Chum

I know that I’m sure some people would love to read a story about every day of school that I go to for the rest of my life – the trials and tribulations of being a teenager in the year 2023. I hate to disappoint those people, but the day glazes by me without strenuous effort, at least, not yet. I assume maybe after the first week of my freshman year of high school I’ll have something a little more interesting to report, but for now, this is the lowdown:

I have a homeroom teacher named Mrs. Foster. She’s also my math teacher, which is the period directly afterward. She’s got this vibe like she’s seen it all and is just waiting out the clock until retirement. The kind of teacher who gives you a sympathetic smile when you don’t know the answer, then moves on without waiting for you to find it. She wears frumply, big clothes that are extremely unflattering and I’m not sure she’s a mathematical expert, instead of just whoever they could grab at the time.

English is taught by Mr. Strickland, who’s got a serious case of resting bitch face. He’s so straight-laced I’m convinced he irons his khakis. But he seems to actually like books and enjoys going on tangents about symbolism that have half the class nodding off. I don’t have a good grasp on his intentions yet as a teacher, but given the huge stack of books at the back of the classroom with names I only half-recognize from my mom – Catcher in the Rye, Huckleberry Finn, The Illustrated Man – I am fully prepared to burn through my reading circuits by the time the year is through.

There’s Mrs. Bollinger for science, who’s like a walking contradiction. She’s got this neat bob haircut and the roundest glasses you’ve ever seen, but she’s also got a sleeve tattoo peeking out from under her blouse and neon pink nail polish. This year we’re doing Earth Sciences, and, according to the curriculum, unless you get to jump ahead in the AP classes or something, we do Biology, then Chemistry, then Physics at senior year. That means this year we’re going to learn about the climate and geology and stuff like that, and next year I get to dissect frogs, which I feel a little unnaturally excited for.

I’ve also got Coach Simmons for PE, who is exactly as enthusiastic about the virtues of physical education as you’d expect any high school coach to be. That is to say, he’s trying to encourage us, but we are all teenagers and there is only so much effort he can put in at a time. I think he gave up three days in. We only have PE every other day, with each other day replacing it with an elective. I chose Home Economics, which will teach us how to sew and cook, because I can’t do either of those things for shit and I think being able to repair my own costume and make my own food will marginally increase my survival chances out in this great big scary world of ours.

My Home Economics teacher is also Coach Simmons.

If there was a Karate class I’d take it. But there isn’t, so Home Ec. And Track doesn’t start for at least another month or two.

The school itself is slick, sleek, modern, multicultural, all the things you could expect from a school in Philadelphia that only serves 400 students a year. Apparently, it used to be a real not great school when it was founded, with below-average scores in everything, but the non-profit that runs it went under new management a couple years ago and according to my dad they really got the place kicked into shape. It’s now probably one of the better public schools you could go to in Northeast Philadelphia, which is probably why my parents decided to apply me there. The school is all right angles and cubes, which I was told by my dad when we were touring is “modernist”. Their lion mascot stares at me from every surface, and I can’t say that I’m a fan. Blue and yellow is not a color combination I find myself enjoying.

This first week, I haven’t glommed onto any cliques, especially not of any people in higher grades than me. Than I? Whatever. There’s nerds, there’s popular kids, there’s weirdoes, there’s more nerds, choir kids, theater kids, and people that could be sort of construed as “jocks” but they’re more dispersed throughout the existing groups like a fine mist. And, of course, you have the gaggle of about 100 incoming freshmen looking around like chickens with their heads cut off. The lunchroom is small and tidy, the library and computer rooms are well-stocked and adequate, something my mother was extremely enthusiastic about, and the hallways are laid out in a way that doesn’t make me get confused every time I try to go to class – always a plus. There’s just one little sour spot…

I have to wear a uniform.

I mean, I knew this beforehand, I went uniform shopping with my mom, after all. But the reality of it doesn’t really hit you until you’re actually there, in a white button down and a plaid skirt. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but I don’t like plaid. It’s not a color, texture, really, that appeals to me. I don’t like wearing a sports jacket, or a tie, or a bow tie. I wish I could wear a t-shirt and soccer shorts like I was a week ago. I have a duplicate of my costume shoved into my backpack for easy access as necessary, but, you know, obviously, I can’t wear that either during the school day. It’s madness inducing.

