Chapter 1 - Casey

Casey’s backpack slammed into the ground as she carelessly shrugged it off her shoulders. Years ago this sort of behavior would have drawn stares from her classmates, but they had long since grown accustomed to her personality, and besides, the classroom was almost empty. A fashion slave, as she called the girls who obsessed over their makeup and wore $800 jeans, was hunched over at a desk, busily applying mascara. In another corner, a couple jocks – football players if their jackets were anything to go by – were quietly guffawing at some boneheaded wisecrack. A scrawny boy seated in the front row was leafing through a tome with the word “Calculus” printed on the front, pausing only to adjust the oversized glasses that were probably upsetting his center of gravity. The teacher, Mr. Gilman, was nowhere to be seen. Casey glanced at the wall clock; ten minutes ‘till starting time. She guessed the teacher was scarfing down donuts in the teacher’s lounge. She leaned back in her seat and propped her shoes up on the desk in front of her, hoping to catch a little more sleep before the day began.
The relative silence of the room was broken as a pair of fashion slaves made their entrance. “Like, I can not believe Miranda is wearing that jacket with that skirt,” one of them said in outrage.
“Like, totally,” the other replied indignantly. Casey rolled her eyes beneath their lids. She and fashion slaves shared a mutual hatred. The slave at the desk hastily tucked her mirror and makeup away and greeted her friends in fashion.
“Okay, get this. You will not believe who I saw Gordon with,” Slave one was saying.
“Who?” the other two said in near perfect unison.
“Allison!” Appalled gasps all around.
“Allison Garrison?” Slave two inquired. Slave one nodded.
“Like, what the heck does he see in her?” Slave three chimed in.
“He’s, like, gone crazy.”
“Like, yeah!”
“Like, she doesn’t even wear makeup,” Slave two said as if this crime was tantamount to murder.
“Like, I know, and she, like, shops at the worst stores.”
“Like, totally.”
Casey interrupted their conversation with a barely audible groan. The slaves immediately snapped around to see who had disturbed their counsel. “What do you want, Baglow?” Casey didn’t bother with a response. “Hello, I’m talking to you,” the Slave continued.
“You better watch your mouth or I’ll put my fist in it,” Casey replied indifferently, cracking one eye open. The slaves were only a few feet away, and they all gasped and tittered at her threat.
“Like, you’re a disgrace to women everywhere,” Slave one said condescendingly.
“Better a disgrace than an idiot,” Casey replied coolly.
“Ugh!” The slaves gave her dirty looks and stalked away, still gossiping amongst themselves, although at a much lower volume. Casey closed her eyes again, but by now more students were filing in. Casey put her feet back on the floor and buried her face in her arms, which now lay folded across the desk.
“Hey, Case,” said a male voice. She could hear the boy taking a seat beside her. “First day back’s always the worst, huh?” Casey grunted in reply, and the boy laughed. “Well, cheer up. The first day’s always the hardest.”
Casey raised her head and blinked as the bright classroom light threatened to blind her. “How was your winter break, Mark?” she asked.
“You should know,” Mark replied, grinning despite the fact that the sun had yet to peek over the horizon – or so it felt. “You threw snowballs at me almost every day.”
“Except Christmas,” Casey nodded in agreement.
“Yeah. And that was when you left that two-headed snowman on the front step,” Mark laughed. “Nearly gave my mom a heart attack.”
Casey was still too tired to laugh, but she managed a smile for him. They’d been inseparable since the day she’d bloodied his nose back in second grade. It was a simple story, really. He’d stolen her pencil, she’d tried to reason with him, and when that failed she’d punched him in the face, end of story. When her two-day suspension expired, she and Mark became best friends. Nobody really understood how things had worked out like that, including Casey and Mark, but it was an agreeable arrangement and they were none the worse for it.
