The Thread Between Danny and Me

Chapter 2: We're table people

PART ONE

"Have a good day at school!" my dad called as I pulled my backpack out of his blue sedan.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Later loser," Hector, my younger brother, said from the backseat.

"Hector...be nicer to your sister."

I stuck my head back into the car. "Yeah, be nicer to me."

Hector stuck out his tongue.

"Love you, Dad. Bye loser." I grinned at my brother and then shut the door before my dad could say anything.

I threaded my arms through my backpack and walked up to my combined middle school and high school, Ethan Allen secondary school. Small town, small school.

Our small town was different than most because it was a resort town. One of those places in Northern Vermont where people vacation during hot summer months for the lake, dreamy winter days for skiing, and cozy autumn afternoons for the foliage.

This town is where my dad grew up. He met my mom at the catholic church he attended during college in NYC. They fell in love and he convinced her to move here and start a family.

My mom worked at one of the lake resorts year-round, though summer was her busy time. Dad had his own IT business with a little storefront in town.

As I got closer to the school building I heard bits of people's conversations. Everyone was comparing schedules and talking about what they did during the summer.

The middle school entrance was on one end of the L-shaped two-story brick building. Everyone joked that the middle school entrance was "Ethan" and the high school entrance was "Allen". The school was built sometime in the early 1900s and had tall ceilings and lots of oversized windows. It was pretty and often a subject of my sketches.

"Hey, Maria!" my friend Aurora called from across the walkway where the students congregated.

Being an eighth-grader meant everyone was clumped into social groups. Sports boys, sports girls, nerds, theater kids, band kids, choir kids, normies, and plenty of other subgroups. The skater boys were closer to the sidewalk where they could do tricks.

My group was an eclectic mix. It was the "we don't have an activity we're tied to and we're not popular" group.

"Excited for school?" Aurora asked when I joined up with her.

It was September. All of the tourists and summer vacationers had left, leaving the rest of us to enjoy our little town in peace until the fall colors.

"Yeah," I said. "It's good to be back."

"Did you take extra math classes this summer?"

"Mmhmm."

"Don't know why I expected anything else."

"You know it."

When I was little, maybe six or seven, I was at the library and saw a gigantic architecture book propped up on a display. The book was about notable women architects, including up-and-coming architect Zaha Hadid.

I was enamored with both her and the buildings she created. They weren't just buildings, they were pieces of art. They curved and swirled in fantastical ways, and it made me want to be just like her.

I was going to become an architect, and I knew it would be a tough road. Architects had to be proficient in multiple types of math, and if I wanted to get into a good school, never mind get a good scholarship, I had to have perfect grades.