Outcast

Outcast

by Susan Oloier

Published by Two Suns Publishing

Copyright 2012 Susan Oloier

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by istockphoto.com

Other titles by Susan Oloier

My Life as a Misfit

Fractured

Superstitions

For Samantha,

For showing me that it’s better to be on the outside than to be in.

Prologue

Emergency lights throbbed on top of the ambulance, yet there was no sound. I told myself none of this was happening, that it was a dream played out in my imagination or an episode on a television show. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t convince myself it was real. There wasn’t a big production of police lights, yellow crime tape, or even a flurry of activity. It lacked all the dramatic visual effects of the movies. But it was true. A single ambulance sat in the driveway, and that was all.

I looked around at the listless desert baking in the waning and arid Arizona sun. It seemed like the perfect time for rain—a rain to wash everything clean. I didn’t want to go back to the way it was, only to what it could have been; what it should have been. I wanted it to bluster, but only a few clouds curled in the powder-blue sky. I stood outside the house where no one could see me, but I observed everything. I supposed, in a sense, the storm had already arrived.

The front door opened and two paramedics pulled a gurney outside. The Palo Verde cast a darkness over the scene and everyone looked like a silhouette. As the ambulance doors closed, the vehicle backed up and rolled out of the driveway. I should have walked over, but it was safer to remain in the shadows. Alone. Feeling nothing. After all, the whole thing was my fault.

One

It was a time of change.

I felt it in the desert breeze, heard it in the sounds of broad tailed hummingbirds and mourning doves, and stared at it in the bathroom mirror. My glasses replaced by contacts, my acne cleared by Retin-A, my hair free of home perms and renegade scissors. I was not the same loser Freshman I was last year. I was finished with being an outcast and everyone’s doormat. I had recreated myself. So why did I have to force myself to go to school on the first day? Why did I feel the same fear in the pit of my stomach as I did before?

Grace was with me, as she almost always was, twisting her fingers in her brown curls, ensnaring them in a Chinese finger trap. She hadn’t changed: Still mousy with one eye asymmetrical to the other, a cocker-spaniel-head tilt whenever she considered a question. Quirky things. But things only a best friend could love.

Ready? I asked.

Of course. Aren’t you? She bounced out of the house like the family pet.

I so hate the bus, I said.

We’re not taking the bus.

We stepped outside. A beat-up, catsup red Honda Civic sat in the driveway. Rust had formed along the edges of the paint. There sat Jake, Grace’s older brother. ASU Freshman. Most popular senior guy in school last year. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Like he came from a different gene pool than Grace.

His voice, like liquid, was a welcome interruption.

You two finished gossiping? he asked.

At the mere sight of him, prickles of excitement crept along my spine. He seemed better looking than I remembered. I hated that he assumed we were gossiping.

Grace rode shotgun. I pressed myself into the small area of the backseat, ensnaring me in its hug.

So, what happened to you over the summer, Noelle?

I combed my mind for something intriguing to relate: A trip to Europe or an extreme makeover. What was I supposed to say? I had a summer-long date with Retin-A and an all-expense-paid trip to the ophthalmologist for contact lenses?

Swam, read, nothing special.

He laughed. Swimming must be your sport then.

He gazed at me in the rear-view mirror. The hotness rose to my cheeks in ultraviolet hues of pinks and reds. I knew I had changed over the summer, and it was nice to have someone notice. Especially someone as hot as Jake. When I glanced at the rear-view mirror, Jake’s secret stare created an act of fission inside of me. I turned away to watch the pedestrians dodge traffic like characters in a video game. I hoped it masked my embarrassment and excitement.

Oh my God! Stop! I yelled.

Jake depressed the brakes, but kept moving. Grace gripped the door handle.

What? What? Panic rose in Jake’s voice.

Turn around, I said, practically sitting backward in the seat as I peered out the back window. An elderly woman stood outside her broken-down car, which sat lopsided at the roadside with a flat tire. I watched her grow smaller and smaller with distance. You can’t leave her there.

Who? Jake asked.

The old lady. Turn around, I urged.

Jake glanced at the clock. 7:35. Likely, we’d be late. Probably not the smartest thing to do on the first day of class.

She’s probably someone’s grandma, I pleaded.

So Jake made a U-turn.

Noelle, Grace shoved me, an angry look pressed into her face. But I wondered why she was so angry. After all, she was the one who rescued me once.

Unfortunately, we made it in time for the bell. And when we finally arrived at the school, I hesitated to get out of the car. I wanted to spend the day with Jake, percolating under the heat of his flame-blue eyes.

