Lock and Key(17)
Author: Sarah Dessen

I pulled my bag over my shoulder, following her out to the hallway, which was now bustling and busy, although at the same time hardly crowded, at least in terms of what I was used to. No one was bumping me, either by accident or on purpose, and if anyone did grab my ass, it would be pretty easy to figure out who it was. According to my schedule, I had Spanish in Conversation next, which was in building C. I figured that since this was my one day I could claim ignorance on all counts, there was no point in rushing, so I took my time as I walked along, following the crowd outside.

Just past the door, on the edge of the quad, there was a huge U-shaped sculpture made of some kind of chrome that caught the sunlight winking off it in little sparks and making everything seem really bright. Because of this effect, it was kind of hard at first to make out the people grouped around it, some sitting, some standing, which was why, when I first heard my name, I had no idea where it was coming from.

“Ruby!”

I stopped, turning around. As my eyes adjusted, I could see the people at the sculpture and immediately identified them as the same kind of crowd that, at Jackson, hung out on the low wall just outside the main office: the see-and-be-seens, the top of the food chain, the group that you didn’t join without an express invitation. Not my kind of people. And while it was kind of unfortunate that the one person I knew outside of Perkins Day was one of them, it wasn’t all that surprising, either.

Nate was standing on the edge of the green; when he saw me spot him, he lifted a hand, smiling. “So,” he said as a short guy wearing a baseball hat skittered between us. “Attempted any great escapes lately?”

I glanced at him, then at his friends—which included the blonde Jump Java girl from my English class, I now noticed—who were talking amongst themselves a few feet behind him. Ha-ha, I thought. Moments ago, I’d been invisible, or as invisible as you can be when you’re the lone new person at a school where everyone has probably known each other since birth. Now, though, I was suddenly aware that people were staring at me—and not just Nate’s assembled friends, either. Even the people passing us were glancing over, and I wondered how many people had already heard this story, or would before day’s end. “Funny,” I said, and turned away from him.

“I’m only kidding around,” he called out. I ignored this, continuing on. A moment later he jogged up beside me, planting himself in my path. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry. I was just . . . it was just a joke.”

I just looked at him. In broad daylight, he looked even more like a jock than the night before—in jeans, a T-shirt with collared shirt over it, rope necklace around his neck, and thick flip-flops on his feet, even though it was way past beach season. His hair, as I’d noticed last night, was that white kind of blond, like he’d spent the summer in the sun, his eyes a bright blue. Too perfect, I thought. The truth was, if this was the first time I’d laid eyes on him, I might have felt a little bad about discounting him as a thick jock with a narrow mind-set and an even tinier IQ. As this was our second meeting, though, it was a little easier.

“Let me make it up to you,” he said, nodding at my schedule, which I still had in my hand. “You need directions? ”

“Nope,” I said, pulling my bag higher up on my shoulder.

I expected him to look surprised—I couldn’t imagine he got turned down much for anything—but instead he just shrugged. “All right,” he said. “I guess I’ll just see you around. Or tomorrow morning, anyway.”

There was a burst of laughter from beside me as two girls sharing a pair of earphones attached to an iPod brushed past. “What’s happening tomorrow morning?”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “The carpool,” he said, like I was supposed to have any idea what he was talking about. “Jamie said you needed a ride to school.”

“With you?”

He stepped back, putting a hand over his chest. “Careful,” he said, all serious. “You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

I just looked at him. “I don’t need a ride.”

“Jamie seems to think you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging again. Mr. Easygoing. “I’ll come by around seven thirty. If you don’t come out, I’ll move on. No biggie.”

No biggie, I thought. Who talks like that? He flashed me another million-dollar smile and turned to leave, sliding his hands into his pockets as he loped back, casual as ever, to his crop of well-manicured friends.

The first warning bell rang just as started toward what I hoped—but was in no way sure—was Building C. Don’t trust the natives, Olivia had told me, but I was already a step ahead of her: I didn’t trust anyone. Not for directions, not for rides, and not for advice, either. Sure, it sucked to be lost, but I’d long ago realized I preferred it to depending on anyone else to get me where I needed to go. That was the thing about being alone, in theory or in principle. Whatever happened—good, bad, or anywhere in between—it was always, if nothing else, all your own.

After school, I was supposed to take a bus home. Instead, I walked out of Perkins Day’s stone gates and a half mile down the road to the Quik Zip, where I bought myself a Zip Coke, then settled inside the phone booth. I held the sticky receiver away from my ear as I dropped in a few coins, then dialed a number I knew by heart.

“Hello? ”

“Hey, it’s me,” I said. Then, too late, I added, “Ruby.”

I listened as Marshall took in a breath, then let it out. “Ah,” he said finally. “Mystery solved.”

“I was a mystery?” I asked.

“You were something,” he replied. “You okay?”

This was unexpected, as was the lump that rose up in my throat as I heard it. I swallowed, then said, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Marshall was eighteen and had graduated from Jackson the year before, although we hadn’t known each other until he moved in with Rogerson, the guy who sold all my friends their pot. At first, Marshall didn’t make much of an impression—just a tall, skinny guy who was always passing through or in the kitchen when we went over there to get bags. I’d never even talked to him until one day I went over by myself and Rogerson wasn’t around, so it was just the two of us.

Rogerson was all business and little conversation. You knocked, you came in, got what you needed, and got out. I was expecting pretty much the same with Marshall, and at first he didn’t disappoint, barely speaking as I followed him to the living room and watched him measure out the bag. I paid him and was just about to get to my feet when he reached over to a nearby cabinet, pulling open a drawer and taking out a small ceramic bowl. “You want some?” he asked.