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My Ladybird Story

Magus Tor

It wasn't the first time John Bird had been knocked over in a corridor at Sandton High School, and he doubted it would be the last. As his books scattered across the linoleum tiles, he thought that he really should make use of that weight set his father had bought him. He knew his frame was slight — though, actually, after sneaking a look at one of his cousin's fashion magazines, he preferred the term "willowy" now. And for some reason, J.P. Wilson, Sandton's biggest bully and all-around junior varsity sports star, saw this as a reason to jostle him to the ground at any opportunity.

"Later, Ladybird." J.P. laughed, scooting off to his next class. Third period chemistry. Automatic lockout if you arrived after the bell.

John sighed. Ladybird. Of course J.P. had been the first to come up with the name. It wasn't even that clever, and John hated it. He'd sort of hoped after they graduated middle school, J.P. would have let the whole thing go, but he hadn't. If anything, J.P. was even worse now than he had been before, as if his straggly growth of hair on his chin that he insisted on calling a goatee made him the alpha male. John sniggered a little, despite still lying on the floor surrounded by stomping feet. J.P. did look awfully gorilla-like.

A hand hovered over his face. Blinking, John wondered what he was supposed to do with it. Was it checking if he was still breathing? But he was obviously blinking and moving around and stuff, right?

"You should probably take it," a soft voice said.

Shrugging, John reached up and took the hand, allowing himself to be pulled off the floor. It might not be the first time he'd been knocked over, but it was the first time he could remember being helped up again.

"Aureus Conner," said the soft voice, which turned out to belong to a waiflike blonde girl with a pixie haircut who was currently stooping over to retrieve John's books. "Oh, chem. You going there next?" She looked up at him with indigo colored eyes.

"Er, yeah, yeah," he stuttered, taking his chem book from her hands and trying hard to make his voice deeper than it really was. It came out as a half-squeal anyway. Stupid puberty. He bent down to help her pick up the books, nearly knocking his head against hers as he did so.

"Wanna show me the way?" she asked, casually avoiding the oncoming head collision and grabbing a notebook that had opened as it landed.

"Er, sure," he said. Then, feeling he should add more, asked: "First day?"

Stupid question. He'd never seen her before, so obviously it was her first day. Also, if it weren't her first day, then she'd already know not to speak to the school weirdo.

"Mmm," she said, concentrating on getting the notebook to close, flipping pages over the metal spiral binding. "Transfer student."

"Ah."

There didn't seem to be a whole lot more to say. Sandton was a small enough town, but it was close enough to North Carolina's Research Triangle Park that it got its share of transfer kids, kids with parents who'd come to work at IBM or Glaxo SmithKline or one of the other big companies.

"You know," she said, handing him the stack of books she'd collected, "you didn't tell me your name."

Her eyes were guileless, and she wasn't smirking. She actually wanted to meet him. He felt his face redden and begin to burn. "Um, John," he said. "John Bird."

"Ah." She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "That explains the Ladybird thing."

"It's just a name some of the guys call me," John said defensively, hoisting the pile of books under his arm and straightening.

"It's not very clever," she said, standing too. "I mean, it's not even like you've got red hair or lots of spots or anything." She frowned for a minute, and John noticed a little freckle on her cheekbone, right under the corner of her eye. "You could be Birdman, you know, like the Birdman of Alcatraz? He was pretty cool."

John snorted.

"Okay, it's not that much cleverer, but it's better than Ladybird," she pointed out. "Now, are you going to show me to chem or not?"

* * *

They made it exactly as the bell finished ringing and Mr. Thomson was closing the door.

"Sorry, sir," John said. "I was just bringing the new girl along. She got lost."

Thomson pursed his lips, but he nodded and opened the door to allow them in. John put his books on his table and turned to get his stool before he saw with surprise that Aureus had pulled a stool to his bench. Okay, so he knew it wouldn't last long; she'd realize by tomorrow and be off to make friends with the cool kids. But for now, he had a little leap in his heart. It'd be nice to actually have a lab partner, instead of always being paired with a random unfortunate who had a sick buddy.

As it turned out, Thomson was planning on lecturing them instead of having them do anything, and once John realized he had a vague idea of what was going on, he tuned out. Instead he took the opportunity to study this strange girl a little more closely.

The pixie cut suited her. She had fine features, and little wisps of blond hair tickled high cheekbones. Her skin was fair and looked a little shiny around the forehead and nose. She could probably use a less greasy moisturizer, he thought, frowning and wondering whether to bring it up. Probably not. People didn't like hearing such things, he'd learned. She was wearing tight jeans, Levi's definitely, and a billowing white shirt, baggy but cut well enough to show her figure off anyway. Forever 21? Maybe. Could be Abercrombie. Whatever, it was definitely better than the J.C. Penney button-down his mother made him wear to school. The most striking thing about her was those eyes — true indigo, not blue, almost purple and heavily outlined in black kohl pencil.