There it is, he reminisced. Don’t miss it at all.

Thanks for the ride. Grace popped out and rushed toward the building as though she were a kid at Disney.

Yeah, thanks, I parroted.

Any time.

I watched him drive away and thought that maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all. But that good feeling ended quickly.

God, look at her. She’s such a loser.

I knew that voice. It sashayed along the walkway, flinging its butterscotch pudding mane with its egg white swirls. Those lips, a garnet red found only in tubes guarded under the glass of the Lancôme counter, arched into a perfect smile. An entourage surrounded her, protecting her like the Secret Service. Part of me wanted to peel my eyes away, punish them for looking. Yet I stared, couldn’t look elsewhere. Somehow, she cast a spell over me. Then her eyes met mine, and her smile fell to a sneer.

Trina Brockwell, the most popular girl in my Freshman class, served equivalent time as a class bully. She and her friends marched past us, jeering. Grace watched them in awe, and I felt like regurgitating my Cornflakes.

Trina’s entourage consisted of James Gall (or Jamie); Margaret Hosier, a good friend of mine until she gained popularity when she was the first girl to get her period in sixth grade; and Liana Smith, a virtual duplicate of Trina.

Doctor Freckle and Miss Geek ‘N Stein.

Words I hoped I would never hear again. A peal of laughter rippled through the hallways. With her stunted creativity, she invented those names for us in seventh grade. They never went away. And, as much as I tried to not let them affect me, they still stung.

Listen— I started.

Noelle… Grace’s tone was a warning to me to avoid embarrassment.

Didn’t you just hear what she said? I urged quietly under my breath. Why did I care whether Trina heard me or not? She hated me anyway.

I know, but… For some reason, Grace defended Trina despite how nasty she was toward us.

You know, a haircut and over-the-counter makeup doesn’t change anything, Trina said to her friends. Not directly to me. Never directly to me. The whole group merely talked around or about me.

And her, their eyes lit on Grace, what a pathetic excuse of a human being. It was spoken as an aside by Trina, but I heard it. I was sure Grace must have, too. Trina & Company laughed and sauntered past us. I watched Trina parade toward the school. I desperately wanted to make her suffer, but didn’t know how to do it.

And you want to be her friend, I uttered to Grace, but she had already scrambled toward the girls’ bathroom. Same as last year.

I knew I’d be late to homeroom, but I followed her anyway. Like last year. A sea of girls flooded out into the hall as I pushed past them and elbowed my way inside. I eyed the shoes under the stalls, searching for her tell-tale, designer ballerina flats—the ones she spent a chunk of her savings on to wear. And there they were—last stall.

Grace, come out.

Nothing.

I know you’re in there. I see your Kate Spades.

Sniffles and a sucking back of tears. She opened the door ever-so-slightly and let me in like it was a secret clubhouse or something. Once I was in, she closed and latched the stall again. Her eyes were tear-stained and red.

I don’t understand. I try so hard. Why does she hate me so much?

Because she’s Trina. It’s what she does best.

Grace wiped her eyes with toilet paper.

Look, the bell is going to ring, and Sister Maggie is going to have my ass.

But it was like Grace hadn’t even heard me. I mean, what is so wrong with me? It’s not like I’m Donna Crakow or anything, she continued.

Trina’s a jerk. You’re so much better than she is.

Yeah, right, Grace said with total sarcasm. Says who?

Says me.

She simply stared at me as if awaiting a better explanation.

And I’m your best friend, so I should know.

The bell.

I ignored it and the fact that Sister Maggie was notorious for insulting and humiliating everyone who was late for her homeroom, and pulled Grace into a hug. She always hugged back. Always.

You really are the best friend ever, Grace said.

I know. Now let’s get this party started, I joked.

We headed to our homerooms.

St. Sebastian’s Catholic High School loomed in the distance like a spirit rising from the Arizona heat. Its cold pile of cement blocks seemed misplaced among the adobe, hacienda, and Spanish-style houses. The Crayola-green grass was a moat surrounding it. A paved pathway intersected the lawn and climbed the stairs to the main doorway. The church, inlaid with marble and stained glass, shadowed the school. It kept watch, like Big Brother, over the morals and standards of the students and staff.

As I stood at the start of the pathway, I sucked in a lung full of dry air. Such a loser! I pushed the snooze button on the incessant chiding and looked ahead of me.

An artist’s palette of petunias bordered the walkway as I wove my way through the flood of Monday-morning students. God, not this again. I should have pushed harder for public school.

