Harmonic Feedback

“We could get hit by lightning or a tree falling,” I said, squeezing the handle of my lunch box.

“Relax. We have a better shot at winning the lottery.” She grinned again, pulling me toward her.

“No, the chances of winning the lottery are one in millions. Lightning is only one in seven hundred thousand.”

She crinkled her brow. “Good to know.”

I couldn’t help but notice her boobs. They were crammed inside a lacy white bra and nearly twice the size of mine.

“You checkin’ me out?” she asked.

“Well, they’re kinda hard to miss.” Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? If she didn’t think I was a freak before, she certainly did now. But my thoughts always scrambled together in situations I didn’t like.

“Have you ever kissed someone in the rain?”

What was the right answer? Eye contact made it too hard to think. I directed my gaze to the tops of the evergreens. Any one of them could come crashing down on us. “I-I don’t know.”

Her hand tightened around my arm, and it felt like she leaned closer. I tried to pull away, but her lips were on mine before I could even blink. My heart jumped in my chest, and my lips felt paralyzed. Her mouth was wet, soft, and a little sweet—like she’d been sucking on a Jolly Rancher. The warmth was nice, but I didn’t see stars or get that tingly feeling people associate with their first kiss. Then again, I’d never expected it to involve a topless girl in the rain.

She pulled away, studying me. “I’ve never kissed a girl before. That was interesting.”

I looked at the ground again. “Me neither.”

She shoved my shoulder. “Yeah, I could tell when you turned into a mummy.”

I moved away from her, noticing the rain had slowed. Bits of sun burned into my skin and lit up the droplets on Naomi’s face.

“I didn’t freak you out, did I?” she asked.

I shook my head, still unable to form words. I didn’t think I felt that kind of attraction toward Naomi, but I’d never even felt what could be considered a crush. People were like wallpaper unless I knew them. Physical appearance was just that—an appearance. Some guitars were beautiful works of art, but I didn’t want to play one unless I connected with it. The playability and sound quality mattered a lot more than the color. Although I usually only fell in love with the guitars that had the whole package. And those were few and far between.

“We should write a song,” I said finally.

Her eyes widened. “I thought you’d never ask.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me along.

THE FIRST DAY at a new school was always annoying, especially when people giggled at my sense of fashion. Clothing stores catered to the tall and twiggy, not the short and scrawny. I bought most of my clothes at thrift shops and sewed them to fit—usually Victorian-style skirts that I wore in layers. Today’s concoction was a cream-colored slip peeking out from underneath a black velvet skirt and a matching tank top.

The lyrics Naomi wrote over the weekend spun in my head while I waited for my schedule in Samish High’s administration office. Her words were catchy and rhythmic; something I always tried to accomplish but never could.

“Sweet little Jane was caught in a rut. She went too far and never paid up.” I was whispering her lyrics when I noticed a guy with black hair standing near the entrance. He watched me with a smirk, drumming his hands against his jeans.

Two brunette girls and a blond guy stood in the corner, talking about a party they went to over the summer. The guy focused on how wasted he was, while one of the girls went on about her boyfriend, and the other kept talking about that slut, Jenna. Yet none of them missed a beat or got confused.

I’d always watched people like this, trying to figure out what they were doing right, and what I did that was so wrong. I kept thinking the more I picked up, the more I could act. Pretend. But it never seemed to be enough.

I looked at the dark-haired boy near the entrance again and he grinned. Then he walked over and plopped in the chair next to me. “You new here too?”

I nodded, pretending to be fascinated with the receptionist and the slight eye roll she gave almost every caller. Years of observing also made it easier to read people. And this guy was what I called a common denominator: a boring haircut (not too long or too short) and safe clothes (crispy blue jeans and a white T-shirt with a brand name across the chest). He was cute enough to be accepted, but not ripped or edgy enough to be considered salivary by the common-denominator girls he probably worshipped.

The last conversation I had with a common-denominator guy ended up on the Internet. His name was Kyle White, and he had this obnoxious, scratchy laugh. One day Kyle confessed his undying love for me behind the school library. I actually believed him until his friends came around the corner, laughing. They’d videotaped the entire thing. And Kyle wasted no time posting the video online.

“So, where’d you move from?” the guy next to me asked.

“San Francisco.”

“Cool. I’m from Chicago. And my name is Justin—if you care.”

I stole a glance at him. His eyes were the same color as Mr. Fuzzy, this gray velvet blanket I used to take everywhere. “Do you like being a walking advertisement for Nike?”

Justin glanced down at his shirt and shrugged. “Haven’t had a chance to unpack yet.”

“Oh.”

He shifted in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can dress like a Goth tomorrow, if that’ll work