him to his destination, wherever that might be. To stand at the doorway and hesitate, to conduct one’s survey frozen in tableau, would be to invite the stares and challenges of those already seated. “Don’t even think about sitting here,” those stares would say. “What are you waiting for?” would be the challenge. “Don’t you know who you are?”

Anderson didn’t have to feign the assurance with which he made his assessment or the ease with which he walked as he moseyed toward his desk. The gamers and computer-lovers were lined up against the far wall, next to the windows, in the front half of the room. He was not one of them, but would eventually be welcome in their company once they took a liking to him, which they always did. Next to them, friendly toward but not exactly with them, were three girls who would be beautiful in a few years but didn’t know it. They were too smart and too quiet to be noticed by anyone but the computer-lovers (who would wait until prom season to make their moves), but too sweet and too pretty to need makeup. This lack of adornment and this preference for simplicity had the paradoxical effect of serving as a disguise. The makeup that caked the faces of girls like those he’d seen in the hall only revealed those girls for what they were. These three, these probable honor-roll girls, were like the anole that climbs from twig to leaf, turning from brown to green so as to avoid detection. Anderson, though, could see the curves hidden beneath the layers, he could see the sensitive eyes obscured by bangs and eyeglasses. He knew those legs, hidden always beneath those jeans. Here were girls who could ride his Fat Possum and look good doing it, not that they ever would. That was the way he liked them. Nobody rode his Fat Possum but him.

The three girls were lined up, one behind the other. He took the seat next to the one in the middle, putting him in the third row and two columns away from the computer guys. He liked the idea of offering the girls a choice and making that choice visually plain. On one side, him. On the other, them. The girls’ backs would be turned to the computer guys because of the way the desks opened up to the left and because that was the direction they would face when paying attention to the teacher. The computer-guys knew what they were doing: Seeing without being detected. Anderson knew what he was doing, too.

He felt the eyes watching as he set his messenger-bag on the floor and slid into his seat. He flashed a quick smile to the girl sitting next to him, but only quick one, so as not to be threatening. He took his planner from his bag, setting his pen on top of a blank page, and slouched behind the desk ever so slightly. Casually, but without much interest, his eyes scanned the front of the room. This was a history classroom, judging from the posters on the walls. The chess club was meeting today. The cheerleaders were having a bake sale. The National Honor Society wanted canned goods. The Fall Musical was going to be Once Upon a Mattress and the auditions would be next week.

As the tardy bell rang, the teacher entered the room, accompanied by four guys wearing warm-up pants and identical jerseys. The teacher wore Dockers and a Hawaiian shirt that seemed to have been selected for its inability to contain his bulging biceps and forearms. His crew-cut hair was brown and spiky, his ears slightly cauliflower. On his forearm was a small tattoo: A black S in a red circle. One of the four guys walked down his aisle, and on passing, his large gym-bag caught Anderson in the side of the head.

“Oh! I’m sorry, my man,” said the klutz. “Didn’t mean to get you.” He laughed and took a seat in the back, alongside his buddies.

Anderson chose not to respond. Entering right behind the teacher and musclemen were the boys in deejay clothes, the boys in board-shorts, and the girls with too much makeup.

“Ey, Mista Lee,” shouted one of the jocks. “We doing anything fun today or what?” He and his friends erupted in raucous laughter.

“What you think?” Mr. Lee responded. “You guys are in Eleven L! You know what that L stands for?”

“Lee!” the guys shouted.

“No. Losers!” the teacher yelled.

More laughter, this time from almost everyone in the room. “So if you want that L to stand for something else, like Lovely or Laughter or Large-and-in-Charge, we’re gonna have to work on that,” the teacher continued. “I got big plans for us, but until we do some of ‘em, we’re just losers, and I don’t like losers taking up my homeroom time. So get out a pen while I take the attendance.”

Anderson was sure he was going to hate this teacher, but he was sure, too, that he was stuck with him and resolved to make the relationship at least workable if not friendly. He was not a fan of cheerleaders of any gender, but cheerleaders who happened to be male teachers in their early thirties and were supposed to set the tone for a productive learning environment got under his skin like the mites that sometimes go into your sleeping back when you camped out on the beach during those cold summer nights on the windward side of the island.

“We have some new people in the room,” began Mr. Lee, “but I won’t embarrass them with stupid getting-to-know you activities. Instead, let’s do the old index-card thing and we’ll have a little discussion about what’s going on in school this week and what we’re going to do about it.”

Anderson hated getting-to-know-you activities. Maybe he wouldn’t hate this teacher after all.

