Now here we are in
beautiful Oxnard. Yeah. I know. It sounds like somebody was in the middle of a
sneeze when a cough barked out. I try looking it up to see what an oxnard is.
Of course that was a circular exercise; ‘see city in California’. So I try
‘nard’. Closest thing is spikenard which is an herb. At that point I lose
interest.
I’m stuck with Oxnard and,
at least for the time being, Oxnard is stuck with me. So here’s a rundown of
the good, the bad, and the boring.
The good news is that we
managed to get a boat dock house. It’s on the water, but not on the beach. No
extra space. There are three bedrooms. Guess who gets the ‘master’? That left two little rooms for my
brother and me to fight over. I pulled rank - I’m four years older - and got
the one facing the front. That means the water view.
Among other noteworthy
travel facts, Oxnard is in a valley between the Santa Monica Mountains and the
Los Padres, which is a cluster of mountain ranges. I’m told that you could be
surfing at the beach while looking at snow-covered mountains. Put that in the
kind of cool column.
Now for the bad. The house
is tiny compared to where we lived in Austin. It’s going to be an adjustment.
As far as boring, I know no one here. As in NO ONE!
The only thing that could
be worse than that is the fact that on Monday I’m going to have to walk into a
new high school. Did I mention that I know NO ONE? Not even my brother will be
in my school, which, okay, I admit I’m thankful for that because, if things
could be worse, that would be it.
I’ve seen it. The school,
I mean.
When nobody was there, I
walked around the grounds with my dog, Elke. She’s a Norwegian Elkhound, really
smart, really pretty, and really sure she doesn’t have to do what I say.
The school is kind of a
gothic monstrosity that couldn’t be more out of place in SoCal. It looks like a
Wizard of Oz tornado picked it up in Crumbling, Maine and dropped it in Oxnard.
I imagine the ground
shaking when it hit. Boom.
How do I feel about
starting a new school in two days?
As a sophomore?
Let me put it this way.
Last summer my parents decided we were going to take a family trip to England.
They said the educational value was astronomical. It would be like a field trip
on steroids. Their words. Not mine.
So we went. But we didn’t
go like normal families and stay in hotels. Of course not.
We stayed in family
hostels. What’s that, you ask? Imagine going to camp with other families and
sleeping in big bunk rooms with people of all ages, both sexes, some of whom
make noises in their sleep that you wouldn’t think were possible for humans.
Don’t even ask about the
shared bath.
Anyway, we went on one of
those Bloody Tower tours in London where they trot you past all the torture
tools and devices. Our guide tried to give cryptic descriptions about how they
were used, because of his perception that my brother is of a tender and
sensitive young age. The guide kept glancing at my brother nervously like he
was afraid the information would scar the boy’s precious psyche, imprinting
evil on the tabula rosa. On the contrary my brother probably invented some of
those devices himself in past lifetimes.
The point I’m getting to
is this. Given the choice, I’d gladly choose the rack over having to walk into
a new high school as a sophomore where I know NOBODY! But this is the real
world and I don’t have a choice.
I’m feeling sorry enough
for myself to consider curling up into a ball when my brother barges into my
room without knocking. “What the…? We moved here three weeks ago, Never. You’ve
had time to unpack. You’re supposed to be the neat one. Miss Smart Perfect Suck
up.” He punctuates that with a perfectly disgusting sucking noise.
Following his line of
sight to the bed, the chair, the desk, I’m forced to agree that clothes draped
everywhere looks like a breakdown straight ahead. Naturally I counter by going
on the offensive.
“Nobody invited you in.
Try knocking! I could have been getting dressed.”
“So what? You’ve got
nothing that interests me.”
“Idiot. It’s called
privacy. I deserve to have some in my OWN ROOM!”
“What’s this about?” He
waves his arm to indicate the trunk show.
“I’m deciding what to wear
the first day.”
He laughs that
unbelievably aggravating laugh that never fails to make me want to pitch him
out a second story window. By the way, there is one close by. It draws my gaze
and gives life to my fantasy of hearing him scream on the way down.
