Knockout Girl Page 2

  Seriously, knit hats? My grandma once sent me a knit hat that I quickly disposed of. Mom sent a very kind letter thanking her on my behalf and made no mention of my real reaction to it. The truth was that we—well I—have never actually visited either set of grandparents or anyone in Canada. And I have to say, I’m really not impressed with my first time here.

  “Elli,” my mother says impatiently.

  I turn my focus back to her and it’s clear that she’s been trying to get my attention for a few minutes. “Sorry?” I say, in a way that means, “Please repeat yourself because I zoned out again.”

  Mom shakes her head. “What do you think of this store, I said. There might be some nice sweaters.”

  “Sure, Mom,” I say, resigned. What else am I supposed to do? I have to reconstruct my entire wardrobe and at this point, I don’t even really care whether the sweaters are nice or not.

  By the end of the shopping spree, I have ten new sweaters, some fleece-lined jeans, knee-length socks, boots, mittens, gloves, scarves of various colours, a couple of coats, and even one of those hats, although not the kind with the flaps. At first, I was trying to make economic choices, but Mom basically told me to just get whatever I wanted and that Dad’s company would cover the credit card charges. I think maybe that was Mom’s way of saying sorry for bringing me to the tundra and I can’t say I’m not at least a little bit forgiving.

  ***

  The first day of school is brutal. Mom doesn’t make me walk, claiming that it’s just so I can learn the route. I think it has more to do with the fact that, after seventeen years, even my Canadian-born mother isn’t used to the cold anymore and she felt bad for me. But other than getting a ride in a warm car, the rest of my day is horrible.

  I’ve never been the new kid at school before. But I’m halfway through grade eleven and halfway around the world. This is not fun, it’s not comfortable, and it’s not cool. I want to say I hate my parents, until I pull the sleeves of my cashmere sweater over my fingers in a gesture of social awkwardness. Cashmere is so soft.

  All of my teachers, without fail, pronounce my name incorrectly. Most of them pronounce it “A-leek-a-peek-a,” which makes all the students laugh. Especially since my chemistry teacher makes it sound like he likes taking a peek. And every single time I correct them, I have to have a lengthy discussion about “what my name means.” It’s super awkward, especially since it doesn’t mean anything other than “when my parents had me, they were obsessed with Hawaiian culture and really it just means Elizabeth, but please just call me ‘Elli.’”

  See what I mean?

  Lunch is lonely. I wasn’t super popular back home, but I had my own group of friends. I’ve never known what it’s like to be on the outside until today. I could barely find a spot to sit because I didn’t want to be that loser that has to beg a group of people for a spot at their table only to be rejected. It’s much easier for everyone if you do the rejection part yourself.

  But then a weird thing happens. This random guy sits down, not right next to me or directly across from me, but still close enough that it feels like he’s trying to sit with me. And like he might get the wrong idea and start a conversation with me.

  Okay, that sounds bad, I know. I mean, I’m not an unfriendly person. Normally, I think I’m pretty pleasant to be around. But not today. Today I’m just in a bad mood, the same bad mood I’ve been in since Mom and Dad said we were moving. So if this guy thinks that he can just sit here and—

  “Is that the mystery meat?” he asks, pointing a stubby finger at my plate of cafeteria-issued food. I don’t get time to answer before he continues. “Because as a veteran, I feel I should warn you. If they ever offer you the mystery meat,” he pauses to smile, “don’t be afraid to take it. It’s just beef.”

  I don’t know what to say to him. Why is he talking to me? And about beef, of all things? And what’s with the serious lack of a tan? Honestly, this guy is so light you’d think the sun didn’t even visit Canada. I look around briefly just for comparison’s sake. No one else is quite as anti-tanned as him, so I can only assume he’s just a weirdo.

  “Uhhh,” I say finally, realizing that he’s just waiting for some kind of an answer. But what exactly does one say to that?

  “I know, I know,” he says with a little chuckle. “It’s scary being in a new school, which is why I thought to tell you that you made a good choice for your meal today. Tomorrow though, they’re offering fish sticks. I suggest a bag lunch.”

