Also Known as Rowan Pohi Page 5

  I was still standing outside the fence. Honestly, I hadn't planned on going any closer. But now I realized that rain would penetrate the few inches of dirt on that shallow grave, would soak through Rowan's papers. The ink would blur. All those words—Congratulations, Rowan!—would become unreadable and be lost forever.

  I couldn't let that happen.

  It was easy to find the opening in the fence. Looking around to make sure nobody was watching, I slipped underneath and moved toward the grave. Although there wasn't anybody around, I moved like an assassin, trying not to make the slightest sound. Using the narrow flashlight beam, I located the three letters in the dirt.

  R I P

  The letters were already starting to blur.

  I knelt down, pressing my knees into the earth. The rain on my neck felt warm, but I shivered. The nerves in my body jangled like a zillion tiny bells. I wondered what Marcus and Big Poobs would think about what I was doing. They'd either clobber me or laugh like crazy, and I wouldn't blame them either way, but it was too late to turn back now.

  I pressed my right hand onto the moist dirt and dug down until my fingers located the two envelopes. I pulled them from the earth and repacked the dirt, taking care to make the spot look undisturbed. With my pinkie finger, I carefully retraced Rowan's initials on top of the grave.

  I stood up and brushed away the dirt clinging to my bare knees. A moment later I was back under the fence. I tucked Rowan's envelopes into my shorts, pulled my shirt over them to keep the paper dry, and sprinted home through the pouring rain.

  TWELVE

  NEXT MORNING I WAS STARVING WHEN I WOKE UP. THERE wasn't much food in the house, so I decided to go buy some bagels.

  The city air had a fresh, rain-washed smell when I stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward Finagle A Bagel. A half dozen was our usual order: two chocolate chip for Cody, two onion for my father, and two everything for me.

  "Hey there."

  I swiveled around and—ba-boom!—there she was. The tall Whitestone girl I had been noticing on and off the last few weeks.

  "Hi."

  "Hey."

  She stood in front of me like a study in whiteness: white T-shirt, white shorts, white teeth, blond hair. And long legs.

  She extended her hand. "I'm Heather. Heather Reardon."

  "Hi."

  Awkwardly, I took her hand and shook it. She was tall for a girl; we stood eye to eye, and I'm close to six feet.

  Heather grinned. "Well? What's your name?"

  I met her grin, and raised her one.

  "I'm Rowan," I said. "Rowan Pohi."

  THIRTEEN

  "I SWEAR, BOBBY," MOM SAID TO ME ONCE, "YOU MUST HAVE been born on Opposite Day. Every time I expect you to do one thing, you do the exact opposite. How on earth did you become so impulsive?" She said this after I decided to go out for the volleyball team even though I had never played volleyball in my entire life.

  I looked up impulsive in the dictionary. It means "spontaneous, reckless." Doing something without thinking it through. I guess she was right. It was definitely an impulsive decision to become Rowan Pohi.

  Now we stood on the sidewalk, Heather Reardon and me, blinking in the sunlight.

  "I keep seeing you around." I gave her a mock-suspicious look. "You aren't some kind of stalker, are you?"

  She laughed out loud. "No, I swear!"

  "Where do you live?" I asked.

  "I live over on the Heights."

  I nodded. "I sort of figured that."

  There was an empty wooden bench, so we sat down.

  "So what are you doing on this side of town?" I asked.

  "I'm doing music camp at Salve Regina," she explained. "This is the last day."

  "You play...?" I pointed at the instrument case she was carrying.

  "Saxophone."

  "But that's a guy instrument, isn't it?"

  "Hey!" She lightly smacked me on the shoulder; I took this as a promising sign.

  I rubbed my shoulder, like I was mortally injured. "You go to Whitestone. I've seen you wearing the Stony T-shirt."

  She gave me a demure smile. "I'm glad you're paying attention. How about you? Where do you go to school?"

  "Same," I said casually.

  Her face flooded with amazement. "You go to Whitestone?"