The rules were tougher in Catholic school than in a public one. For starters, we had to wear uniforms; there was a strict dress code. All clothing had to be clean and free of holes. There was a definite no-ass-crack policy. Polo shirts could be worn with skirts, pants—slacks as the oldsters called them—or shorts. Denim was a sin. Neutral colored cardigans, V- necks, or crew sweaters were tickets to Heaven. Militaristic blazers and ties were the bomb. Tattoos guaranteed a straight shot to Hell. Forget about extra piercings in the ears, belly button, eyebrows, and nose. Those were Satan’s minions. School policy was set like quartzite in granite. Needless to say, there was not a bare midriff to be seen.

Saint Sebastian’s, like many other parochial schools, found dress and grooming standards necessary to foster a non-competitive environment. Or so they said. Students still discriminated against one another. Brand names, hair styles, and types of jewelry became obvious ways to differentiate the popular from the unpopular. Stature, weight, height, dental and orthodontic status, dermatological structure, hygiene, and social status made any one of us easy prey. If administrators thought the dress code would control competition, they were wrong. Oh-so wrong.

Then there was Religion class. It was not an optional subject like cooking or photography. No. Religion coursed throughout the school, was the foundation of the entire institution. Nuns, and occasionally priests, taught classes there. And they didn’t always teach religion. Many stood at the podium in health class and sex education. They taught math, English, and P.E. It was a different beast altogether.

She was in World History. Trina, with her hair, attitude, and all. My stomach nose-dived. I took a seat, and we moved immediately into ancient Egyptian civilization. From Narmer and the unification of Egypt to the construction of the first pyramid, the information was dizzying.

Our teacher, Mrs. Muir, was also a fossil from the not-so-distant past. Her hair curled like ringlets of silver smoke, the result of a 1980’s home perm gone awry. Her short-sleeve blouse was imprinted with miniscule pink flowers attached to cobalt leaves—things that do not exist in nature. She wore pants that appeared to be loot from an historic dig through her husband’s outdated, polyester suits. She droned on about Egypt in her husky, monotone voice, smelling like a toxic potion of mothballs and Old Spice.

When Muir turned to the chalkboard, Trina hurled a crumpled piece of paper toward Liana and laughed. It missed Liana and hit me. After all, I was their target.

I picked it up, then swung around to face Liana. With some effort, she locked her eyes on mine. My heart beat so heavily I felt she could see the artery pulsing in my neck. My gaze shifted to Trina who leered at me. Grace pretended not to see the whole thing go down.

All of a sudden, Mrs. Muir hovered over my desk.

Am I boring you with facts about Egypt, Ms. Stark?

I shook my head.

Then what seems to be the problem?

I looked at Liana who pivoted around, then Trina whose look dissolved into pure innocence. I opened my palm.

I…

But before the words formed on my tongue, Mrs. Muir lifted the wrinkled paper from my hands. She opened it, revealing a hideous, penciled likeness of herself. It was insulting and unflattering. It looked a lot like her.

It’s not mine, I said, tripping over my words.

She looked over the top of her glasses in disbelief.

Really? she seethed with hints of sarcasm, and one eyebrow lifted into a tilde. It’s in your hand. That makes you the responsible party.

That’s insane, I blurted.

Excuse me?

Ask Grace.

I turned to her, but Grace burrowed deeply into her notebook, studying the mechanics of her Bic with scientific intensity.

Ms. Hallaran?

Grace glanced up. I knew she saw the whole thing, yet she shrugged. And to support her statement, she added, I was busy taking notes.

I couldn’t believe it. My best friend sold me out.

After Mrs. Muir returned to her podium, I shot a look at Grace who avoided my eyes, spilling her cowardice onto the pages of her textbook.

What happened?

I’m sorry.

Grace and I pushed our trays through the lunch line. You’re my friend. You’re supposed to take my side.

It won’t happen again, she said.

I grabbed a carton of chocolate milk and shook it hard.

We should really just try to make nice with her, Grace said.

Was she kidding? I typed my lunch code into the computer, then stared outright at Grace. She picked at her food while she waited for me. Nice wasn’t even a part of Trina’s vocabulary.

We’re talking about Trina, right?

Grace nodded.

I don’t want anything to do with her, I said. We danced around the crowds, searching for a place to sit. We parked at the end of a table filled with skittish sophomore boys. I mean, the last thing I want is acceptance from—

Oh my God! It’s him! Grace turned her attention away from our conversation.

Who?

The guy from Mill Avenue. Remember? I told you about him...

My eyes reached him. Tall with an athletic build hidden beneath a bland Polo shirt.