Anyway. That’s high school, now. Let’s zero back in on the present.

Lunch. The critical social hour of every high schooler’s day. You’re allowed to sit wherever, within reason, conglomerating with your friends outside of class. People who knew each other from middle school form small whorls and spirals as they jockey for the best tables in the lunchroom, while well-established seniors and juniors muscle in on the action, making sure that they get prime seating, occasionally opening up to accept groups of 1, 2, or 3.

It’s here where I first spot them. It’s the boots that catch my eye – platform goth boots, the kind you’d probably find in a store downtown, or maybe order from some obscure online shop that specializes in alternative fashion. Big, inch-thick, maybe two-inch thick platforms with belts, buckles, and a shiny black exterior. Huge boots that look like they take hours to put on in the morning, the kind you couldn’t catch me dead wearing. Huge, distinctive boots. The kind that Safeguard wore when they stepped on me.

The person wearing them is sitting with a group of older students at a table that’s removed from the rest of the cafeteria, but not too far that it becomes noticeable. They’re a collection of 15, 16, 17-year-olds – all hoodie jackets and unkempt hair and deep conversation that’s just a bit too loud to be inconspicuous. They’re talking about anime, the latest episode of some show, arguing about character arcs and plot devices with a fervor I only usually see at Young Defenders’ mission debriefings, or when my dad argued with someone while he thought I wasn’t watching on bring-your-daughter-to-work-day. There’s an air of rebellion about them, a flagrant flaunting of the school’s dress code that says more about the school administrators’ lost battles than anything else. These are people who have been told a thousand times and threatened with a thousand suspensions to dress neatly, and defiantly said “no” – at least, in the lunchroom, where anarchy reigns supreme.

The possible-Safeguard in question is leaning back in their chair, one leg bouncing up and down under the table, their platform boot tapping an erratic rhythm against the floor. They have a mop of messy black hair that obscures their face from this angle, and their hands are expressive, drawing in the air as they talk, capturing the attention of their peers, their figure concealed by their outfit. They don’t have a skirt on, so that’s points in the boy column, but they aren’t wearing a boy’s top either, their figure curved around and collar pinned with a bowtie.

Plus, all I hear from my position a couple of tables over is them yelling about anime. And Safeguard was, if Marcus is to be believed, an anime nerd. Or a manga nerd, I’m not sure if there’s a meaningful difference.

Is it them? Or is it just wishful thinking, my brain latching onto any bit of similarity and running with it because it’s eager for answers? After all, anyone can wear boots. Heck, there are probably a dozen other students in this school with a similar pair. But my gut tells me it’s something more, a hunch, an instinct. And in my line of work, instincts can mean the difference between winning and losing, survival and defeat.

So I sit there, across the cafeteria, watching. I’m probably being too obvious about it, but the cacophony of lunchtime chatter and the general indifference of teenagers to anything outside their immediate sphere of interest works in my favor. I’m trying to puzzle them out from afar, studying their mannerisms, the way they interact with their group, the tone of their voice as it carries across the room. Isolating a single person from the din is nearly impossible, especially with, uh, all the students that are having their time of the month to provide a constant sensory distraction for me. It’s more than a little maddening.

They have an aura of… I’m not sure. There’s something about them that feels familiar. Not in a ‘we’ve met before’ way, but in a ‘I’ve seen you in action’ way. A certain confidence, a certain spark, a certain way they carry themselves that reminds me of Safeguard. And I can’t shake off the feeling that the clues are there, waiting to be put together, the puzzle pieces fitting into a coherent image. But is it the right image? I could just be chasing the ghosts of my wounded pride through high school, looking for something that would make it more interesting than the slog it’s become. Anything is better than classes, which seem pedestrian and uninteresting now.

As I watch them, my mind races through dozens of different scenarios. Maybe this is a coincidence. Maybe I’m just seeing things. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve stumbled onto something huge.

I chew on my lunch by myself, in the corner, not yet ready to strike out into the great, big, wide world of high school Friday lunches. I spent the first couple of days trying to make nice with the other people and found most of them to be annoying or boring, despite how much they plainly enjoyed my presence – does that make me sound conceited? Turning it over in my head, I concede that it does. That might be something worth doing something about. You know, in the future, when I’m done taking care of this particular issue.