  "Well, I got accepted there." I leaned back on the bench and let out a sigh. "I don't know if my family can swing the money. That school isn't exactly cheap."

  "They have financial aid," she pointed out. "Your parents just have to fill out some forms."

  "Yeah," I said. Thinking: That ain't gonna happen.

  Heather crossed her long legs; I tried hard not to stare at them.

  "Tomorrow's new-student orientation for the tenth-graders," she said. "The high school is grade ten through twelve, so all the students are new, technically, but most of us are coming from Whitestone Middle. So by now we're kind of used to the Whitestone way of doing things."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Anyway, I'm sure they'll have somebody from financial aid you can talk to."

  "What time are we supposed to be there?" I asked casually.

  "Nine o'clock. I guess I'll see you there."

  "I guess you will."

  She regarded me closely. "Did you grow up around here?"

  I shook my head. "I moved here from Arizona at the beginning of the summer. I lived way out in the desert, little town named Pinon."

  She smiled. "Wow, the Arizona desert. You must have been surrounded by cactuses."

  "You mean cacti," I playfully corrected her.

  "Righto." She glanced at her watch and sprang up. "Oops, gotta go or I'll be late to camp. See you tomorrow, Rowan!"

  "Bye, Heather."

  She waved and took two steps away, but then whirled around and took two steps back.

  "Sit with me at lunch, okay?"

  "You got it," I told her.

  When Heather left for the second time, I was thinking she looked fine coming toward me and just as fine walking away.

  I felt cranked up, wired. I went into the store and bought six bagels, plus the Sunday newspaper for my father.

  After that I didn't go home like I'd planned; I guess it really was Opposite Day. I made a right and headed toward Kopsky's Gifts and Novelties. I had some unfinished business there.

  This time the store was full of customers. Mr. Kopsky was at his regular perch behind the counter. The man did not look happy to see me.

  "Didn't I tell you not to come in my store?"

  I held up my hand, palm out. "I want to buy it."

  His dark eyes flashed. "Buy what?"

  "The Indian necklace." My voice was strong and steady. "I've got the money."

  I don't want your money—that's what I feared he might say, and that would have shut me up. I was counting on his being a treasure troll, the greedy kind of guy who would never under any circumstances say no to money.

  Kopsky stared at me, considering.

  "That necklace costs a hundred and eight dollars, with the tax," he finally said.

  "I'll take it."

  While he went to get the necklace, I counted out five twenties and a ten. Kopsky took my money and counted it, twice. Then he made a show of carefully marking each bill with a black felt-tip marker, to make sure they weren't counterfeit, I guess. Reluctantly, he slid the necklace plus the two dollars' change across the counter to me.

  "I need a bag."

  Without speaking, Kopsky handed me a plastic bag. I put the necklace in the bag, tucked the bag in a pocket section of my cargo shorts, and left.

  Buying that Indian necklace on top of the bagels and the Sunday newspaper had completely emptied my wallet. But I was whistling as I walked home.

  FOURTEEN

  NEXT MORNING I TOOK THE NUMBER 6 CROSSTOWN BUS and transferred to the number 1. The closer we got to White-stone, the more kids my age got onto the bus. They must have been new students too, but many of them had found a way to buy Whitestone threa
ds ahead of time, and most seemed to know each other. I hunkered down in my seat, wearing my black hoodie. I had a nervous stomach and my heart was racing, but I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep.

  "There it is," a girl murmured.

  Raising my head, I spotted the gold Whitestone lettering over a tall iron gate. I had seen the entrance a few times before, driving past with Mom. Beyond the gate a sweet-looking campus appeared, with sweeping lawns and half a dozen separate buildings. You could easily mistake it for a college if you didn't know better.

  Getting off the bus, we were greeted by a student who looked like she might be Indian or maybe Pakistani. "New-student orientation is inside the union," she said, pointing at a building with ivy snaking up the side.

  I followed twenty other new students along a diagonal walkway. Hard to believe that so much velvety grass, so many perfectly trimmed bushes and shrubs, could be found in such a grungy city as ours. It was like walking through a park. We entered the building marked UNION and stepped into a foyer dominated by a huge white fountain carved out of solid marble. Craning my neck, I gazed up at the dome ceiling overhead.