Suddenly, she turned and seeing him looking at her, grimaced and rolled her eyes. Normally, John would have blushed to be caught watching someone, but her reaction was so natural that he only grinned.

"Something funny, Mr. Bird?" Thomson barked from the front of the classroom.

"No, sir," responded John automatically. "Sorry, sir."

He bent over his notebook until Thomson's focus had switched elsewhere, and then he sneaked another glance at Aureus. Weird name. As she concentrated on writing, he could see a soft swelling of flesh where the neck of her shirt gaped open. Feeling his face getting hot, he looked away but couldn't help looking again, his eyes drawn to a thin band of pink lace.

Okay, so he knew it was normal to look at girls. He was almost fifteen, for God's sake. But sometimes he wondered. He'd seen the leering looks on his classmates' faces, but he didn't know how to emulate them. He'd definitely seen the random erections boys tried hard to cover with notebooks, but frankly, he didn't have them. It was something he worried about — of course it was, but his mom said he was merely a late developer. Not that he'd discussed the issue in depth with her, of course. Maybe he was. The little strip of pink lace moved up and down as Aureus sighed next to him, her pen scratching over her notebook. It wasn't so much he didn't like girls. He did like girls. Very much. He liked everything about them: the way they smelled, the way their skin looked so soft, the way their hair fluttered as they walked down the hallways. It was just ... just what? Dammit. He tore his eyes away from the pink lace and forced himself to take notes. He wasn't going to look again. He wasn't.

He looked seven more times before the bell rang.

"Hey, do you have lunch next period?" Aureus asked, shuffling her papers together.

"Yeah," he said, clicking his pen closed and avoiding eye contact.

"Sweet. Listen, I've got a guidance counselor appointment today, but you wanna have lunch tomorrow?"

She smiled so hopefully that he nodded, and she grinned before wriggling her fingers in a goodbye motion and walking away. Huh. There'd be no lunch tomorrow. Well, there would, but it would be the same old sandwich in the school library for him. She'd figure out how things worked around here soon enough.

* * *

The rest of the day dragged along as it normally did. He took the front seat in the school bus home, hoping to avoid confrontation by being close to the driver. But the other kids were too busy talking about some stupid football game to pay attention to him anyway. He was the only one who got off at his stop, stepping out into the humid afternoon heat, feeling the air wrap around him like a blanket and causing sweat to bead on his forehead. He smelled the pine needles that covered the planting beds in the yards of the houses on his street, the sharp tangy scent of sun on tarmac. The road burned through the soles of his sneakers, and the back of his shirt was already soaked with perspiration under his backpack. But he was almost home.

He debated with himself while he walked as to whether or not he should open the box today. It had been a relatively good day, and he usually opened it on good days. There had been the incident with Aureus's bra. Maybe his peeking wasn't so good. He felt a fluttering in his chest as he thought about pulling the box out from under his bed, and his mouth was almost watering as he imagined tugging off the lid. Yes, he decided. Yes, he was going to open it today. He skipped a step and then quickened his pace to get home even faster, the box already calling to him.

"Hey, kiddo," said a voice from the kitchen as he opened the front door.

Crap. Devon. What the hell was he doing home?

"Don't look so happy to see me!" John's big brother said, coming out of the kitchen and leaning his athletic body against the doorframe.

"I'm just surprised, that's all," said John, dropping his backpack to the floor. "Thought you had practice after school today."

He pushed past his brother into the kitchen, pulling a glass from an overhead cabinet and opening the fridge. There went his chance of a little privacy.

"Cancelled today," Devon said, reaching over John's shoulder and grabbing the carton of juice he'd been about to take himself. "Coach went to have a tooth pulled."

John grunted. Having his special afternoon ruined by some other guy's aching mouth didn't seem fair to him. Then, he smiled as he saw that Devon was pouring juice into glasses for both of them. In truth, he liked his big brother. Always had. Devon might be bigger and better and brighter and everything John was beginning to think he wasn't, but he was also a decent guy. No people bullied John when Devon was around, and if they tried, he kicked their asses.

"Sucks to be him," John said, accepting his juice.

"But rocks to be me," said Devon, draining his own glass in one huge gulp. "I'm gonna go hit the PlayStation for a while till Mom gets home. Wanna play?"

John took a swallow of juice and considered. If Devon was going to be otherwise occupied, then maybe he could open the box after all. Even for a minute or so.

"Nah," he said, as casually as he could muster. "I gotta start a chem report. Maybe later."

"Suit yourself," said Devon, putting his empty glass down and clapping his hand on John's shoulder. "Don't study too hard. And let me know if you need any help. Thomson's reports can be a bastard."

John listened until he heard the thumping of feet going down the stairs into the basement recreation room, then finished his drink, waiting for the sound of the game console to start. Once he was satisfied Devon was really playing, he put both empty glasses into the sink and retrieved his backpack.