As he sauntered past our table, he pushed back his copper-brown bangs, and I noticed the dimples that punctured his face. He was eye candy, for sure. But he disappeared as quickly as a desert mirage.

Isn’t he hot? Grace pressured.

He’s all right. I masked the tinge of interest I felt and pushed the elbow macaroni across my plate. Someone like him would never be interested in anyone like us. It seemed we would always remain on the outside of everything. I suddenly didn’t want to be there anymore: in the cafeteria, in the school.

I feel sick. I think I’m going to go to the office. Maybe Aunt P can pick me up.

Don’t start with that again, Noelle.

I think it’s the macaroni and cheese.

Aunt Penelope, who hated her given name and preferred to be called Aunt P, was my mother’s younger sister. It was difficult to believe they were related since they were dissimilar in every way. Aunt P was tall and slender with shoulder-length, wavy hair the color of beech wood. She exuded sophistication and was always well dressed. A divorcee twice over, she made a point of reminding everyone that her second marriage was her last. She was everything my mother wasn’t. Most importantly, she never worked, so she was always available.

She picked me up in her freshly-waxed cranberry Mercedes convertible. The top was down. She looked even more polished than her vehicle. I slid into the passenger’s seat.

Look at you. First day of school and your mom didn’t let you wear any makeup. She brushed her hand across my cheek. How are you supposed to find a boyfriend? She laughed off her remark. I knew she wasn’t slaughtering my appearance, just wanting to expand my possibilities.

It will take more than makeup to find a boyfriend.

Nonsense. What happened this time? she asked.

It’s too involved to go into. I shrugged her off, checking my appearance in the lighted mirror of the visor.

Then you’re lucky you called me. I have all the time in the world.

We tucked ourselves into a corner table at Steamers on the upper level of the Biltmore Center. Aunt P sipped a glass of Mondavi Merlot, watching me scarf down a plate of Cajun-rubbed shrimp with French fries.

Is it a boy? Tell me everything.

I don’t want to talk about it.

I called Aunt P to help me get away from Trina & Company, not to get involved in a whole conversation about them.

Don’t give me that bullshit, Noelle. She set her wineglass down and stared at me. You’re talking to me, not your mother.

Same thing as last year. I laid my fork down. My appetite had suddenly diminished.

Same girls?

Don’t forget the guy.

From what I recall, he’s one of the girls, isn’t he?

I lifted my face into a fake smile. Jamie Gall had all female friends and plenty of feminine characteristics.

I thought things would be different this year. They’re not. I’ll learn to live with it.

That’s a load of crap. Aunt P polished off her wine. You need to rise above. Haven’t I taught you anything?

I guess not. I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

Noelle, look at you. You’re nothing at all like you were last year … thank goodness.

It was an insult masked as a compliment.

Your mom finally collected some common sense and let you get contact lenses. It was a true Shakespearean aside spoken into the bottom of her empty goblet.

I wish she’d let me go to a public school.

I can understand where you’re coming from. My parents had a hard time keeping me in parochial school. But in my case, it was different. For you, going to public school would be shamefully running away from your problems. I’ll let you in on a little secret.

I felt intrigued, wondering if Aunt P was going to reveal a deep, hidden mystery about her past in Catholic school over a plate of shrimp.

She leaned in. Ready?

I moved closer to her. Perhaps her past would be the key to unlocking all of my problems.

Living well is the best revenge. She leaned back in her chair, waiting for my reaction.

I looked around. That was it? There had to be more. I waited for her to say something else, to bring a parade of experts into the restaurant with a platter full of problem-solving techniques. But she just sat there, gauging my reaction.

Pretty good, huh?

I don’t get it.

Show them how magnificent your life is. They’ll be jealous, and you’ll have the satisfaction of revenge. She moved her hand in a flourish.

Right. That’ll show Trina. No boyfriend, no prospects, and a friend who is as much an outcast as I am. Great advice. I delved into the few remaining pieces of shrimp on my plate.

"And the beauty of it is you don’t actually have to live better. They just have to think you’re living better."

Ah, it all makes sense to me now.

Cut the sarcasm, Noelle.

I’m sorry, but it seems like one of those things that just look better on paper. Or in her mind, I thought.

What the hell, Noelle. You knock everything down, just like your mother. She was genuinely angry. No wonder you have so many enemies at school.

When she read the expression on my face, her words lassoed her like a noose. I didn’t mean that.

But I knew she did. Her eyes were on me.

What? I spat.

It’s nothing, she pretended then continued as though I pressured her. It’s just that you could make them see you even more differently if you wore makeup.