  We passed through the lobby into a larger room where a woman with a clipboard was checking in the students. She flashed me a smile.

  "And you are...?"

  "Rowan Pohi."

  I tried to force myself to breathe normally while I waited for her to find the name on her list.

  "There you are, Rowan. Do you have your preregistration card?"

  "Uh-huh." I handed it to her.

  "Excellent. If you step over there, you can get your White-stone ID. It shouldn't take too long."

  I stood in the short line, trying to stay calm.

  I did it, I said to myself. I'm inside the belly of the beast.

  While I waited, I checked out the other students. Only about half of them were wearing Whitestone clothing. This included the girl in front of me, who had shoulder-length dark hair. She caught my eye and zipped me a small, tight smile. I smiled back.

  "There's something extremely ... awkward about the first day of school, don't you think?" she asked.

  "True," I admitted. "But we're all in the same boat."

  "I'm trying not to feel seasick," she quipped.

  "Didn't you go to Whitestone Middle School?"

  She shook her head. "No, I went to Holy Sisters of Mercy. This place feels much different. I'm Robin, by the way. Robin Whaley."

  "Rowan." I smiled. "Hey, they could make, like, a reality TV show about us. Robin and Rowan."

  "Catchy," she admitted. "But it wouldn't be very juicy, at least my part of it."

  I gave her a sleepy grin. "I'm not buying that."

  "Next!"

  A young man motioned for me to sit in front of the camera.

  "Smile, Rowan."

  Flash. Three minutes later I was holding an official White-stone ID card for Rowan Pohi. With my own mug. If only Marcus and Big Poobs could see me now. I got a funny pang thinking of my two buddies—guilt? regret?—but pushed it out of my mind. I'd have to deal with that later.

  "Let me see."

  Heather Reardon came out of nowhere and playfully yanked the ID out of my hands. She was wearing white shorts and a neon blue T-shirt that said ASK ME.

  "Hi there." I was glad to see one familiar face.

  "Hell-oooo." She peered at the ID card. "Very handsome."

  I pointed at her shirt. "Can I ask you a question?"

  She put her hands on her hips. "Shoot."

  "What is the meaning of life?"

  Heather laughed and grabbed my hand. "They've got doughnuts to die for, but they're going fast. C'mon."

  I waved at Robin as Heather led me to the refreshment table. There I helped myself to two doughnuts thickly crusted with sugar. Yum.

  "The upper school is grade ten through twelve, just over a thousand students," Heather was saying. The room had suddenly gotten noisy, so she had to stand close to me to be heard.

  "Most of these kids went to Whitestone Middle, right?" I said. "So there already must be lots of cliques."

  Heather shook her head. "Not really. There are three hundred fifty kids in the ninth grade class. And there are lots of new kids coming in from other schools, states, even other countries. Don't worry about it. This will be a whole new game for all of us."

  Most of the kids around me were rocking the green White-stone T-shirt. With my black Bob Marley T-shirt, I stood out like a sore thumb.

  "I feel sort of ... underdressed," I told Heather.

  "No worries. Uniforms are optional this week."

  "Shouldn't they call it Greenstone?" I suggested. "Or at least make these shirts white?"

  Heather regarded me with mock-serious eyes. "Don't make that joke again, Rowan. Ever."

  "I won't," I promised.

  She handed me a glossy Whitestone-at-a-Glance brochure. I skimmed the first paragraph:

  Named one of the top five preparatory high schools seven years in a row

  1:5 teacher-student ratio

  Outstanding faculty

  Encourages student initiative and independent study

  99 percent of Whitestone grads attend four-year colleges

  "Read it carefully," Heather advised. Playfully, she wrinkled her nose at me. "I may have to quiz you later."

  "Rowan Pohi."

  A young woman had appeared and was looking around, and I realized she wanted me. She led me into a small room and motioned for me to take the seat on the other side of the table.