“So grab an index card, and write your answers to these questions,” continued Mr. Lee. He raised the movie screen, revealing a list of the standard first-day-of-school questions for students to provide on their index cards. Someone in the back row loudly asked the classroom population for a pen. Mr. Lee walked to the back of the room with a pen and returned to the front of the room. “Don’t spend all morning on this: We have other things to do, so if you’re having difficulty, just take your card home and bring it back tomorrow.”

“Ey, Mr. Lee!” shouted the pen-borrowing jock. “Dis pen no work!”

“Come up here and get another,” said Mr. Lee.

“Here,” said one of this friends. “I’m done. Use mine.”

Anderson, his back to the loudmouths, wished fervently for the end of the period. He was picking up a bad vibe and couldn’t wait for this homeroom to be over. That’s when the ballpoint pen hit him in the back of the head. It didn’t hurt, but it made a loud cracking sound that caused everyone in the room to look away from their index cards and at him.

“Holy, I’m sorry!” yelled the guy in the back row. “Didn’t mean to get you!” He walked up the aisle to pick the pen up off the floor and return it to Mr. Lee. On his way to the front, he kicked one of the legs on Anderson’s chair. “Sheesh, sorry again.” He returned the pen to the lending can on Mr. Lee’s table and turned back. As he returned up the aisle, Anderson pretended to be absorbed in his index card, and when his chair leg received another kick, he stuck his foot out into the aisle and gave it a little left, hooking the jock’s other foot as he was stepping forward. The jock lost his balance, stumbled forward, but regained his footing before he could hit the floor.

“Sorry,” said Anderson. “I didn’t see you there and I was getting up to turn in my card.”

“Oh, you wanna go?” asked the guy. His friends began to whisper encouragements to him.

“Gentlemen!” Mr. Lee said. “You will not continue this behavior! Kaneshiro, let me see you after class!”

“What? Why? He tripped me! I didn’t do anything to—“

“I said see me after class. Enough.”

Anderson thought it interesting that the protest ended right there, and that Kaneshiro shut up after just that initial complaint. A confrontation like this usually didn’t shake him, but when he’d gotten out of bed that morning, he hadn’t expected that trouble would find him so quickly. He’d hoped for a fresh start at a new school where nobody knew his past. Now, he shook slightly on the inside, wondering what he’d said or done to invite this unsavory interaction. Was this the way all new students were welcomed on the first day of school at J. Madden, or was this a special greeting just for him?

The remainder of the homeroom period was uneventful; the class, led by Mr. Lee, discussed its plans for the upcoming year, making suggestions for homecoming, for a class service project, and for some kind of social. His new classmates kept their contributions mostly positive, and with the exception of the ridiculous, overly loud laughter from the guys in the back row, the obvious jocks, it was a pleasant discussion. The surfer dudes, too cool for the front of the room, were at least earnest, with dumb-but-harmless senses of humor. They’d crack a dumb joke, laugh like crazy at themselves, and be joined by the rest of the class, which laughed at them laughing at themselves much more than at the dudes. The hip-hop baggy-pants guys kept their mouths shut except when prompted by the teacher, when they would mumble one-syllable responses nobody else could hear. Mr. Lee had no problem understanding; perhaps he was fluent in hip-hop mumble. The too-much-makeup girls participated eagerly in the discussion, but it seemed to Anderson that every contribution they made was merely to draw attention to themselves, a quality Anderson perhaps hated more than the too-loud laughter.

---

Locale: Grace’s Inn and Starbucks Kapalama
Word count, this selection: 2125.
Cumulative word count: 3869.
Words left: 46,131.
Tunage: Pain of Salvation, Be and Frost, Milliontown.
Consumables: 1 meatloaf plate lunch, 1 grande nonfat latte, 1 bottle of water
Spirits: Weary, but encouraged.

Thursday is my big night for school, and we ran long this evening, so I didn’t get to the Starbucks until less than an hour from closing time. I thought I’d try to bang out as many words as I could in the given time, but I’m about to run out of juice in my laptop, and all the electrical outlets in here are being hogged. When they’re being used by other computer users, that’s not hogging. When they’re being blocked by groups of people studying together, they are. I know it’s nobody’s fault, but I can’t help feeling mildly resentful. Don’t these people know I have a novel to write?

To answer Donna’s question, last night’s entry took me about three hours to write, but that was with frequent breaks. I can usually do a good 1667 words in two hours if I really work at it. Skipping tonight means putting in some extra time over the next few nights just to get caught up. Good thing there’s a weekend coming up. Election day will probably be a non-writing day, since I’m working at the polls again, and somewhere along the way I’ve got to get my work-work done, and I’ve got to get work done on school-work. It’s going to be a crazy week. At least the sudoku puzzles are taken care of until the end of the month, when I’ll have to come up with some for December.

