White Teeth Teens

2. We're Not Related

My first class is ... Drawing? I immediately regret letting Mom pick my classes during my moving-induced depression this summer.

The classroom is in the Art Wing, naturally, and has really high ceilings. The entire back wall is a window that lets in lots of sunlight and the desks are large drawing tables with metal stools. It looks way too legitimate for someone that doesn't even know how to draw a flower.

My fellow classmates are gathered in groups, talking to one another about their summers. There's only one guy sitting by himself with his back arched over the desk. Of course, it's Logan. I'm about to march back to the Front Office and demand to be put in another class, but Logan looks so uncomfortable that I would feel bad ditching him.

I tap him on the shoulder and he jumps. A cluster of girls nearby stop talking and stare at us, confused by our unfamiliar faces. Logan blushes and turns sideways, letting his hair hide his face.

"Since when do you draw?" he whispers at me.

"Mom picked out my schedule."

He rolls his eyes and groans. "I see you enough at home. I don't need to have class with you, too."

When the second bell rings, a man walks in through the door. He's totally silent as he carefully steps through the desks towards the front of the classroom. He's got a Zeus-like white beard and is wearing denim overalls. I look down at my schedule and read over the professor names. His name is Mr. Tom.

"Come take a piece of paper and a pencil, and draw a box," he says, pointing to the stack of paper on the front desk. The girls finish their whispered conversation and walk to the desk, flashing their white-toothed smiles like it will earn them an automatic A.

I put my backpack down under the desk beside Logan and go to the front. The teacher eyes me over his reading glasses with his arms crossed over his protruding belly. I mutter some sort of greeting, grab the paper and pencil, and book it back to my seat. Logan's already erasing something he's drawn, squinting at the page like he's totally immersed in this stupid box.

The door opens again and someone races in with squeaky sneakers—a tall, lean boy with shaggy hair the color of honey and a sharp nose. He drops his bag at the empty desk beside mine and we make brief eye contact before he rushes to the front of the room. Everyone watches as he apologizes to Mr. Tom, something about needing to put his soccer stuff in the locker room. I wonder if he met Dean.

Mr. Tom gives him the instructions. When the boy sits down beside me, he looks at Logan and me and then does a double take. I lean over my paper and start to draw one square, then another and connect the points with lines.

Mr. Tom starts calling out names from the roster. "Kayla Eison?"

A very tan girl with way too many rings raises her hand and boredly says, "Here-uh." A few names later, Mr. Tom calls out, "Logan Myers?"

Logan raises up his wrist and two fingers. Mr. Tom scans the entire room before noticing that Logan has his hand "raised".

"Rory Myers?" I shoot my hand up and say "Here!"

Mr. Tom tips his glasses down his nose and points from Logan to me with his pencil. "Twins?"

"Triplets, actually," I say. Everyone else in the class has turned around to stare at us.

"Interesting," Mr. Tom says. As he continues with the roster, Logan pokes my elbow with the back of his pencil. He's glaring at me. I mouth "What?" and his eyes just narrow even more before returning back to his drawing. I roll my eyes. Jerk.

"Ben Wolff?"

The boy beside me raises his hand, "Yep."

Okay, Ben Wolff, I think to myself. Let's see if your soccer moves can compete with my brother's. I zone out for a second and then realize that I've been staring right at Ben, and now he's staring back me.