Swansong by Rose Christo Read Free Book Online Page A

like toothpicks up the glass walls.  They look about a thousand times less sturdy than the glass walls do.  The crystalline elevators are their competition, jutting proudly out of the reflective floor tiles.
    “Do you want to get a coffee?” Kory asks.  To the left of the lifts is a glass tunnel; beyond that, one very hedonistic canteen.
    “You can go without me,” I tell him.  I smile nervously.  Am I imagining the inquisitive glances thrown my way?
    In the end he follows me to the elevator.  We climb on board with a loud girl in braids and a slew of upperclassmen.  We rise through the glass spire at a leisurely drift.  I watch the cold city outside descending beneath us, white buildings on gray streets, gray buildings on gray ruins.
    It feels a little like I’m falling.
    “Do you know where you’re supposed to go?” Kory whispers to me.
    “I—yeah.  Why are you whispering?”
    “So we can pretend we’re Secret Agent Men.”
    “I can barely hear you, though.”  And I’m not a man.
    “That’s no fault of mine.”
    We get out on the seventh floor.  The floors look gilded, almost, but I don’t think even this school is pretentious enough to walk on gold.  We navigate the brick hallway to a steel door that might look more at home in a bomb shelter.  The door’s already open; we step inside.
    The classroom is half as big as a football field, and twice as drafty, but windowless.  Warm yellow lamps hang dangerously from exposed iron ceiling joists.  The walls are brick and cold.  One long, titanic blackboard runs the whole length of the room.  Instead of desks, we have tables and benches, the wood distressed and archaic.  One hundred eleventh graders fill the room from corner to corner, loud and laughing and carefree.  This time I know I’m not imagining it:  The laughter nearest me hushes down when I follow Kory to the back of the room.  We sit on the bench farthest from the door.  I duck my head.  My stomach churning, my scalp tingling, it occurs to me that maybe Judas was right all along; maybe I should have taken the year off.
    “Remember,” Kory says.  He unzips his Wooper Looper backpack.  Isn’t he a little old for—?  “All unwanted personnel will answer to me.”  His face scrunches sternly, passionately.  “This is my good deed for the year.”
    “Thank you,” I tell him, floored.  I don’t understand it.  I don’t understand him.  He’s so bizarre—and he’s not Joss.  And it’s not as if he can distract me from the fact that Joss should be here right now…but that he’s trying is unbelievably kind.
    Our homeroom teacher, a beefy, middle-aged man, walks through the door and, with a great amount of difficulty, heaves it shut behind him.  Like most of the faculty around here, he’s a real artsy type, by which I mean his hair hasn’t been cut in years and his wardrobe looks like he lifted it off of a mime.  A thin little goatee curls around his mouth.  He grabs the lectern at the front of the room.  His name is Mr. Reiner.  I’ve had him before for English/Composition.  I guess he’ll be teaching the same class this semester.
    “Aw, look,” Kory whispers to me.  “Martin’s trying to woo me back over to the dark side.”
    A couple of benches ahead of us, an annoyed-looking boy with unfortunate fringe sits turned around in his seat, gesturing and glaring at Kory.  Kory ignores his attempts.  I look around the classroom and realize just how visible the disparity between students really is.  The girth between each clique is practically tangible.  Nearest the door sit the Starving Refugees.  Joss gave them that name two years ago because they all look hungry and paranoid.  Over by the busted filing cabinet sit the Happy Vegans.  I don’t know whether they’re really vegans, but if you’re protesting fur coats, or your dog just died, they’ll be there.  Smack dab in the center of the classroom are the Edgy Kids, with their dyed hair and