“Emeline.” He’s nodding to himself, as if he thinks it suits me somehow, which irks me to no end.
“So what’s your middle name?” I ask him. “Irving? Hubert? Darth?”
He shakes his head. “I’m just Finn. Nothing else.”
“No middle name?”
“No middle name.”
“Finn is his trouble name?” Danny asks.
I clutch the soccer ball, scowling in a threatening manner at Finn’s smug face.
“Yes, Danny. Finn means trouble.”
I grab Danny’s arm and promise him popcorn to get him into the house. I don’t look back at Finn. I spend the next hour trying to forget his words and the way he looked down at me, and how incredibly long his lashes were.
Danny is right. Finn means trouble.
5
Autumn Memory
“You sleeping over, St. Clair?”
“What?” I look up from my journal to see Ben standing over me.
“Are you staying here all night? Class is over.”
We’d been doing project presentations about colonial living in AP US History class, and once mine was done, I’d pulled out my journal and tried to muddle through the mess in my brain that belonged to Finn. It isn’t working. I slam the journal shut.
“So what did you think?” I ask Ben as we walk to the door.
“What—your presentation?”
I make a face. “Was it boring?”
“Better than NyQuil,” he teases. “I could barely keep my eyes open.”
“Why did I pick agriculture?” I gripe. “What an absolute turd of an idea.”
I’m almost through the door when Mr. Draper stops me.
“Don’t forget your project, Jessa,” he reminds me.
“Can I leave it here till the end of the day? My locker is pretty full.”
Mr. Draper shakes his head apologetically. “I need the room on the table for the next class. Sorry.”
I give him a tight smile. “It’s fine. I’ll take it.”
My project consists of seeds, sprigs, and charts all mounted to a poster board. It won’t fit in my messenger bag. And I can’t roll it up—it’s attached to cardboard so it could hold the weight of the seeds and plant cuttings. I really, really don’t have room in my locker for this thing, so guess what? I get to carry a poster around to all the rest of my classes.
Perfect.
Ben walks with me toward creative writing, because his next class is in the same hall. He lets out a little snicker as I try to juggle the poster and readjust the strap on my messenger bag, since it’s slipping off my shoulder. I shoot him a glare.
“You could give me a little help here,” I point out.
“I’m not going to be seen carrying that thing,” he says. “You could just throw it away, you know. It’s made out of cardboard, paper, and dead plants. It’s not like you broke the bank building it.”
“I spent almost three hours on it, getting it right,” I complain.
He rolls his eyes. “Where are you going to use this again? You just can’t stand to throw it away. You’re a pack rat.”
“Am not.”
“Yes, you are. You couldn’t even put it in your locker if it fit, because your last six school projects are in there.”
I don’t answer him because it makes me mad that he’s right. I just hate getting rid of stuff I worked so hard on. It doesn’t seem fair somehow, even though it’s all getting crushed and probably broken in my locker and I’m going to throw out the smashed mess at the end of the year anyway.
“Give it to me,” Ben says, holding out his hands.
“Ben…”
“Come on. We’re fixing to walk right past those big garbage cans outside the cafeteria. I can toss it on the way and you won’t have to carry it around all day long.”
“I don’t know…”
“All. Day. Long.” He raises his brows and stands there waiting. I finally put it in his hands with a disgusted look.
“Go ahead.” I roll my eyes. “Just do it now before I change my mind.”
He takes it, and I wince as he folds and crushes it into a ball. Then he jogs ahead a few paces, lobs the crumpled mass like a basketball, and sinks it perfectly on the top of the cafeteria trash, right by the door. Early lunch has already been dismissed, so it sits perched on top of the pile, resting against some tater tots. I keep walking, though I can’t help but glance over at it guiltily as I pass.
“There,” he says. “Taken care of. And I’ll be checking the Dumpsters after school, so don’t get any ideas about digging it out.”
“Whatever.”
He reaches out and holds me gently by the upper arms. “You’ll get through this, Jessa,” he says dramatically. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Have you ever taken a messenger bag to the face?”
He chucks me under the chin and trots off toward his class, calling out, “You’re an inspiration!”
I’m still shaking my head at him as I walk into creative writing class, where I find my seat, pull out my journal, and thumb through it until I find a blank page. Ms. Eversor is busy at the whiteboard putting up the day’s theme assignment as I take my seat.
“All right, everyone,” she calls out in her lilting French accent. “Quiet, please. We’ve got one more class until the publishing cutoff for this month’s issue of The Articulator. As you know, we try to put a little bit of everything into each issue of the newspaper, and the flash fiction theme for November is usually something like ‘Thankful’ or ‘Thanksgiving,’ but I think we need a change, yes?”
The class mumbles its agreement, and some of the students start calling out alternative topics—everything from “Feast” to “Death on the Dinner Table.” Ms. Eversor shakes her head, laughing.
“No, no, no. In my mother’s country, we have Tabaski. It is like Thanksgiving and Christmas all together in CÔte d’Ivoire. But it is too easy to write about a holiday,” she says. “Let’s go entirely away from the Thanksgiving theme and choose something a bit more mysterious. How about autumn? You can explore the aging process, the colors, the coming
