Swansong by Rose Christo Read Free Book Online Page B

their piercings and their ripped fishnets.  In any other school they’d be the Misfits; but this is Cavalieri, so the Loud Boys, the Thespians, and the Lipliner Girls all sit crowded around them like fascinated satellites.  The Sociopaths cluster toward the back of the room, because they hate everybody.  The Conspiracy Theorists stick close to the shadows, because everybody hates them.  And then there are the Space Cadets—only they’re not so much a clique as two really weird girls no one wants to talk to.  Sarah Ayello and Monica Tandy have been best friends since freshman year.  Kind of like Joss and…
    “And I wrote for the Critical Observer for eleven years,” Mr. Reiner brags.  I’ve heard this speech before.  “During that time I was nominated for three, yes, three Cutting Edge Journalism Awards—”
    “This class is always a cakewalk,” Kory says to me.  He’s not whispering anymore.  He doesn’t have to.  The room is so big, Mr. Reiner has to throw his voice just to be heard.
    “You’ve never talked to me before this year.”  I might as well answer him.  Mr. Reiner isn’t paying attention to any of us.  “How come?”  Even when I strain my memory, Kory doesn’t stand out.  Even when I try to remember him, I can’t.  A quiet part of me can’t help wondering, sinkingly, whether that’s the brain damage.
    “Well,” says Kory, “you were never in a fatal car wreck before this year, were you?”  Kory’s face pales.  “I don’t mean that as a commentary,” he says quickly.  “I just—”
    “It’s okay.”  I’m not sure that it is.  I don’t want him worrying, though.
    “I’m not good with normal people.  Mom says I don’t understand social cues.”
    Smart mom.  “That’s okay,” I tell him.  “That just makes you more interesting.”
    He looks relieved.
    “You’re really nice,” I tell him.  “Thank you.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I was afraid to be alone.”  I miss Joss.  I miss Mom and Dad.  “When you’re alone, people look at you.  When they look at you, they start talking…”
    “You don’t like the attention?”
    He wasn’t kidding about the social cues.  “There are better ways to earn it.”  Better than losing everyone you love.  “But no,” I add.  “I don’t like attention.”  And I’m supposed to be a painter.  I don’t think I make much sense.
    “You don’t make much sense.”
    Coming from a boy like Kory Cohen, that might just be the final nail in the coffin.
     
    * * * * *
     
    I’m scheduled for Studio on the thirteenth floor.  Kory isn’t.  Kory takes a different Studio class from me.  Sculptors and painters don’t mix.
    “If anyone gives you hell in there,” Kory says, “write his name down.  I’ll take care of it.”
    Secretly, I don’t think Kory’s equipped to “take care of” anyone—he’s so skinny, a good uppercut would probably knock him out.  Then again, I’m skinny, too.  I can’t believe how much weight I’ve lost this summer.
    We part ways by the elevators.  I wave goodbye after Kory, but I’m not sure he sees.  I slip my hand in the pocket of my thin, woolen jacket.  The post-it pad’s still there.  I have to take twice as many notes as I used to if I’m going to stay on top of the curriculum.
    The Studio on the thirteenth floor is airy and light, the walls, floor, and ceiling all reinforced glass.  It’s silly; I used to worry that someone on the twelfth floor would peer right through the ceiling and see up my skirt.  Now my concerns are of a different nature.  I stare through the flimsy sheet of glass comprising the wall at my side.  The cars and civilians down below are pinpricks on the city streets.  The sky is as gray as dirty snow.  It wraps around me like a shroud.  My head spins and my stomach turns.  I feel as if I’m falling.  I’ve never felt this skittish before.
    Miss Rappaport is the kindly art teacher, her auburn hair streaked with