Mr. Gilman finally entered the room just five seconds ahead of the tardy bell, his face red and sweaty with exertion. He certainly wasn’t known for his athleticism; to Casey’s sleep-deprived mind, his gray suit made him look vaguely like an elephant. Mr. Gilman puffed his way to the front of the class and set his briefcase on the desk, flipping it open and rustling through some papers until he found the attendance sheet. He quickly scanned the classroom and silently checked the boxes on the roll accordingly. The whole process took less than a minute. Mr. Gilman double-checked his work, nodded with satisfaction, and put the roll back in his briefcase, still breathing deeply. He chugged down a water bottle, waited for his breath to catch up to him, and finally addressed the class.
“Welcome back,” he said, taking his usual position behind the lectern. A couple students mumbled a reply. “I hope you all enjoyed your break, and I certainly hope none of you forgot about your essays.” Every student, with the exception of the scrawny nerd in the front row, groaned in unison as they shuffled through backpacks for their papers. “Please place your essays on my desk,” Gilman said, and the classroom descended into mild disorder as thirty or so kids shuffled to the front of the room and back to their desks. Casey noticed with a detached interest that none of the fashion slaves moved from their seats. Doubtless Mr. Gilman would be hearing their sob stories later in the morning.
Mr. Gilman carefully gathered the pile of essays and stacked them neatly on his desk. “Open your textbooks to page two-hundred-and-fifty-six,” he said. Casey lethargically drew the book from her backpack and flipped through the pages. The words “Hamlet: Prince of Denmark” stared up at her from the page, and she groaned inwardly. If there was anything she hated more than Shakespeare and the first day after break, it was the two of them combined. She steeled herself for a long fifty-five minutes, hoping none of the fashion slaves would get called on to read. By all accounts, they had trouble understanding normal English, let alone the garbled mishmash of whatever language Shakespeare was using.
Mr. Gilman finally arrived at the correct page and cleared his throat. “Can I get a volunteer to read? Yes, um…”
“Kyle,” the kid said, and twenty-nine heads whirled around. None of them recognized the name or the voice, and so his next words were pretty predictable. “I’m new here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mr. Gilman said. “I didn’t realize… ah well. Please read the first paragraph for us, Kyle.”
As the new kid started reading aloud, Casey extracted a beaten notebook from her backpack, flipped to a clean page, and scribbled a note to Mark. Wonder where the new kid came from?
How would I know? Mark scribbled back. He’s kind of weird, though.
Casey was momentarily stymied by his statement. Why do you say that? she asked.
He volunteered to read, didn’t he? Mark pointed out.
I guess you have a point there, Casey agreed. He seems like an okay guy, though. Maybe we should talk to him after class.
Why? He doesn’t seem like our type.
Casey studied the new kid has he sat down, and she had to admit he was probably right. The new kid was pretty thin and he had an academic air about him. So maybe he likes to study, she wrote. Big deal. If anything, it’ll give us someone to copy off of.
Mark sighed audibly as he wrote out his reply. Casey, don’t do anything stupid. Just leave well enough alone. He’ll be fine.
Are you kidding? Remember when Angie moved here? It took her three weeks to find someone to talk to!
Why do you want to talk to this kid, anyway?
I dunno. I just do.
Do you remember what happened the last time you did something on a whim?
Hey, that wasn’t my fault. If that fashion slave hadn’t been walking by-
“Casey Baglow!”
Casey’s head snapped up. Mr. Gilman was watching her with a look of indignant displeasure. “Are you passing notes again?”
“No, sir,” Casey replied evenly. Mr. Gilman motioned for her to put the notebook away, and she grudgingly returned it to the depths of her backpack.
Satisfied, Mr. Gilman returned to the lesson. “Christina, would you please read the next line?”
Slave number two made a big show of standing up, and Casey prepared herself for the inevitable onslaught. “‘Nay, answer me: stand and unfold yourself.’ Unfold yourself?” she repeated. “Mr. Gilman, I don’t get it.”
Casey felt her spirits sink as she identified the line they were on. Two lines in and the girl was already lost. Casey sighed. If there was one thing she hated more than Shakespeare on the first day after break, it was Shakespeare on the first day after break as read by a fashion slave.