which evie?

It hits me again in the middle of 4^th period Geometry.  The pain explodes from my temples, relentlessly indifferent to the fact that I need to concentrate on Euclid’s postulates.  I let go of my pencil and close my eyes, forcing myself to relax because I know from experience that this is the only way to make the throbbing even remotely bearable.  I tell my muscles to un-tense and I feel myself sinking bonelessly in the hard plastic seat.  I ride out a wave of the paralyzing headache as it makes itself at home in my head and I would have been okay after maybe a couple more minutes of excruciating torture because I know it will disappear as suddenly as it appears. Unfortunately, Cavenaugh is not sympathetic to my episodes.

“Owens!” he barks from the front of the class. 

I feel more than see the thirty pairs of eyes trained on my person because mine are still closed to help me endure the pain.  I have told Cavenaugh before that I can’t help it, and that the best thing to do is just leave me alone and that no, I’m not sleeping in his class and yes, I do want to go to CAL like my mom did and make her proud, and yes, I know passing Geometry is imperative to pumping up my college apps but he always seems to doubt my sincerity.

“Wakey, wakey, Owens!” I hear Cavenaugh continue derisively and next thing I know, I am pelted with his favorite projectile missile.  It’s just my luck that my Geometry teacher also happens to be the junior varsity football coach and has unerring aim.  I know that, even though he meant to nail me exactly in the middle of my forehead, it’s only an Expo marker, and it really wouldn’t have hurt under normal circumstances.  But these are not normal circumstances and impact is made at the epicenter of my pain.  I breathe out soundlessly and feel my body tipping over.  Right before I slip into true oblivion, I hear someone in the back call out in a cold voice:

“Now you’ve done it.  You’ve gone and killed her.”

I think this is really funny.

OR 

I storm out of Fergie’s office, ignoring the stares and snickers from the copy writers.  I don’t care what they think. They’re mindless droids who spend their time ferreting out who’s dating whom and where’s the best spot to make out and not get caught.  Puerile drivel.  Isn’t this supposed to be Advanced Journalism?  The only ‘advanced’ I see is Nick trying to wheedle a date out of Amelia Martinez over a mocha frappuccino. 

Speaking of the devil…

“He cut your piece?” Nick keeps pace with me as I launch myself out the Journalism room.

“It’s a rewrite.”

“I told you so.”

“Can’t you think of anything more original to say?”

“And therein lies your problem, Eves.  Your eternal search for the original.  The different.  When are you gonna get it through your head that no one cares?”

I stop abruptly in my tracks and feel Nick’s nose hit the back of my head.  “I care,” I say.  I round on him to glare with what I think is frightful conviction.

“You and your army of one.”

“Don’t you care?”

“I care only because you’re my best friend and if I don’t, you’d throw me over your shoulder with one of your fancy kata moves.”

“You’d be able to counter it if you’d come to practice more often.”

“Pass, thanks.  I have better things to do.”

“Like flirt with Amelia Martinez?” I can’t keep still. My body needs release from all my pent-up frustration.  I start striding down the halls again.

“You jealous?”

“As if.”

Nick, persistent bugger, has dogged me out the journalism office, down the halls and through the quad.  School has been officially over for the past hour and a half and the campus is empty except for a few diehards who are putting in extra time on Advanced Placement study sessions.  Even the football jocks have gone home for the day.  I know this which is why I am heading straight for the stadium because, even though I never willingly enter jock territory, I feel the need for height and space.

I push past the chain link gate and bound up the bleachers, my arms and legs pumping in perfect synch until I get to the top.  I hear Nick panting behind me, trying to keep up, but even that bit of petty payback isn’t enough to swing me out of my foul mood.

“Lemme read it.”

“No.  It’s trash. Fergie said.”

“I believe he mentioned something about ‘literary merit’.”

“You eavesdropping again, Tanaka?”

“Only when it suits, Owens.”

Nick is red-faced from the physical exertion; I’m not even breaking a sweat. I fling my ponytail over my shoulder and catch a good look at his face.  Drat.  Nick always manages to guilt trip me without even trying.  It’s that woebegone, pity-me-because-I’m-cute-and-you-know-it-look.  I hear from other girls that it works like a charm but I’ve known Nick Tanaka since we heaved plastic sand toys at each other in first grade and I am immune.  Usually.  He blinks sadly.  Aw, hell.  I give up.   “Here.  For all it’s worth.”

Nick whistles as he scans the paper.  “Dark,” he says.

“Yeah.  But true.”

There is a beat of about two seconds.  Then, “Eves, why do you try so hard?”

I whip around so swiftly my ponytail flicks him in the eye.  Unmindful of his yelp of pain, I snarl, “What the hell d’you mean by that?”

Still cradling his right eye, Nick matches me ire for ire.  “Just what I said.  Why do you try so hard?  To be deep?  To be angst-ridden?  I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were considering membership into the “We love Robert Smith” emo club.”

“Thin ice, Tanaka.” If this is my best friend’s way of calming me down and making me feel better, he shouldn’t have bothered.  Better to just stick an ice pick in my back and be done with it.

“Evie,” Nick says, “I’ve known you since we heaved plastic sand toys at each other in second grade…”

“First,” I mutter, the journalist in me needing to set the record straight.

“Whatever.  We’ve known each other for a long time.  And I remember when you used to be normal, you know?  You liked ponies and pink things just like any other girl I knew, including my sister.  Then we get to high school and you go all world-weary, uber-jaded, Ms. Snarkypants on me.  I forgave it freshman year; I tolerated it sophomore year.  We’re juniors now and although I still believe that anarchy is the new world order and punk will never die, I think it’s my duty as your best friend to tell you that it’s getting old.”