I think I’ll go home and get to bed early, hoping to wake up early enough to get to Starbucks near my school when it opens, then get some words done before work. We’ll see.

Prelude
Sunlight first touches America on its eastern shore, crawling determinedly over the cities that made that nation great. Yet just as America’s early citizens, restless and curious about what lay beyond the blue horizon, spread themselves out and away from the Atlantic that conducted them to these fruitful shores, daylight makes its way further west, echoing the destined movement of the country’s population westward, across the mighty Mississippi and into the Great Plains that mark the American West. It creeps past the plains, inches its way up the magnificent Rocky Mountains, and dives headlong toward the frigid Pacific. This is the wild country about which the poets sang: Buffalo, eagles, tumbleweed, silver-miners, and coyotes inhabit the landscape, a living painting of hardscrabble life, of survival in this rough land. There is no room for the feeble, there is no mercy for the timid, and except for the Code of the West and those who would uphold it, there is often no restraint for the wicked.

When those early-morning sunrays have awakened the buffalo, eagle, coyote, and miner, they yet have one stretch of land to bring into day: It is a land so wild and so far west that it lies even beyond the shores of the Pacific. This last bit of American ground, eight tiny dots in the middle of the sea, is the Mighty State of Hawaii. In that state is an island called Oahu, and on that island a city called Honolulu, and in that city a neighborhood called Paradise Heights, and in that neighborhood an American high school called J. Madden High School. It is everything the cowboy songwriters have sung while gathered around campfires in the frigid night, and it is more. In its storied, untamed corridors walk the scoundrel and the saint, the beauty and the beast. Brutes with bodies as hard as the hard sidewalk and damsels with eyes as reflective as the Olympic-sized swimming pool, seemingly with little in common other than the will to survive the hard life of the American West, walk among each other in a complicated dance of sin, survival, and sometimes redemption. Fortunes are made, hearts broken, trusts betrayed, and sometimes, though few will discuss it in tones above a secret whisper, exams flunked. It is in these hard corridors of this wild, lawless country that our story is set.

Chapter 1
The stranger chained his Gary Fisher Fat Possum LX to the rack fronting the school’s main entrance. Pushing the Kryptonite lock home with a satisfying click, he ran a hand along the upper tube in a loving caress, giving the saddle an affectionate pat. “I’ll be back before you know it, darling,” he said gently. “We’ll be back on the road with hours to go ‘til sundown.” The love of his life, the Fat Possum had been his only after a year of laborious industry, hauling grocery bags from checkout to minivan for frail elderly citizens. Two bits here and a dollar there added up slowly, but by the sweat of his brow did he earn the asking price for the Fat Possum. With a final glance backward over his shoulder at the mountain bike, he climbed the steps to his new school. Six guys sat on the top step, leaving little room for entrants to make their way into the hall.

Seniors. The stranger knew seniors when he saw them; his practiced eye discerning the casual indifference, the easy way they surveyed the parking lot as if it and the country that surrounded it were their personal playground. Seniors like these were usually nothing to be afraid of, he knew, but they must be treated with the deference earned by surviving the hard years of high school. They had calluses on their writing hands, he was sure, and probably knew every convenience store, magazine stand, and café within a ten-mile radius. Trouble was unlikely, but if were around the corner, he was ready for it.

“Any you guys know where the counselor is?” he asked.

There was no response.

“I’m looking for Mirikitani. You know where her office is?” He directed his question at the senior seated directly in front of the door.

“You got Mirikitani?” the guy responded in a flat voice. There was the slightest hint of a challenge in his tone, but it sounded more curious than feisty.

“Yeah. Where’s her office?”

“Down the hall. Right side,” he said. “Right after the trophy case.”

“Thanks.” He stepped through the small space between the guy and his buddy, stepping carefully over their shoulders, careful too to keep his backpack raised high enough not to hit anyone in the head.

The counselor’s office was marked by a sign: Mary Mirikitani, counselor. A laminated computer-printed sign, printed on paper bordered by yellow school buses, informed him that if the door was open, she was available. The door was open a crack, so he pushed it open and stepped through. A woman with her back turned to him was either putting something into or taking something out of a file cabinet.

“Ma’am?” he asked.

“Oh, don’t call me ma’am,” said the counselor, spinning around to address her visitor. “Ms. Mirikitani is fine. What’s your name?” She was slender, with wavy black hair that seemed cut to make curlicues along the sides of her face. She wore square-framed glasses, as if to offer a look of seriousness to a face that otherwise seemed to want to get just a bit wild. Her white, collared shirt was tucked into a long denim skirt. Her boots were suede, with short heels and silver laces.

