Mayday by Jonathan Friesen Read Free Book Online Page B

“With Ms. Raine and the loser—”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “And their mom and stepdad.”
    He paused and broke out laughing. “That’s good.” His face tensed. “Don’t let Crow hear you joke that way about her or Addy. You wouldn’t want to see that punch line, if you know what I mean. So you’re heading to lunch, right?”
    â€œBaze!”
    Mel ran up behind us and bumped into Basil’s shoulder. Mel had two things that didn’t belong in this school—money and clothes. She was cute—step-out-of-a-Macy’s-ad cute. The rest of us looked like we had scraped our way up from the mines.
    â€œOh! And Crow Number Two. Who would have thought there’d be a second C in this school?”
    â€œNo.” Basil kept his eyes fixed on me. “She’s different, Mel.”
    I tell you this comment had conflicting effects. It warmed me, I will admit. It felt good knowing I still captured his interest. But it sucked, too. Because it wasn’t really me. It was Shane. And at that moment, all the time he had dominated my thoughts seemed a monumental waste of drama.
    She’s different than Crow. Translated: at this moment, Shane—not Crow or Mel—is who I want.
    Translated: Basil is a jerk.
    I turned my back on Basil and left him there calling my name. Mel’s voice took over; she was working him hard. “Let her go. She’s a freak, like C.”
    I froze, spun, and marched straight back to Mel.
    â€œIn what way, exactly, is Crow a freak?”
    Mel glanced at Basil, who grinned and lifted his brows. “Yeah, Mel, explain what you mean.”
    She shifted her feet and squirmed beneath her backpack. “Crow’s unique. That’s all. It’s a good thing, really.” Mel scowled. “A little sensitive, aren’t we?”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    I caught up with Crow near the lunchroom. I would like to say she was
in
the lunchroom, but to do so would ignore the truth, so onward.
    At first, I saw only a circle of kids in the foyer, near the stairs to the basement shop classes and across from the lunchroom entrance. Other fixtures off the foyer were the office, the auditorium, and the trophy showcase, all of which matter here.
    I pushed through the ring. There, in the center, stood Crow, visually relaxed, her right hand opening and clenching. To the world, a girl in complete control, but I knew that hand. The same hand that readied for the knife.
    Crow was ready to explode.
    Facing her stood Jasmine Simone, grade eight. She was a large girl, with a mouth that filled up every inch of face space. She commanded, no,
demanded
respect. How she had not clashed with me in middle school before now was either providence, or more likely the result of my not truly coming into my own.
    Jasmine circled Crow. I’d say stalked like a cat, but 180 pounds limits one’s ability to stalk. Every time she reached Crow’s ear, she slowed and whispered. I didn’t know she could whisper.
    The spectators were anxious, waiting, dreaming, to see these two titans engage in a “girl fight.” Hair pulling. Slapping. It was an embarrassing spectacle to watch, and neither fighter ended up victorious, but such events were sadly commonplace at Midway, where a hidden undercurrent of anger floated around the halls.
    I squeezed my forehead between my forefingers. Think. Remember.
    I came up empty, and my emptiness turned to fear, because this confrontation had never happened the first time I went through seventh grade. Jasmine never circled me. I never fought her. The next minutes, whatever they might hold, were a result of my presence, of a comatose Crow’s soul-mind hopping into the body of thirteen-year-old Shane and going five years back in time.
    I wasn’t the rage inside the ring, but I sure as hell had set it in motion.
    Jasmine stopped circling, her back to the auditorium and the trophy case.
    â€œEveryone!