Something Wicked - By Lesley Anne Cowan Page 0,1

and revenge. Everybody is sleeping with everybody else. It’s completely insane.

I liked Echo right away. She was a sleazy, beautiful nymph who tried to steal the goddess Hera’s husband. Instead of getting mad at her man, the goddess put a stop to the flirting by cursing Echo to just repeat whatever a person said to her. She would have only the power of reply, no power to speak first. No original thought. So after that, her conversations with the guy went something like this:

“Who’s here?” he asks.

“Here.”

“Why do you shun me?” he asks.

“Shun me.”

But this is where I’m torn. Though I identify with Echo, I have respect for Hera. She recognized the slut’s true charm and instead of making her ugly, she took away her ability to flirt. That goddess was smart. And I’d like to think I’m pretty smart like that too. Not school smart. People smart. Most women would have mistakenly gone straight to the beauty factor. But we all know it’s those ugly women who can pose the most threat.

You see? It’s all about the words. Words control your destiny. Not just the ones etched on paper. Even the fleeting words in your mouth stain the air with deceptive permanence.

So I call myself Echo to remind me not to give away too much of myself when I talk to adults: repeat what they say. Say what they want to hear.

Eric trips me up sometimes. It’s especially hard to be Echo with him. In fact, it’s hard to remember most of the time, which is why I write this name on my library card, sign it on school papers, throw it into conversations. I want to make it obvious to adults that I get it, that I am now in the game: think what you want of me, you’ll never get inside.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Everything all right?”

“All right.”

But it’s not just the words I repeat. It’s not that literal. I replicate the tone. I use the same thought censorship that adults do. I’ve learned what shouldn’t be divulged. I’ve learned to make the space between the words not impenetrable, but empty. So that when they try to dissect me, all they find is a void.

Two

Only two weeks since the beginning of the school year and already I’m tired of it. Is there a rule somewhere that school must be boring? That it must be irrelevant? That it must suck the life out of learning? You go into grade one all enthusiastic and curious, but by the time you graduate, you’re shrivelled and dried like a dead lizard carcass you find behind the fridge.

Even this is not an original thought. Millions of teenagers believe school is boring. Even the teachers think it. Books have been written. Songs have been sung. It’s so cliché.

So why does it continue?

“Tonight’s homework will be worth five percent of your final mark.”

Ms. Switzer’s voice snaps me out of my daydream rant. My mind is pretty wild. Sometimes it just goes to places so far away that even I don’t realize it’s taken off until something jars me back to the present. That’s my ADD. It takes me a moment to regain my bearings. Here I am, inside my stupid gradeeleven body, inside my stupid school uniform, inside a stupid English classroom, inside a stupid rundown high school, inside a pretty decent city, inside a pretty decent country, inside a stupid fucked-up world, inside a pretty cool universe.

Ms. Switzer’s hand goes up and she scribbles our essay topic across the blackboard. Occasionally you get a good teacher like Ms. Switzer who makes you actually wake up out of your dazed stupor and learn something. She’s not young or old, ugly or pretty. She’s not a bitch or a softie. She’s something in the middle of all those things, which just makes her … real.

She writes, The first human statement is a scream.

I am excited to do this assignment. I have so much to say. Great ideas race through my mind, but by the time I place my hand on the page, my head is already empty again. That’s my learning disability: I can’t squeeze my brilliant, billowing thoughts through my teeny, tiny pen and into sentences on a page.

The excitement over the English homework never went away, it’s just that I get caught up in other things. Like after school, meeting my best friends Allison and Jessica, who beg me to come smoke a few blunts in the park because I’ve barely seen them all