Shark Bait (The Grab Your Pole Series) (2 page)

That’s partly why I’m so mad about going into public school. Sure, I didn’t get to see my friends everyday like normal kids, but I really loved sleeping in until 9:00 or 10:00, doing school in my pajamas, and being done with all my subjects by lunchtime. We’d get to learn from experience, too, which is actually lots of fun. Now however, I need a freaking alarm clock to wake me up because my first damned class is at (now get this…) 7:15 in the morning! I mean what are we? Chickens? Seriously, who in their right mind can even
think
straight that early, let alone do math? Not this girl, that’s for sure. On top of that, I get to worry about what I’m going to wear so I can fit in with the hundreds of other kids who’ll most likely pass judgment on me based on whether I’m wearing last year’s nail polish color or something shallow like that. Plus, I won’t get home until sometime around 3:30 after being imprisoned in classrooms for seven hours. Oh and here’s the kicker; I “get” to do homework. The classes are so crowded that the teachers don’t have enough time to ensure every student understands the material during the fifty some-odd minutes of class, so they have to rely on homework and tests to know whether the kids have learned anything from the textbook and their lectures. And it’s not like I have any friends here to make all this worthwhile anyway. I was too young when we moved away to have friends I’d remember or who’d remember me now, so here I am…back in sunny San Diego and all alone.

I’m also pretty pissed about my mom being forced to let go of the one thing she loves doing with all her heart and soul; the one thing she and my dad always sacrificed so much for.

When I was born, my parents decided one of them would always stay home with me, which meant we had to live on one income. That’s not the easiest thing in the world to do and it got even harder when Jillian was born. My mom and dad made some hard choices and went without a lot of things their friends had or got to do, just so my mom could be home with us. That’s also why we moved to Arizona. My parents say that’s probably the hardest decision they’ve ever made, leaving their family and hometown. They felt it was the right thing to do, though, because it was so much cheaper to live. Anyway, after we were there about six months and it was time for me to start first grade, my mom met some women at the park and discovered they homeschooled. Right away she was hooked on the idea. She came home and convinced my dad she should do that with Jill and me and the rest is ancient history, which I’ve already studied extensively. Heck, my sister and I have even mummified chickens a couple times. And really, even though mummification isn’t a skill set one might build a résumé around, it’s still pretty freaking cool being able to say you know how to do it.

I
loved
being homeschooled.

So, that brings me back to staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what to do with my hair. I have wavy—okay, maybe it’s not so much wavy as it is curly—medium blonde hair that goes just past my bra strap, and I do
not
have bangs. I tried them when I was eleven and discovered bangs look ridiculous on me, and after claiming to have a bad hair day for the more than 365 days it took me to grow them out, I vowed never again. Anyhow, my hair is actually pretty easy to do, but I want to look as good as possible because my new high school has the unfortunately intimidating nickname “Soshmont.” From what my parents say, a “sosh” is a stuck-up or conceited person; like they think they’re better than everyone else. Most of the kids who go there have money, drive cool cars, and live in huge houses. Then there are the rest of us “poor folk.” You know, those of us who live in a two-story house with four bedrooms, four baths, a pool, and a three-car garage. There’s a lot of tradition and sentiment attached to the school because it was the first ever in the district and opened sometime in the early 1920s. My parents, who were high school sweethearts, went there and—if you can believe it—their parents before them. To make matters worse, school started four weeks ago in the beginning of September. That means I get to be “the new girl” everyone will gawk at when I walk into my classes. Seriously,
ugh
.

“Hey Camie, you almost ready?” Jillian asked, skipping into my bathroom and taking up residence next to me in front of the mirror.

“Yeah, I guess so. You think Mom and Dad would freak out if I wore some makeup?” From a teenager’s point of view, my parents rock and most of the time they rock hard. They’re cool about a lot of stuff, but their daughters wearing overly tight clothes and unnecessary cosmetics are two things they are not big fans of.

“Probably. You don’t need it anyway…you lucked out with the really dark eyelashes,” she said as she ran a brush through her uncommonly long, blonde hair.