My mom packs me the same lunch every day, not out of her decision but my own. I’m used to the familiarity. Grapes, little melba toasts or bagel rounds or whatever we have, and little pinwheels of ham and cheese and/or turkey and cheese that go onto the melba toasts. One time, she did not give me a matching amount of pinwheels and crackers and that was an issue that rattled me to the end of the day. I also bring a granola bar and Gatorade, and when it comes time to do athletics, maybe I double up on my lunch, but, outside of that, I like the routine.

Safeguard, or at least the person I’m assuming they are, on the other hand, is eating a can of Chef Boyardee with a plastic spoon. I see no indication that they have heated up the can in any way, nor that anyone around them finds this to be out of the ordinary.

Looking at the clock on the wall, I calculate that we have about ten minutes left for lunch. I could continue sitting here, watching from afar like a stalker, or I could actually do something. In my line of work, hesitating can lead to disaster, or even worse, missed opportunities. So, I choose the latter.

Before I can change my mind, I grab my half-empty Gatorade and whatever remains of my lunch, stand up from my isolated corner, and start walking towards the table where Safeguard, or whoever they might be, is holding court. My heart is pounding a million beats per minute. I feel like every pair of eyes in the cafeteria is on me, even though I know they’re not. Teenagers are great at not caring about things that don’t directly affect them.

As I get closer, their voice becomes clearer. They’re arguing about the pacing of the latest anime series, using terms I don’t understand but that sound serious. Each word, each syllable, is punctuated with expressive hand gestures and the occasional emphatic stomp of a boot. The entire table is hanging on to their every word, punctuating their proclamations with enthusiastic nods and the occasional counterpoint. I’m almost impressed.

I reach the table, and for a moment, I hesitate, my self-doubt rearing its ugly head. Then, taking a deep breath, I try to shove down my nervousness. I’m Bloodhound, dammit. I’ve fought supervillains – at least two of them. I’ve trained with the best of the best, of my age group. I can handle a bunch of goth teens arguing about pirates.

Without giving myself another second to overthink, I pull out the chair next to them and sit down. It’s like dropping a stone into a still pond. The table goes quiet. A few surprised faces turn my way, but no one says anything. The conversation halts. It’s the person I’m interested in that I keep my eyes on. When they finally turn towards me, I get a proper look at their face for the first time.

They have striking features: a round jawline, expressive eyes with an unusual shade of green, a hint of freckles dusted across the bridge of their nose. Their hair is obviously dyed black, their skin pale and lightly makeup’d, something that draws only more of my subconscious disdain. Getting closer hasn’t made them any less ambiguous. If anything, it’s only made it worse.

For a second, our eyes lock. There’s a flash of recognition, a split second where their eyes widen just a fraction before their face settles back into a careful, neutral expression. Is it recognition, or am I hallucinating something into a completely mundane sense of surprise? I keep my own face equally neutral, giving nothing away. This is a poker game now, and I’m not about to fold my hand first.

“Hi, I’m Sam,” I say, extending my hand. They look at it, then at me, and then reach out to shake my hand. Their nails are shiny black. “You guys mind if I join you?” I ask, looking around the table. There are a few shrugs, a couple of disinterested nods. No one seems particularly bothered, so I take that as a green light.

“Knock yourself out. Jordan,” the person who I suspect is Safeguard says – Jordan – going back to their argument about the anime series. I try to follow along, try to at least internalize what they are talking about, something about devil fruits and “Joy Boy”, but it all squeaks past my ears like a mouse evading traps. All the while, my brain is working in overdrive, trying to find concrete evidence, trying to confirm my suspicions, or deconfirm them. Even ten minutes into the future, I have nothing to show for it except an empty bottle of Gatorade and a feeling that I just struck out with people who are already social rejects.

I do feel a little pang of some sort of pain in my chest. Back in middle school, I was quite a social butterfly. People enjoyed me, people liked me, or at the very least they tolerated me. I had a friend group I could rely on for lunchtime support, and here I’m just another freshman. And there might be a supervillain here.

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. As everyone starts to pack up, I take one last look at Jordan. I’ve got more questions than answers now. But that’s okay. This is just the start. I’ve got an entire school year to figure them out. And I will.