Tragedy Girl - Christine Hurley Deriso Page 0,3

bet I know who she was talking about. Blake Fields?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“Oh, don’t even,” Melanie teases as I follow her into our Calculus class, lightly brushing shoulders with people leaving. “He’s not only gorgeous, he’s tragic. Now, that’s some serious cachet.”

I follow her to the far end of the room, Melanie giving fluttery waves to classmates as she passes them. I settle into the seat beside her.

“What’s tragic about him?” I ask as we put our books on our desktops.

“His girlfriend died over the summer,” Melanie says, then glances at me for a sensitivity check. “Which, of course, really is sad.”

“How did she die?”

Melanie pushes a lock of dark blonde hair behind her ear. “Drowned. In the ocean.”

I mouth Wow. “Did you know her?”

Melanie shakes her head. “She went to Cloverville High—the school in the next town over. Plus, she was younger than us … she’d be a junior this year, I think.”

The sixth-period bell rings and a teacher in shirt sleeves and a bow tie tells us to settle down.

“Mr. Loring,” Melanie whispers conspiratorially. “We call him Mr. Boring.”

“Aaaahh. Clever.”

“Before we get started,” Mr. B/Loring begins in a monotone, “we’d like to welcome a new student to our class. Uh, Annie … ?”

“It’s Anne,” I say softly. “Anne Welch.”

He responds with an awkwardly prolonged pity smile. Damn. He’s at least the fourth teacher today to give me a pity smile. Not even three hundred and fifty miles is far away enough to escape them.

“Well.” He tilts his head, his eyes oozing sympathy. “Welcome, Anne.”

“Well. Thanks.”

The class chuckles lightly. Uh-oh. Was that a smartass response? The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself. Hollis Island High is just a brief way station en route to college. Now, that’ll be a true fresh start. This is a year I’m simply trying to endure.

“I certainly hope you’ll find this class enjoyable,” he says improbably, because truly, what are the odds.

But I just smile and nod.

Low profile, E, I remind myself, fingering the wedding rings that dangle under my shirt from a chain around my neck, my only 24-7 connection to my parents. Low profile.

“So!”

Another oh-so-nuanced conversation starter from Aunt Meg. She spoons some mashed potatoes onto her plate and passes me the bowl.

“How was your first day of school?” she asks.

“Okay,” I respond, spooning my portion and passing the bowl along to Uncle Mark. “I take it the word’s out to all my teachers about Mom and Dad?”

Aunt Meg feigns confusion. “What do you—”

“We talked to the counselor,” Uncle Mark says quietly. “We had to explain your circumstances … us being your guardians, why you’ve switched schools your senior year … ”

“Plus, honey, we wanted to make sure they were aware of your special needs,” Aunt Meg says, her eyebrows an inverted V.

I stiffen. “Special needs?”

“Just … that you’ve been through a lot, and that the administration should be attuned to any … ”

“We know you’re fine, Annie,” says Uncle Mark, who calls me that sometimes on purpose and not because he’s mispronouncing my name. “We just needed to give a little information about your background. I’m sure the curiosity factor will die down in the next couple of days.”

“Oh, you know what?” Aunt Meg says in her sing-song voice. “I found a list of extracurriculars on the school website. Plus, volunteer opportunities!”

My fork lands with a dull thud into my mashed potatoes. “Thanks, Aunt Meg, but I don’t know if I want to get involved in—”

“Staying busy is key,” she says, a stern edge creeping into her perky tone.

“Meg, Annie needs to take things at her own pace.” Uncle Mark’s voice is kind but firm.

“Busy!” she repeats, her pitch higher than ever. “That’s the key! Plus, she’s got her college applications to think about.” She flashes me a quick smile.

I bite my lip, my heart sinking with the reminder that I’ll go the whole year—maybe longer—without being able to have a genuine or spontaneous conversation with the people my school knows as my “guardians.”

“Oops. Forgot the rolls,” Aunt Meg says, then pushes her chair away from the table and scurries into the kitchen.

Uncle Mark clears his throat, and when I glance at him, he winks at me.

“She’ll calm down soon, I promise,” he says.

I wave a hand through the air. “Aunt Meg is great,” I say, furrowing my brow for emphasis.

“I know she tries too hard,” Uncle Mark responds, “especially when she’s stressed. But she means well.”

My heart sinks. “I’m so sorry I brought stress into your