  “Th-thanks,” I stutter, since I’ve apparently lost all ability to communicate properly.

  He gives me a dorky smile, which, if I weren’t in such a bad mood, might have been slightly endearing. As it is, I find it more-than-slightly annoying. I wait until he looks away so I can take a good look at him.

  Aside from the anti-tan he’s not that bad-looking. He has rectangular glasses that give his otherwise plain-shaped face some definition. There are blue eyes hiding behind thick eyebrows that are a shade darker than his plain brown hair. He’s not skinny or built, but he’s not fat either. A little on the chubby side, I guess. I watch him write math equations in a notebook, and notice that while his fingers look like they should be clumsy, they actually move quite deftly.

  And then it dawns on me. He’s a nerd, which explains why he doesn’t look athletic or like he fits in with any of the other groupings I see around the cafeteria. It also explains his skin-tone. It’s not an anti-tan I’m looking at, but more likely a computer screen tan.

  “Ah,” I say audibly. Whoops.

  He raises one of those bushy eyebrows at me. “What?”

  “What?” I repeat, my own finely-plucked eyebrows drawing in.

  His eyes crinkle in amusement. “You said, ‘Ah,’” he says, making a sweeping gesture in the air with his hands.

  “I did?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

  He nods, clearly trying to hide his grin. “Where exactly are you from, again?”

  “I…” I pause. Why am I even bothering? I’m still hoping Dad will find a way to take me back to Hawaii. “I don’t think I ever said.”

  “Ella, is it?” he asks out of the blue.

  The bell rings then, saving me from having further conversation with him. “Close enough,” I say, grabbing my stuff quickly and attempting to make a hasty exit.

  As it turns out, I didn’t need to run off so quickly. Anti-Tan happens to be in my next class, which makes that at least two classes we have together. I’m sitting in the far corner of the classroom when he walks in. He smiles at me, terrifying me into thinking he might sit next to me, but instead he sits in the front row.

  Good. Let’s keep it that way.

  ***

  All in all, it was a pretty horrible first day of school. It’s a terrible feeling, being that lonely, not knowing anyone, not knowing anything that anyone’s talking about because I’m not from anywhere remotely close to here.

  On top of that, I felt ridiculous in what I was wearing. Everyone else dumps their coats in their lockers and for the rest of the day they’re all walking around in just jeans and t-shirts. Some of the girls even wear nice flats or regular shoes. Meanwhile, I was wearing layers because Mom told me it’s warmer in layers. Yeah, I was pretty warm; in fact, I was so freaking warm that I’m sure every other student could just smell me coming. Maybe that’s why I didn’t make any friends today.

  And no, I do not consider Anti-Tan to be my new friend.

  At least I’ve learned my lesson, though. Wear something cute, put something heavier on top of that, then make sure the cute stuff is showing all day long. Gotcha.

  This is going to take a lot of getting used to.

  CHAPTER Three

  Have I mentioned yet that we don’t actually live in Toronto? We live outside of Toronto, in a tiny little town. I have to walk to school because I don’t live far enough away for the bus to pick me up. Mom assures me that it’s no farther than the distance from our old house to my old school, but it feels ten ti
mes worse.

  Anyway, Anti-Tan is talking to me again today. It’s slightly less annoying now, but only because this has been going on for a couple of days and he doesn’t seem to mind that I never actually pay any attention to him. But this… this….

  Let me explain “this” to you: Anti-Tan, for whatever reason, has taken some sort of liking to me. (I have a feeling it may have something to do with my very obvious and, I must say, beautiful tan.) And because I don’t discourage him, he thinks it’s okay to continue this thing that we have, where we eat lunch and he talks and maybe I nod sometimes.

  I think at one point, Anti-Tan told me his name, but for the life of me I can’t seem to remember it. I may have even told him mine, but he still calls me Ella. Whatever. New country, new school, new…“friends.” Might as well have a new name, right?

