Late for Class

Jillian crossed her arms as her mother pulled into the high-school parking-lot. The morning-bell rang and Jillian groaned. “New school, first day of Senior year, and I’m late for class.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect the traffic.” Camilla parked and unlocked the doors. “We’ll learn the streets soon, I promise.”

“It’s okay. I gotta go. It’s just…” Jillian stepped out and slipped her backpack over her shoulders. “I wish you’d listened when I said I didn’t want to move. I don’t know anyone in California.”

“I know. But moving to LA means your father can spend less time on an airplane and more time with you.” This didn’t make Jillian smile, so Camilla bit her lip and looked away. “Jilli, what’s that TV show you like?”

Jillian rubbed her forearm. “Which TV show?”

“The anime with giant robots.”

“Which anime with giant robots?”

“The big blue robot,” said Camilla. “Begins with an L sound?”

“Oh,” said Jillian, “LuLu’s Space-Time Acceleration. Why?”

“Look.” Camilla pointed at a student jogging to the school doors. When he stopped to stuff a bulky book in his backpack, Jillian saw a blue robot on his shirt. “Is that LuLu’s robot?”

“Huh.” Jillian giggled. “What a dweeb.”

“Don’t be mean. Maybe he can help find your homeroom.”

“Alright, alright.” Jillian waved goodbye and entered the school. She spotted the boy jogging down a hallway. The books in his backpack must have been heavy, because she caught up at a brisk walk. “Hey! Nice shirt.”

“Oh!” He jumped when she spoke. “Thanks. It’s from an anime I like.”

“I’m new here,” said Jillian. “Could you point me to Room 120?”

“That’s my homeroom too,” said the boy. “I’ll lead you there.”

In Room 120, one of the boy’s friends waved them to their table. She was just under four-foot-six with short white-blonde hair. The boy sat across from her and unloaded books from his backpack, but he never looked away from the other girl at the table, who had hair like maple-syrup dripping down her neck as she read a well-worn bible. Meanwhile the shorter girl picked at a white eraser with sharp fingernails, spreading crumbs across her quadrant of the table.

The homeroom-teacher chalked her name on the blackboard. “Alright,” she said, “I recognize some faces from my freshman art-class, but you’re new here, aren’t you? Yes, you,” she said, pointing at Jillian. “Introduce yourself.”

“Oh, sure.” Jillian cleared her throat. “I’m Jillian Diaz-Jackson. I just moved here from the East coast.” The short girl with white-blonde hair smiled and waved at her, then plucked more crumbs from her eraser.

“Ms. Jillian, tell us something about yourself,” said the teacher.

“Um… My dad travels for business, so he learns lots of languages,” said Jillian. “He paces the house chanting foreign phrases to memorize them. So I learn languages, too, but only words related to finance.”

“Ms. Jillian, how do you like LA?”

“It’s a little hot,” said Jillian, “and I don’t know anyone here.”

“Now you do.” The teacher pointed at the boy beside her. “What’s your name?”

“Dan Jones.” He pulled his gaze from the girl with the bible to shake Jillian’s hand.

“Danny-Boy Jones,” repeated the teacher. “Tell us about yourself.”

Dan thought. “I visited my father over the Summer. He was a professor of religious studies. I think religions are really interesting.” He peeked at the girl with the bible, but she buried herself in the book. “He showed me lots neat books.”

“Danny-Boy, what’s your favorite book he’s ever showed you?”

“Dante’s Inferno,” said Dan.


“Because,” said the short girl with the eraser, “his nickname is Dainty. It’s like he’s the star!”

“Is that so? What makes you Dainty, Danny-Boy?”

“He’s so cleanly. Watch!” She blew eraser-crumbs onto Dan’s side of the table. He cringed, brushed the crumbs into his hand, and tossed them in a trashcan. “See? He didn’t even brush ’em on the floor!”

“Give me your name and confess your motives for mutilating your poor eraser.”

“My name is Faith Featherway,” she said, “and I’m sculpting a fox! But it’s not coming out well. It looks more like a cloud, or a blob.”

The teacher smirked. “I remember you from my art-class. You never did stop with the foxes, did you?”

“They’re the best!” Faith penned a black nose on her eraser.

“Is it? You, last at the table. Which animal do you think is best?”

The girl with the maple-syrup hair put down her bible. “Birds, I suppose. They have wings like angels.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Beatrice,” said Beatrice. Dan smiled dumbly as she spoke, but she didn’t look at him. “Beatrice Baxter.”

“BeatBax,” said Faith. “It sounds much cooler.”

After the rest of class introduced themselves, the teacher took a stack of fliers from her desk. “The school wants us to educate our homeroom about bugs. Who here has heard of crickets?”

Jillian almost raised her hand, but decided against it and kept her hands on her desk. One boy in dark sunglasses raised his hand, and so did Faith, and most of the class followed suit. Finally Jillian raised her hand, joining everyone but Dan and Beatrice.

“That many? Really?” The teacher shook her head. “It was different when I was your age. You, with the sunglasses,” she said, having forgotten his name already, “what do you know about crickets?”

“Bug-sticks,” he corrected. “I know you can make bank selling ’em ’cause they get you totally bug-eyed.”

Some students chuckled. The teacher shushed them before she spoke. “They’re a dangerous hallucinogen. They come from a secluded island and they should’ve stayed there. Never smoke them. One puff is enough,” she quoted from the fliers she passed to each table, “to end up in the rough. So don’t touch the stuff!”

Jillian skimmed the flier. At the top was a photo of a raw cricket which still had its limbs, antennae, and stem. Below was a photo of a prepared specimen, plucked, dried, and wrapped in its own wings. Jillian had always found their ten black eyes somehow familiar.

B2 pict

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