Dying Wish

[2]

"Just Gray? Does that come with a last name?"

"McCarter," I added. "For the book you're writing about me."

She giggled.

"Well, Gray McCarter. Great."

"So, Alice Westerly, you're taking the scenic route."

"Sure am. Today's my first day, I'm a little nervous. Can you tell? I thought taking the long way from my house would help relax me some. What, uh, what are you doing out here? Is this your first day, too?"

"No."

"Nowhere else to brood, then."

I chuckled, "You're funny. I just had something on my mind, is all."

"Want to share it with me?" she said.

"What?"

"Your troubles. Friends do that. Share troubles."

"We're friends, are we? Just like that?"

"Does it have to be more complicated? You seem... nice-ish."

"Wow. Did that sound flattering as you said it?"

"You're stalling," she sang.

"Actually, I'm leaving," I said. "First period starts soon. This, whew, it was a blast." I stole her trick, my hands went into my pockets. I descended the bridge. Although the odds of meeting her again were likely, our reunion came via a most unexpected request.

By the end of fifth period, basketball fever was in the air. Home games were a big deal around here. Miss Batch was easily the cutest, perkiest teacher at school. A 30-something year old blonde, she asked to speak to me after class, one-on-one.

A blackhole exploded in my stomach, immediately. She had this very particular way of talking to students. It made your soul cringe. There's always that one teacher who tries just a little too hard to relate, but always misses the mark. That was her. This was our conversation:

"Miss Batch?" I said.

The last sneakers squeaked into the hallway. Miss Batch had her back to me, stacking papers. She turned and said, "Oh, Gray!", like this wasn't her idea. When she got done with the papers, she nudged my shoulder, saying, "Hey... homey... Wazzzup?" She fell under a spell of laughter. My lips were stiff. She crossed her arms and leaned against a small, green file cabinet. "Listen, I've got a little sumethin-sumethin' to run through your hood."

"My hood?!"

"The home game is tonight. Blacks love basketball—"

"And it gets worse..."

"Take Alice with you."

"Whahuh?"

"Alice Westerly. The new girl. You've met, apparently. Isn't she super sweet? Listen, I'm beyond confident she'll have no trouble fitting in. But still, today's her first day. And with everyone going I just don't want her to feel left out." I was still unsure where I came in. I'd find out in the very next sentence: "And since you have lots of friends, I figured, hey— who would be better to ask than Gray? You'll do this, won't you?"

My fame had backfired.

The halls were a racket during the transitions; students treated this limited free time like swimmers treated oxygen. I rounded the corner, blood rushed through my vessels. There, in front of a locker, trying to act all harmless with her combination on a piece of paper, was a mischievous vixen. I refused to be fooled. My eyes became colder and steelier with every step I took toward her. The first word out of my mouth was: "Alice."