His heart was thumping again as he went up the stairs. The door to his room was closed as when he'd left this morning. He opened it, ditched his pack next to his desk, and turned back to shut himself in. His room was small, with barely enough space for a single bed and desk, but it was his. It didn't look like much — the walls were bare, and few personal objects lay scattered around, but John knew his most precious possessions were all there. They were hidden out of sight. He kicked off his sneakers and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the bed. He took a deep breath to cleanse himself for the familiar ritual. Then, he began.

First, he snaked his hands under the frame of the bed until they found the square corners of the box. Slowly, very slowly, he pulled it towards him, his breathing quickening as he heard the sound of cardboard whispering against carpet fibers. Once it was fully revealed, he again took a deep breath, admiring the sharp lines, the undented corners. He'd been very careful with the box. He tried hard not to think about what was inside. Sometimes he promised himself he was never going to open it again. Or late at night when he was most afraid and confused, he thought he might throw it away — find a dumpster behind a restaurant and simply ditch the thing for good. But he always came back to it.

The box made him feel ... good. Good in a very indefinable way. Good in a way he didn't like to think about too much. He deliberately never analyzed his feelings about the container and its contents. He didn't want to. He was afraid of what he might find out about himself. He simply knew the box somehow satisfied him, made him feel calmer inside, if only for a moment or two.

He placed his hands on either side of the lid. This had to be done properly. He would close his eyes and slowly raise the top, lifting it straight up, then placing it on the bed. Only when the lid was stowed away would he open his eyes and let them feast on the contents, revealed in their entirety. One more deep breath, and it was time. Concentrate, he told himself.

He was concentrating so hard that he didn't register what was happening until it was too late to stop it.

"Hey, bro, want a sandwich?" Devon's voice said.

And the bedroom door swung open exactly as the contents of the box were revealed.

His brother's eyes didn't immediately catch the box. "Bro, sandwich?"

John saw Devon half turn towards the door before looking back.

"What ...? What the hell? Dude, what?"

If he hadn't been so consumed with the heaviness of being caught, John might have laughed at the look of complete confusion on Devon's face. His brow furrowed, his eyes flicked from the box to John and back again.

"Bro ..."

John unfroze. With sweaty, hasty hands, he grabbed for the box lid, struggling to jam it back on, damaging the box as he did so. The door clicked behind him, and for a second he thought Devon was gone. Then, he felt a cool hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, man, calm down," said Devon quietly. "Chill."

John stayed his hands, letting them drop to the carpet in front of him.

"Move over, man. Let me sit."

Obediently, he shuffled slightly to the left and felt the warmth of Devon's arm brush his own as his brother sat beside him.

"Look, you're not in any trouble or anything, so chill out." Devon's voice was quiet and calm, soothing.

John was silent, his gaze fixed on the box, the contents half showing. His precious things were ruined now, ruined because they were secret, and now they weren't. Again the heaviness bubbled up into his stomach. He could hardly breathe.

"Now, what's in the box, bro? Shall we have a look?"

Shards of white cold fear stabbed through him, the pain pushing him out of his silence. "It's ... it's secret." He stumbled over the words, the S in secret too sibilant, his pitch too high.

"Man, I'd never tell anyone your secrets — you know that." Devon's voice came from next to him. "And sometimes it helps to share your secrets. Makes it a lighter load, you know?"

He knew Devon was right. He knew if anyone would keep his secret, it would be his brother, but the problem was that this was such a secret it was secret even from himself. Opening the box brought up ... issues, as his mother would call them. Issues were anything from a pregnant student at Sandton High to the mixed-race couple who lived down the street. Issues were things you talked about only in hushed whispers if at all. Issues were not things that happened in this family. Issues were ... insurmountable. And yet ... here a sudden hope sprang up in John's chest. Maybe Devon was right in another way. Maybe Devon would laugh and tell him this was all normal and have an explanation, something everyone else knew, but he didn't. Devon was older and smarter, and maybe — just maybe — he would know exactly what to do.

It was this welling of hope that made John lift the lid of the box. He half-closed his eyes in deference to his old ritual, but he still saw Devon's hands hesitating over the contents before beginning to take them out one by one.

First came the blouse. It was the oldest item in his collection, and he'd saved it from the rag bag at his cousin's house. Blue with white trim around the collar, it was soft and faded. Then there was the skirt — denim, flounced and short, found in a sack of clothes his aunt had given his mother, accidentally included among the boy jeans and sweaters. There was more. Pink socks. A Monster High t-shirt. Another blouse, white this time, with delicate embroidery on the chest. And finally, a long strand of orange beads. As Devon pulled out the beads, the sound of them rattling together made John's hands ache to touch them, to feel them slipping through his fingers.

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Excerpted from My Ladybird Story by Magus Tor. Copyright © 2015 Magus Tor. Excerpted by permission of Magus Tor.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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