Beckoners (3 page)

“So nice of you to join us.” He frowned at her. “I was looking for you.”

She mimicked his frown. “You found me. Congratulations.”

He pointed a shut-up finger at her, and finished with his threats of expulsion and police involvement. Then he started down the list, pairing them off. He called Zoe's name and Beck's in the same breath. Up in the bleachers, Zoe slowly stood. Not really. Not her. No way.

“Not her, Cromwell.” Beck shook her head. “Just this one little favor?”

Cromwell waved for Zoe to hurry up.

“And you,” he said to Zoe when she joined them, “Wipe that look off your face. You're too new to have grudges.” He checked Zoe's name on the list. “Rebecca.” He snapped his fingers. “Get over here, pronto.”

“Don't call me that.” She pushed herself away from the wall and sauntered over, glaring at Zoe. When Mr. Cromwell looked up from the roster, Beck smiled at him. “Come on, Cromwell. Don't do this to me.” She hooked an arm through his. “I'm the last person she wants to hang out with.”

“All the more reason, then.” Cromwell removed her arm and handed them each a piece of paper. “You two can work it out. This is Zoe's schedule.” He looked over his glasses at Beck. “And if I hear you've ditched Miss Anderson at any point during the day, we'll be having words, or more to the point
I'll
be having words and
you
will be sitting in a chair listening attentively.”

Zoe walked a couple
paces behind Beck as she led her all over the school, like Zoe was some half-wit who wouldn't realize what she was doing.

“Come on.” Zoe was not about to go back down the stairs they'd just come up. “Are you taking me there or not?”

“Oh, look, we're there.” Beck pointed down the hall at a green door with a Shakespeare poster under the little window. “I'll be back for you after class.”

“Don't bother,” Zoe said. “It's obvious you don't want to do this. Forget it.”

“I said, I'll be back for you after class. If I don't babysit you all day, Cromwell will have my ass, okay? Happy?”

“Why did you volunteer then?”

“I don't
volunteer
to do anything. This is Cromwell's idea of ‘rehabilitation.'” She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her bag and stuck one between her lips before taking off down the stairs.

A tiny woman with
a sweep of silver hair piled high on her head opened the door just as Beck disappeared.

“Do tell me you are not going to stand out here all day.” Mrs. Henley pulled Zoe into the room by her elbow. “Take a seat, child.” Zoe made her way to a desk at the back, thirty sets of who-the-hell-is-
she
eyes locked on her.

“You'll have plenty of time to alienate her later, people.” Mrs. Henley picked up a clipboard. “Now, all I ask, please, is that when I call your name you answer anything but
yeah.
” She raced through the list, hardly waiting for the “heres” and “presents” until she called out “Rebecca?
Miz
Wilson?” Silence. “Has anyone seen her this morning?” Silence. “No one has seen the illustrious Beck yet?” She looked down her nose at two girls in particular, a chunky blonde with harsh eyebrows, and a tiny South Asian girl with hair down to her bum. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”

Everyone stared blankly forward.

“April? You were in the gym just now, was she there?”

A skinny girl with limp wheat-colored hair looked up from scratching her knees. She turned in her desk to look at Zoe.
Zoe slouched in her seat and looked right through her. April turned back to the front and nodded, lanky hair falling across her narrow face, fingers worrying a gold cross at her throat, a WWJD bracelet slipping down her wrist. Until then, Zoe had thought the whole What-Would-Jesus-Do thing was a joke. She didn't believe people actually wore that crap, let alone believed in it.

“Well? Was she or was she not in the gymnasium with the other volunteer ambassadors?”

The class snickered.

“Yes,” April whispered.

“Hark!” Mrs. Henley cupped a hand to her ear. “Is that the sound of verity I hear before me?” She noted something on her clipboard before smiling generously at April. “Thank you, Miz Donelly.”

Beck was waiting in
the hall after class, although it was only to pass Zoe off to Simon, a pale, slender boy who towered beside her, dressed all in black, from boots to porkpie hat. Beck pushed him forward.

“Simon's taking you to Chemistry.”

Simon wiggled his fingers at Zoe. “Hey.”