As is most often the case, Jillian is right. I have this kind of light Mediterranean skin coloring, and my eyelashes are so dark it looks like I already have mascara on. So according to my parents, essentially all makeup falls into the unnecessary category for me. My sister, however, is allowed some light mascara and blush, although she practically never wears either. She and I share one physical trait and that’s our eye color. We both have brown eyes flecked with gold and green, and we get that unusual mix from our dad. I’ll have to check the little box next to brown or hazel when I get my driver’s license in January, even though neither of those are really right, but whatever.

Now I’m not conceited, but I’ve been called beautiful my entire life so I don’t really worry about my looks, I’ve just taken everyone’s word for it and left it at that. I think I’ll blend in okay, though, and be able to make friends in time, but I think Jill’s looks will eventually cause problems for her. Most girls will probably be jealous of her, and not just because she’s so smart, which she is—scary smart. But the fact is, boys are going to swarm around her like bees on steroids. Seriously. If you want a good idea of what Jillian will look like when she’s sixteen, just picture Malibu Barbie.

Physically, Jillian and I aren’t all that similar, especially with the difference in complexion, hair and backside. Her—truthfully—slightly wavy, light blonde hair stretches all the way past her cute, perky butt and she has the good fortune of being able to tan amazingly well for being so blonde, just like our mom. I mean I can tan really well, too, but I’m not blonde like she is, so it makes her stand out even more. Anyway, I’m about 5’6” and she’s around 5’4” or 5’5”, but I think she’ll end up being a little taller than me when we’re done growing. And at the rate she’s going, I bet her boobs will be bigger than mine as well. Seriously, the next time you’re in Target, go look at the Barbie dolls…

“I know, but I’m afraid I’m already gonna stick out like a sore thumb. I was thinking maybe if I wear a little makeup, I won’t feel so out of place.”

“Well whatever, it’s your funeral. I don’t think you should upset Mom though,” Jill said bluntly, this being one of those times she’s chosen to be direct, which she does from time to time. I guess I shouldn’t complain though; I find her cryptic mode of communication even more irritating.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Again. “Are you nervous?”

“No. Honestly, I’m afraid I’ll be bored outta my skull. I wish Mom and Dad would’ve let me go into ninth grade like I placed.” She sounds totally exasperated—and for good reason.

You see, one of the problems with going into the public school system after being homeschooled your whole life is the likelihood you won’t really be taught anything you don’t already know, because when you’re homeschooled, you tend to learn more at an earlier age and at a faster pace than the kids who are educated traditionally. And trust me when I say that my mom has given us a very thorough education up to this point. In fact, you’ll probably find that I lean towards using a vernacular that is more often than not, non-standard in relation to the majority of my peers. More simply put, I know a lot of big words and I like using them. However, I do understand that regardless of their years on this earth, not everyone understands what the hell I’m saying when I feel so inclined as to demonstrate my extensive vocabulary, so, I try making a concerted effort to be understood by toning it down in my everyday speech and talking like everyone else does.

That being said, I’m fairly advanced scholastically, although I’m fifteen going into my sophomore year like I would be if I hadn’t been homeschooled, mainly because I don’t test well. Not like Jillian. According to her age she should be in seventh grade, but the truth is…she’s a flippin’ test-taking
genius
. And I’m not exaggerating about the genius thing either. You ever hear of Mensa? Yeah well, she doesn’t boast about being a member of that elite group of intellectuals, but the fact remains, she is one.

Now I’m not positive and I’m not about to ask, but I don’t think Jillian knows our mom and dad asked the school not to give her any placement tests past the ninth grade. She could’ve
easily
placed as a senior if not tested out of school entirely. I overheard our parents one night and after talking about it, they decided she isn’t ready for high school, but what I really think they meant was, high school isn’t ready for her. Jillian is highly confident, exceptionally smart, and she takes great pleasure in her devious tendencies. Not a good mix. And with all that being so, you really want to stay on her good side because she also has a temper. I also think they kept Jill in eighth grade to give me a year on my own. I completely love my sister but after being with her everyday for the last twelve years, a year to myself sounds pretty good to me. We’ll see how I feel about that, though, when I’m eating lunch alone.