“You’re worried, aren’t
you?” he asks, wearing his smarmiest smuggest sneer face. “Well, sit at the
feet of the master, little girl, and I’ll tell you how to conquer first day
fever and win.” He sounds like an infomercial for a self-help guru. Maybe he’ll
do okay in SoCal. “When you walk in, look for the biggest toughest-looking girl
around. Then you walk straight up to her and punch her in the mouth.”
No. He’s not going to do
okay in SoCal.
“Levi. This is California.
They have zero tolerance for that kind of thing.” He shrugs, completely
unconcerned. I put my hand to my head. “Wait. Wait. I’m getting a premonition.
Yes. Yes. I can see it now. Mom and Dad are going to get a call from your vice
principal within ten minutes of dropping you off at school. He’s going to tell
them that they’re raising a barbarian who’s prison bound.”
“Just telling you. It sets
the tone for the entire year. Your life can be bumpy or smooth. Take it from
me. Your barbarian is my bad ass.” He holds a finger up. “Oh. Did I
mention the part about run like hell after you punch Alice Assault in the
mouth?”
I blink at him, wondering
for the multi-thousandth time which one of us was adopted. It was probably me.
“Say your name slowly.”
He rolls his eyes, but
gets the message and leaves.
My brother’s name is Levi.
We’re not Hebrew. My parents just liked the jeans which, I guess, must have
been cool at one time. If he says his name slowly, it sounds like, “Leave. I.”
If you’re thinking that’s
mean, don’t even go there. He gets back at me by calling me Never and cawing
like Edgar Allen Poe’s raven, especially if I have friends around.
Naturally he leaves the
bedroom door standing open just to irritate me. I slam it, hear my mother’s
faint shout saying don’t slam the door, lock it, and turn back to the
impossible task of figuring out what people at this alien outpost consider
first day of school clothes. If only I could…
That’s when I realize I
might get a preview into life at R. Caine High School. I open the laptop and
pull up images.
Why didn’t I think of this
before?
Track and field. Lots of running and jumping enthusiasm then.
Football. Concussion anyone?
Basketball. No comment.
A CPR dummy. How many times has that thing been kissed?
Softball. Hmmm. Maybe.
Graduation. Gold robes. Ew.
And finally, a photo of
kids swarming a large paved area, not wearing athletic gear or some kind of
club tee shirt. Whether they were coming or going I can’t tell. The main thing
is I can see the clothes and they aren’t all that different from what I’m used
to. In fact, the picture could have been taken at my old school. Sigh.
So alright. I can do this.
All I have to do is pick out something that makes me feel reasonably
attractive. It’s the first day of school. Not the end of the world.
Right?
Right?
Lots of people have been
through this and survived.
Yes.
I know I’m taking that on
faith, but since I haven’t heard urban myths about kids going to new schools
and never being heard from again, I’m going with that assumption. Or trying to.
Who am I kidding?
Doomsday looms.
I mean you wouldn’t think
a person could actually fear lunch. Not the food, of course. Although some
might say fearing the food made in the cafeteria is a test of Darwin’s theory.
I don’t think Darwin’s theory applies to humans anymore. Modern medicine is
pretty good at interfering with the impending doom and saving the day no matter
how badly we botch genetics.
It probably seems like I’m
obsessing over the word ‘doom’, but it’s just that kind of weekend. The kind
that will live in infamy forever.
What was I saying? Oh,
yeah. I was talking about the rites
of lunch. The quest for that magical place where you can be part of a herd of
the like-minded; meaning people who understand you well enough that you can
talk to each other, eat together, gossip about whatever, and kid yourself into
thinking they don’t gossip about you when you’re not there.
I look at the clock.
Again.
The first day of my
sophomore year should be a celebration of not being a freshman anymore. But
that’s for kids who get to stay put. Not for people like myself who’ve been
forcibly relocated, that means moved against my will, to the other side of the
country.
By this same time tomorrow
I’ll know if my quest was successful.
Will I be able to locate
the magical lunch herd on the first day?
Have I been a good person?
Do I deserve that fate?
Why yes. Yes, I do.
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