I am wearing makeup.

She inched closer, not believing me.

Besides, my mother won’t let me. Remember?

"Do you listen to everything your mom tells you?"

Yes. Besides, I don’t see how painting my face is going to dramatically improve things for me at school.

Nothing against your looks, honey. It’s just a fact of life. Women look better with makeup. I don’t care if you’re Elizabeth Hurley.

Who?

The server delivered the check, and Aunt P immediately palmed it with her manicured fingertips as if I planned to take it first.

How about a makeover? she suggested.

I don’t think so.

Have it your way. You’re only hurting yourself.

She pushed her chair back from the table, leaving me alone with her depressing words.

As if the day wasn’t bad enough, we had dry pork chops, undercooked broccoli, and an interrogation for dinner. Mom served large helpings of food, interjecting questions about the day with each forkful. My dad shoveled the dry meat and weed-like vegetable into his mouth. He said nothing, but heard everything.

Tell me about your first day of school? Was it fun?

Mom, really. Give me a break, my sister, Becca, said with a tone. It’s school.

That doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.

My classes suck—

Watch your mouth, young lady, Mom interjected.

Becca continued anyway. There are no cute guys in any of my classes, and Mr. Hammond in Trigonometry is a total moron.

I thought you had a boyfriend. I prodded the meat with the prongs of my fork.

Becca glared at me.

I didn’t want to debate Becca’s social life, so I forced a clump of broccoli into my mouth and looked away.

What about you, Noelle? Did you have a nice day?

Great. I chewed the undercooked sprig.

Good. She turned to her plate, either not noticing or ignoring the sarcasm. By the way, I made an appointment at Celine’s for you on Thursday. I thought it would look nice if you added some curl to your hair. It would give you some personality like Rebecca.

I let my fork drop and slunk back in my chair. Her words stung me. The poison of them spilled through my system. She noticed.

God, mom. Perms are so 1980s, Becca chided.

If I had said God in our oh-so-Catholic household, I would have been subjected to temporal punishment. But it was Becca. So…nothing.

I just meant that it would give you a different look.

Right.

May I be excused?

You haven’t finished your dinner.

I don’t feel well.

She looked skeptical. When you’re finished.

But I think it was the macaroni and cheese I had for lunch.

Mom ignored me, so I looked across the table. Dad?

He nodded his approval through his pork chops. After walking out of the room, I heard the muted sounds of my parents’ discussion. Mom’s voice echoed loudly. What? You’re undermining my authority now?

I’m not undermining your authority.

Then what do you call it?

By the time I reached my room and locked the door, their words slurred together like a foreign language. I plunged into the bed, thumbed through an art book, and eventually fell asleep. What a remarkable first day of sophomore year.

Drama was my favorite class of the day. That is, until Trina and Jamie—the Iago and Puck of the high school stage— showed up.

Grace and I tethered ourselves to the back row while Grace rummaged through a bag of beaded friendship bracelets she had made.

Look. Grace nudged me.

I see. My tone was less than enthusiastic.

Acting I with Father Dodd. He possessed the nervous energy of a poodle, dancing around the stage, waiting for the bell. He wore his collar, but tried to mask the fact that he was a priest by donning gentle weaves of blonde in his sandy hair. He worked hard to be youthful and hip, but the truth remained that he was still an un-hip priest. I felt certain he missed his true calling: a struggling Hollywood actor who belonged in the depths of the Los Angeles lifestyle.

The bell rang.

All right, budding actors. Welcome to Acting I. I’m Father Dodd, the thespian of the school. But you can call me Chris. I see all of you are spread across the theater. I would like everyone grouped in one area. Father Dodd surveyed the auditorium. You and you, he pointed to Trina and Jamie, Move in the center area here.

With a roll of the eyes, they reluctantly budged.

Father Dodd wasn’t finished. And you two in the nosebleed seats… he was talking to us. Why don’t you move behind these two?

God, no. Behind Trina and Jamie. I thought of dashing to the guidance counselor’s office. Despite my interest in acting, a deep desire to drop Drama and opt for a low-profile subject like pottery or shop crept through me.

The rest of you pinch inward toward the center of the theater.

We moved behind Trina and Jamie. Grace fumbled with her endless supply of bracelets. While Father Dodd took roll, she retrieved a bangle of rose quartz and jade. She hesitantly tapped Trina on the shoulder. Slowly pivoting at the obvious disturbance, Trina glared at us. Like a peace offering, Grace held out the bracelet to her.

Here. I made it myself.

Trina and Jamie eyed one another skeptically. What