“I have to take off.” Beck glanced down the hall. “Pretend Simon is me, except ugly and with a lisp.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” Simon scowled at her.

“What about Cromwell?”

“I've got an emergency. If you see Cromwell, tell him I'm busy being bulimic or something.”

“Welcome to Central.” Simon folded his arms and watched Beck hurry down the hall. “Home of freaks, geeks and mental cases. Just your average run of the mill public educational institution, where chaos reigns supreme.” He draped an arm across Zoe's shoulders and led her down the stairs, taking two steps for her one.

“Why'd she take off?”

“Lady Heather slit her wrists again.”

“What?” Zoe stopped. “Who did
what
?”

“Heather Arlington-Moore, best friend of Beck, better known in some circles as Central's suicide queen. She had another one of her...how should I put it?” He made quotations with his fingers. “Episodes.” He continued down the stairs backwards, perfectly poised as the crowd jostled past him. “She's all right though. She does this all the time. I've told her how to do it properly, but I suppose that's not what she's really after.”

“What's she really after?”

“Oh, who knows what goes on in that pretty little head of hers? She does this every once and a while. It's never really serious.”

Never really serious? Was
he
serious? Zoe followed Simon to the science wing and into a dim lab at the end of the hall. Mr. Turner, a loafers-and-polyester man who fiddled obsessively with his moustache, hung around just long enough to take attendance and make sure everyone signed for their textbook. That done, he left the room without a word.

“He won't be back.” Simon checked his watch. “Time for his mid-morning gin and tonic.” He stood. “Coming?”

“Where?”

“I don't know. Smoke hole? Corner store? Home?”

Zoe watched the majority of the class gather their books and leave. “I don't think so.”

“Suit yourself.” Simon hitched his pack on his shoulder and left too. Zoe stayed, along with a couple other bewildered new students too nervous to leave and two geeks who were already digging into their textbooks, highlighters in hand. Zoe spent the hour writing in her diary, speculating on what exactly might be the correct way to slit your wrists.

Zoe met Central's suicide
queen on the second day of school when Simon dragged Zoe out to the smoke hole at lunch. Halfway across the parking lot he stopped mid-stride, opening his arms to the crowd gathered under the trees and around the makeshift hut.

“You've got your skids, your punks, pushers, users, Goths, slags, geeks, hippies, rejects and other standard garden variety misfits— the ones that smoke, at least.” He sighed. “Home sweet home.”

And then he abandoned her there, out in the open to fend for herself, exposed, every sullen smoker giving her the loaded
eye, while he went off to smoke hash in the ravine with his boyfriend, Teo, who just happened to be the most beautiful creature Zoe had ever laid her eyes on. His eyes were dark green, his skin the color of strong tea, muscles humming all over the place, and a walk that absolutely demanded you stare at his ass.

Zoe was distracted for the moment, watching the two of them approach the trail. They were an odd couple: Simon's frenetic gait beside Teo's calm, confident stride.

Zoe could've turned back to the school then, but that would've been tantamount to falling to her knees and screaming, “I'm not worthy!” Hell, she had as much right to be there as anyone else. She took a moment to square her shoulders and then walked confidently forward, as if she knew exactly where she was going, meeting the eyes of every waster who took the time and energy to stare at her.

Beck was sitting at the end table in the hut with a bunch of girls surrounding a supermodel wannabe perched cross-legged on the table, long legs tucked under her, mascara running in two neat black lines down her cheeks. That would be Heather, judging by Simon's description. She tucked a long strawberry blonde curl behind her ear and looked up.

“Yeah?” She managed perfect snob pitch, despite the tears. “What?”

“That's the girl, from yesterday,” Beck said.

“Oh.” Heather pulled a pack of menthol slims out of a little silver backpack. She held the cigarettes in Zoe's direction. “Want one?”

Zoe shook her head and watched the three other girls vie for the privilege to light Heather's cigarette. She recognized two of them from English, the ones Mrs. Henley had looked down her nose at.