  There’s this weird chick who keeps glancing over at us every few minutes. She wears what I’m sure she calls “vintage clothing,” uses gigantic “retro” headphones, and has a tattoo of a very thorny rose crawling up her hand. She can’t be much older than me, and yet, she has a tattoo. Of thorns. I wonder if that’s supposed to mean anything?

  Still, a part of me finds it very intriguing that she’s so interested in me and my anti-tan boy. Wait…no. Not my boy. He’s not mine.

  “Ella?”

  I whip my head around to face his four eyes. He has one eyebrow lifted high. I say, “Yes?”

  His eyes widen. “You actually…answered me?”

  So I forgot momentarily that we’re not friends because I don’t intend to make friends here, and why are you staring at me like that? “So?” I say out loud. When he doesn’t say anything, I ask, “What were you saying?”

  He smiles, like an honest-to-goodness, I-can’t-believe-you-know-my-name kind of smile. Except I’m not sure I do know his name. “I said, ‘That’s Cherry.’”

  “What’s Cherry?” I say, trying to sound annoyed, even though I’m not as annoyed as I’d like to be.

  “That girl over there with the cool tattoo,” he answers.

  “Her name is Cherry?” I ask, more curious and losing my annoyed attitude by the second.

  He hesitates. “Maybe… Everyone calls her Cherry. We—well, they—assume that she strips at night. It’s all rumours though. Anyway, she pretty much always responds to Cherry, if anyone actually talks to her.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone talk to her?” And why do I care so much again?

  He shrugs and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Because they’re all foolish.”

  “What?” I ask, leaning in.

  He studies my face, his eyes trailing down to the hands I’ve place on the table as if he’s trying to see through me. He clears his throat and says, “People are idiots?” like that’s what he meant to say in the first place.

  “You can say that again,” I mutter.

  “Can I ask you a question, Ella?” he asks.

  “Only if you call me Elli,” I answer.

  “Oh, but I thought—” he cuts himself off. “Didn’t you say your name was Ella?”

  No, you said that. I shake my head. “It was a misunderstanding,” I offer. Why I’m being so nice to him is beyond me.

  “Okay, fine. Elli,” he restarts with a smile.

  I nod, thinking the conversation’s over. But then I remember that he was going to ask me something else. He opens his mouth but just as he does, the bell rings.

  “Time for class,” I say with a shrug. “Seeya.”

  “Why don’t we just walk together?” he asks, getting up as I do and hefting his full bag over his shoulder.

  “What?” I distractedly shove the remains of my lunch back into my bag.

  “We have class together,” he says, giving me a weird look. “We might as well walk together.”

  “I have to stop at my locker,” I tell him honestly. I’m not trying to get away from him. Well, not just that. I really do have to go to my locker. “Don’t you?”

  He shakes his head slightly with a frown. “I don’t use a locker. See you later, Elli.”

  I want to say “Just wait for me,” or “Come to my locker with me,” but I don’t. I don’t know why not. I’m not shy, I don’t have trouble talking to guys. But something about the way Anti-Tan said “I don’t use a locker,” made me stop myself. Maybe he’s just a weird kid.

  Whatever. I really don’t want to make friends here.

  ***

  That weird chick. Cherry. She’s walking straight towards me. It’s been a few days since I caught her staring at me and Anti-Tan. But now I see her in the hall, and maybe she’s not heading towards me, but it certainly seems like she is.

  And then she’s pinning me with her gaze and all doubts as to her intended destination flee my mind. She’s got this intense look in her eye and I don’t know whether or not I should be afraid, or what I should do at all. So, I just stand there and stare back at her.

  Then she reaches me and puts out her hand. “Hi!” she says a little too loudly.

  I’m caught off-guard by the volume of her greeting and, startled, I step back a bit.

  “Oh, sorry,” she says, practically yelling now. She pulls her headphones off and when she does, I can hear a strong beat coming out of them. In a more normal voice, she says, “I always forget how loud I am when I’m listening to music.”

