Blame The Weeds (gxg)

1 - PART 1

Part 1

One leaf of Poison Oak could infect a hundred people. Likewise, my English teacher only needed a second to irritate me. So I flipped her off as she inspected her muddied floor with that ugly scowl. Luke had said, Her daughter's sick, maybe she's having a bad day, but it was bullshit. Luke was gone.

New Hampshire's coast was relentless, so South Seabrook hadn't seen the sun in months—my soggy fingertips were the proof. As another clap of thunder rocked the school, Miss Reddi glared up at the ceiling. There was a swamp inside my running shoes, so I had to be careful. If I slopped onto her floor, she'd buzz the office and smirk as Principal Graves dragged me away.

Class began with another sharp clap of thunder. Chalk clacked on the blackboard as I pulled my leather notebook from my bag. I continued my sketch from yesterday's class, occasionally checking Reddi's radar. Turns out she had bigger fish. Her brown skin, a hint darker than mine, flushed in rage as Tommy lit a cigarette under his desk. Again.

I sighed and traced my sketch of Toxicodendron diversilobum. Poison Oak was the three-leafed, scalloped-edged plant all over this wet town. My scribbled note was faded.

Leaves of three, beware of me

Miss Reddi was Poison Oak. She had fluffy grey hair and little hands, but she was to be avoided at all costs.

"Message from Graves," someone deadpanned from the doorway. Our class perked up and glanced at the hulking football player. He offered up a red slip of paper. Reddi set the chalk on her desk and plucked the note from his hand.

"Much obliged, Mister Lancaster. Let's hope you're off hall duty soon, hm?" she said. He rolled his eyes and walked out. As Reddi's lips twitched into a cunning grin, I knew the note was for me.

"Ah, yes. Kareena Barone, you're wanted in the principal's office," she said. To the credit of my fellow seniors, no one batted an eye. "And best to take your things." I stood and mock-bowed, then Freya Cameron snickered from beside me. I cracked my knuckles and she shut up.

My jacket and notebook barely fit into my bag, but I hauled it up and stalked through the maze of desks until I was in the empty quiet. The walls held empty glass cases, only one with a few small participation trophies and ribbons. I should have kept going, but there it was—the Lukas Hoffmann memorial. It lived and died behind the dusty glass. At its centre was a photo of the two of us at a track competition he'd won in ninth grade. He stood with a trophy in his hands as I clung to his back like a monkey. I didn't linger—couldn't, maybe.

"Kar!"

I cursed under my breath. Freya Cameron's footfall was thunderous until she swung around with a breathless grin. Her waist-length red hair fell around her freckled face in a slick sheet.

"Was it another bike lock assault? Didn't someone warn you about the pitfalls of vigilantism? Did Y2K break your brain? Are you sick?" she asked. I swatted her hand when she tried to feel for a fever. "Is it a migraine?"

"You need a haircut," were my foolish first words.

"Me? I think you just fell out of a tornado."

"You said that yesterday, idiot." I sidestepped but she mirrored it with hands in her jean pockets. Behind her, the main office sat at a far junction with a flickering light at the entrance. I was so close.

"You look worse than usual," Freya said. I would've thought up a retort, but she was right. My black curls were tangled, and my brown skin was pasty from this Vitamin D-deficient town. The past few years had been either bad, bland, or downright desolate. This morning had felt somewhere between the first two.