“You seen the smoke hole yet?” Heather swept a slender arm in an arc. “This is the smoke hole.” She pointed her cigarette at the girls around the table. “That's Lindsay, Janika, Jasvinder—
we call her Jazz. And you know Beck.” Lindsay was the chunky blonde from class. Jazz was the one with the hair to her bum, although today it was in a messy knot at the nape of her neck. Janika was black, with a mass of thin braids held away from her heart-shaped face with a red bandana. Heather widened her eyes at Zoe. “Well, that about covers it. You can go now.”

“Right,” Zoe muttered, turning to leave. “See ya.”

“Hang on.” Beck eyed Heather and patted the bench. “Have a seat. What's your name again?”

“Zoe.” Zoe did not want to sit down. She'd only come into the hut so she could turn right back around and saunter out like she hadn't found who she was looking for. But you don't walk away from girls like this. You don't turn your back on girls like this unless you're prepared for them to slice you wide open, and not necessarily right away—girls like this were brilliant at simmering resentments. Zoe sat down.

“What are you
doing
, Beck?” Heather tapped her ash off the edge of the concrete table.

Beck ignored her. “So, where're you from?”

“Prince George.”

“I don't like her.” Heather narrowed her eyes at Zoe. She unfolded her legs and nudged Beck's shoulder with her Paris knock-off wedge sandal. “I'm talking to you. I said I don't like her. Get rid of her.”

“I went to Prince George once.” Beck pushed Heather's foot away. “Or we went through it, on the way to my aunt's wedding in Terrace.” Then she said, “Hey, what would you've done if your mom hadn't come the other day?”

“Kicked your head in,” Zoe blurted. Nobody laughed. Jazz, Lindsay and Janika all turned to Beck, waiting for a reaction.

“Oh, I am so sure.” Heather rolled her eyes.

“Kicked my head in?” Beck cocked her head to one side and sized Zoe up with a new respect. “Is that so?”

No, that was not so. Zoe stifled a laugh. She glanced at Heather, who was sucking furiously on her cigarette.

Like hell, Zoe would've kicked Beck's head in. She was being funny. It's called sarcasm. She used it a lot when she was nervous, and it had gotten her in trouble more than once. In real life, she would've run. She would've run as fast and as far as she could, with Cassy weighing her down.

Zoe took a breath.

“How about you?” Always a good tactic, answer a question with a question. “What were you going to do?”

“God, spare us the encoded speech.” Heather stubbed out her cigarette.

Still, Beck didn't look at her. She pulled out her own cigarettes, lit one and then offered the pack to Zoe. “Want one?”

“She doesn't smoke.” Heather scowled at Beck. “Were, or were you not here when I very nicely offered her one two minutes ago?”

“I don't smoke menthols,” Zoe said. She'd had enough of Heather's almighty bullshit. Taking a cigarette from Beck would piss Heather off nicely. Retaliation could be so subtle.

It was extremely important to take the cigarette from Beck anyway. It was as if they'd reached some kind of peace treaty that depended on it. Heather huffed dramatically as Zoe put the cigarette between her lips.

Beck flipped open a pack of matches with an eight ball on the cover and lit the cigarette for her, letting the smallest edges of what you could call a smile soften her face.

Thank you, Luisa, for teaching Zoe how to smoke on the field trip to the petroglyphs last year. The girls all watched to see if she was really inhaling. Zoe felt the familiar cough tickle her throat, but she swallowed it back.

“You can still leave now.” Heather pointed her cigarette at the door. “Did I mention where the door is, during your little escorted tour of the smoke hole just now?”

“Thanks for the cigarette.” Zoe started to get up, but Beck put a hand on her arm and finally looked up at Heather.

“Stop it, Heather.”

“Stop what?” Heather surveyed the others. “We were having a private conversation, which she interrupted and now I just want to get back to it. Is that okay with everyone? Could we do that? Or are we going to start handing out cigarettes to every dog who comes begging?”

“Of course not, baby.” Janika put an arm around Heather and shot Zoe a pointed look that said “let that one go, girl.” Zoe swallowed back the comeback she was working up like spit in her mouth. “Start from where she cut you off.”

“Thank you,
Janika
.” Heather scowled at Beck, and then launched back into her sob story, which was, Zoe guessed, the causal factor in suicide attempt number whatever, something about her boyfriend Brady cheating on her with some grade nine slut from another school when they'd been broken up for a couple of days the week before.