  I gape at her like I’ve lost the ability to speak. I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t even want to be here.

  “Anyway,” she continues, evidently unruffled by my reaction. “I’m Cherry.” Her hand is outstretched again and she pushes it even more towards me and laughs. “Look, I know you’re from out of town, but I’m pretty sure shaking hands is a universal thing.”

  “Oh!” I say. I’m flabbergasted and slightly intimidated, but I shake Cherry’s hand anyway. “Is your name really Cherry?”

  I’m not usually that rude. I don’t ask people why they have the name they have, why their hands are covered in thorny roses, why they’re wearing a purple skirt with rainbow tights in the middle of winter, whether they have a loving mother and father at home. But for some reason, I couldn’t help just blurting it out.

  Fortunately for me, she just laughs. “My dad picked the name. You’d think my mom was a stripper or something, but no. He just really likes cherries. I think if I’d been a boy he would have still called me Cherry. Weird, eh?”

  Eh? Eh? I’d heard about this peculiar little Canadian expression, but I thought it was like leprechauns and fairies and didn’t really exist.

  Cherry’s still talking. “So, anyway, what’s your name?”

  “Elikapeka,” I respond.

  Cherry laughs harder this time. “And you think my name is weird? Do people call you that, like, all the time?”

  “Umm…” I’m too shocked at her rudeness to think straight. “Not really,” I finally respond. “My friends usually call me Elli.”

  “Ella totally suits you,” she says, clasping her hands dramatically in front of her.

  What is it with people and calling me Ella? How does the “ee” sound turn into the “uh” sound? That doesn’t make any sense. But there’s nothing I can do about it now because Cherry is saying my new name over and over with different inflections…

  “Ella! Ella. Ella? Well, that one was kind of weird.” What is she even going on about? “Anyway, cool name.”

  “You too,” I say lamely.

  Cherry suddenly turns serious. “Hey, soo…what’s the deal with you and Jules?”

  “Jules?” I ask, perplexed.

  “Yeah. Julian VanderNeen,” she says. She makes Os with her hands and puts them up to her eyes. “Thick glasses, thick skin, almost no colour to speak of…”

  Oh. So that’s his name. It’s prettier than I remembered it being. But then, I don’t think I remembered it at all. “Oh, yeah. Umm. There’s no deal.”

  “Really?” she asked. “Because…”

  “What?” I pers
ist when she stops speaking. What does she care about me and Anti—I mean Julian?

  “You know what?” Cherry says, lifting a finger in the air. Then she smiles. “Never mind. Look, I’ll see you around, okay?”

  “O-okay,” I stammer. Cherry’s introduction of herself and Julian has left me completely speechless.

  ***

  I’ve come home to a screaming match. And I really do mean it when I say that. My mother is an excellent screamer, but my father… If the man had a woman’s voice, he’d be able to best Mom. I don’t even know what they’re arguing about, but within a few minutes I hear things about my grandparents, my dad’s “weird” brother, and the state of their finances.

  You should know that my parents have never been in any kind of financial distress. I know most kids assume their parents just have everything like that under control, but I know for a fact that they’re pretty well-off. And yet, they always manage to bring money into their fights. It boggles my mind, but I’ve gotten pretty used to ignoring them.

  I find myself suddenly wishing for a pair of Cherry’s headphones. That way I could drown out everything else and if I absolutely had to speak, I could yell and get away with it. It’d be great.

  I immerse myself in a book that has nothing to do with school. I should be doing homework, but I just can’t bring myself to actually get it out and do it. I’ve always been a straight-A student and while I still pretty much hate it here, I would probably hate losing that, too. Still, homework today is just so…blah. Especially when it’s Canadian history. Like, honestly, people actually study that. I mean, it’s not like—

  “Elli!” Mom and Dad both yell at the same time.

  I groan audibly to no use. They can’t hear it, so my passive-aggressive display of displeasure is lost on them. I want to ignore them, but I know I can’t. I just don’t want to feel like they’re dragging me into their disagreement.