  "I'm Melody Ryder," she began. "Welcome to Whitestone, Rowan."

  "Thank you."

  She seemed no older than twenty-five, maybe even younger. Her dark brown hair was cut short and curled forward on the sides.

  "Mrs. Ryder," I remembered. "You're the one who sent me the letter."

  "Ms. Ryder," she corrected me. She wasn't wearing any wedding ring. "Yes, I'm director of admissions here at Whitestone."

  How should I act? I wanted to seem confident, like I belonged in this school. But a new student at Whitestone would most likely be nervous, or at least shy, wouldn't he?

  "Hmm, Pohi is an interesting name," she began. "Is that Native American?"

  I shrugged. "Uh, possibly. My mother thinks there may be some Native American blood in the family, but we're not a hundred percent sure."

  She lifted a piece of paper. With a start I realized it was the original application, the very same one that we filled out that fateful day at the IHOP. I tried not to stare at the darkish stain on the lower right, remembering exactly how it happened, Big Poobs accidentally dribbling pancake syrup. For a split second, my confidence wavered.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  "We're going to need it as soon as possible," Melody was saying.

  "What?"

  "Your high school transcript," she explained. "Your old high school hasn't sent it to us yet, and we really do need it. Would it help if I gave them a call?"

  I swallowed. "No, that's okay. I'll call them."

  "All right. Hopefully they'll send it right along. And you never gave us your phone number."

  "Uh, our home phone has been disconnected," I said, stalling.

  "Do you have a cell phone number?" she asked.

  I gave it to her and watched her write it down. Then she studied the application. "You had a three point six grade point average—that's impressive."

  "It would have been even higher," I put in, "except I took a pre-calculus course that was, like, impossible."

  She smiled sympathetically. "I'm not much of a math person either. I see that you played football in Arizona. Your football coach sent a glowing letter of recommendation."

  I nodded. "Coach Garcia is the man."

  "Is Pinon down by Phoenix or in the northern part of the state?" Ms. Ryder asked.

  A stab of panic.

  "I'm terrible on geography," I admitted. "We only lived there a few years."

  "Well, I know Pinon is desert," she said. "It must hav
e been hot during some of your football practices."

  "Like an oven," I agreed.

  "We have an excellent football team here at Whitestone. Are you planning on going out for the team?"

  "I'm considering it. Yeah, definitely."

  "I see you were National Honor Society, Rowan. What sorts of activities did you do?"

  I blanked. Activities? I figured the National Honor Society was just a bunch of kids with high grades sitting around telling each other how smart they were. Ms. Ryder was waiting, so I had to make up something, quick.

  "We did pancake breakfasts," I blurted. "To raise money. To, you know, buy books for some of the underprivileged kids in the area."

  "That's wonderful."

  She put down the application and briskly rubbed her hands together. "I'll help you fill out your class schedule, Rowan. But before I do, you must have some questions for me."

  "Ah, um, I d-don't know," I stammered. Questions?"Well, yes, there is one thing. How about school uniforms? I know the school has a dress code."

  She handed me a slip of paper. "This will tell you exactly what you need. You can get everything at the school store, which is in the union building."

  I stared at the list: two green jerseys, khaki slacks, white shirt, blue tie, blue blazer, school sweatshirt, school athletic shorts, and T-shirt. This stuff would cost a small fortune.

  "I didn't bring any money."

  "Don't worry, you can bring a check on Wednesday." She smiled again, flashing perfect teeth. "Wednesday is the first day of school." She cleared her throat. "Now, as to the matter of tuition and fees. Will you be applying for financial aid?"

  I nodded. "Probably."

  "Then please follow me."

  Ms. Ryder led me to the office of Jon Throckmorton, the man who ran the financial aid office at Whitestone. Throckmorton had thick wrists and pale blue eyes; his hair was cut in a military flattop. The dude was ripped.

  "Hello, Rowan," he said, motioning me to take a seat. He slid a thick packet over to me. "Your parents have to fill that out, okay?"

  I glanced at the packet but didn't touch it.

  "That, uh, might not be possible," I managed.