“Brooks. Brooks Anderson.”

“Brooks is your first name?” She shuffled through papers on her desk, moving to take her seat behind it. With a look back, she hooked her right boot into the front leg of her office chair, dragging it close behind her and sitting down in one fluid motion, never taking her eyes off the papers on her desk. Her slender, manicured fingers rifled through one messy pile and then another.

“Yes ma’am. My parents named me after some baseball player.”

“Okay, here you are. I was looking up Brooks as a last name.” She looked up at him. Her eyes were dark enough to be called black, her nose a gentle, short nose with barely enough of a bridge for her glasses to rest upon. She wore no makeup that he could tell. “Here’s your schedule, in case you lost the copy we mailed you, and you’ll start the day in homeroom 103. Would you like me to have someone take you there?”

“No thank you, ma’am. I’ll find it.”

“Okay, then. You’re all set. Have a good first day, and if you have any problems or questions, please drop by and I’ll be happy to help you. We look forward to your becoming a part of our community.” She smiled and watched as he exited the office.

As Anderson navigated the hall, he looked with critical eyes at the graffiti that decorated the walls, the dented lockers, the trash that even on this first day of school seemed to have been deliberately placed so as to warn anyone who dared enter the halls that, if cleanliness were next to Godliness, this was not the most virtuous of schools. Packs of vermin—freshmen and sophomores, as far as he could surmise—scuttled here and there like conspiratorial rats plotting their next pantry raid, sticking to the shadowy edges of the corridors, preferring to wade through the trash that lined the halls. Groups of girls clearly not dressed for church erupted in impolite laughter, animal-like in their call, as if to send an audible warning to all comers that only ridicule and mockery awaited the poor soul who directed unsolicited attention at their pretty forms. With a little soap and water, thought Anderson, not to mention a few lessons in deportment, these ladies could be presentable enough to introduce to mother.

He reminded himself that his heart belonged to another, and that next to her memory, these obnoxious young ladies in the hall were but crows compared to his dove. He carried in his laptop computer a photo of a lock of her hair as a reminder and inspiration. Someday, he would return to her.

He knew he must be getting close to his destination when the hall seemed to be populated mostly by juniors. Not every man can tell by looking the difference between a junior and a senior, but he’d traversed many a hallway in his time, and there was no mistaking the balance of confidence and respect that a respectable junior carried. The demeanor of a well-bred junior was unmistakable to his trained glance, and while there is no such thing as a typical junior, he could tell a junior from a senior, no matter the social status of the student in question. He had an eye for people, and was a quick study. One quick look and he was able to place the subject of his scrutiny into either the friend category or the foe category, ‘though here in his new school he was uncertain what exactly would constitute a friend. If the entire student population left him be, would that be enough to consider them all friends? He was necessarily wary of new relationships, preferring at present to walk alone, to ride alone, and to drink alone. This population of juniors he observed was not especially reprehensible, but neither was it especially appealing. Something about the way the juniors looked at each other, at him, and at their surroundings broadcast certain darkness, a certain futility, a certain loss of innocence and hope. While his own innocence had left him years before, he clung to hope the way a dying man in the desert clings to his last drop of potable water. Without hope, he knew, he was as good as lost in this wild country, and he refused to let the land win in his struggle to someday liberate himself and his beloved. He imagined that overexposure to these dark-tinged juniors could suck what remained of hope from his tired soul. If he could keep his head while those about him were losing theirs, he knew he’d be okay. It was only 302 school days until graduation and he was determined to make it.

It begins now, he reminded himself as he stepped through the door labeled 103.

---

Locale: Starbucks Kapalama
Word count, this selection: 1744.
Cumulative word count: 1744.
Words left: 48,256.
Ahead or behind pace: + 77 words.
Tunage: Savatage Dead Winter Dead and Vanden Plas Beyond Daylight.
Consumables: 1 bottle of water, 1 grande nonfat latte.
Spirits: Hopeful.

November 1. You know what that means.

This year’s project, should I choose to accept it: A mock-Western set in a modern-day high school. I do not know much about westerns except what I have seen in movies. I have read two Louis L’amour novels and enjoyed them very much. I will probably pick up a new one and read it as I work on this novel.

Your comments are not only welcome; they are practically begged for. Most of my online writing projects are for myself, and therefore I do not usually need the encouragement or feedback of commentors, but this is the worst possible year for me to be doing a NaNo, and here I am. Any feedback at all — constructive criticism or the other kind — is eagerly anticipated.

So let’s do this. I’m ready. I think.