“I’m not so concerned with being bored…I’m more worried about not knowing anyone.” Seriously, I don’t know a freaking soul at my school and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find that to be a little scary.

“Yeah... You know, this whole thing really bites,” Jillian said, showing what I find to be the proper amount of attitude towards our really crappy lifestyle change.

“I know, especially today. It’s gonna be a huge suck-fest…like Buffy meets Twilight,” I agreed.

For unto every generation a vampire phenomenon is born, one that girls and even some women will obsess over endlessly. For my mom it was
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. I get the Cullens. Don’t misunderstand me, I enjoyed the books and everything, but just because they both have vampires, it does
not
make them the same. Buffy is just classic. It had everything…cute boys, mass drama, love stories, but best of all, it was freaking hysterical.

“Nice comparison, but it’s gonna suck even more if we don’t leave right now…we’re gonna be late.”

I heard my mom calling us from downstairs and then my dad honked the horn. “Crap! Well, good luck Jilly. I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep busy today,” I told her, giving her a big hug.

“You too, Camie. At least you have one AP class, so that should be interesting,” she replied, hugging me back.

Like I said, I don’t test well but, I really am sort of advanced. I was able to scrape into a junior level, honors literature class by the skin of my teeth. I’m prepared to be bored in the rest of my classes, though, except for maybe geometry. I hate math. Jillian and I are of like minds about this one thing, but again, she’d probably be in AP calculus if she were in high school.

We grabbed our school backpacks, yet another new thing for us, and flew down the stairs. My mom was waiting, holding the front door open while wearing what was previously normal school attire for my sister and me—pajamas, slippers and a bathrobe.

“Bye Mom! I love you!” Jillian and I said in unison and we each gave her tight, but quick hug. Neither of us wanted to look into her face because we were afraid of becoming emotional.

“Bye girls, I love you too. Oh! Have a good first day!” My mom hollered from the porch as we clambered into the car.

Backing out of the driveway, my dad blew my mom a kiss and I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at her. She’d moved onto the front lawn to watch our progress and had the fingers of one hand pressed to her lips and she was waving with the other. Shit. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t put any makeup on after all…I’d just end up looking like a clichéd raccoon before the short, five-minute drive to school was over.

2.

Insert Choice Expletive Here

Crossing the street to school with a herd of other kids whose parents dropped them off like my dad had with me, I felt not so much like cattle, but a black sheep. I know most of my trepidation about not fitting in with other kids is only in my head, after all, I
do
fill the requisite teenager status, but there are just so many of them and they all seem like they know each other. They might not all be friends, a perfect example – and one totally responsible for “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses blaring in my head now – is the small group of girls yelling at each other on the front lawn of the campus. But, at least they still
know
each other. I mean seriously, how am I supposed to break into an established group that will accept me as one of their own? I really need to do that, too, if I want to survive my high school experience without needing therapy when it’s over. Looking at the somewhat defined cliques around me, I figure that if I don’t pick the right group, I’ll end up needing professional help anyway.

I don’t really care about being popular per se, not that I’d shun the attention, but it has to be good attention, you know? Not the kind that comes from tripping, dropping your stuff all over the quad, and falling flat on your face. No lie; this is what I’m thinking about when a kid next to me does exactly that. And everyone starts laughing.

“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” I asked and bent down to help gather all the papers escaping his binder. I’m also pretty pissed again. I mean the nerve of all the kids who are laughing and pointing…how would they feel if it were one of them? Mean people just suck.

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks,” he answered and took the papers from me.

His name is Paul Matthison. How do I know that, you ask? Well, I read it upside down on a page of his physics homework. “Hi. I’m Camie. I’m new.” This is as good a time as any, right? It’s too bad Paul isn’t at all cute.