Beeeep! Beeeep! Beeeeep! Beeeep!

Please let me sleep in five more minutes, Tracy groans as she hits the snooze button on the clock by her bed. She buries her face in her pillow in a vain attempt to drown out the familiar hum of cars and trucks as they pass by her street, the anthem of the morning commute. Robins chirp in the background. She wishes she could take the day off and pour a cup of coffee, maybe lounge on the loveseat in the den while she watches the birds congregate at the feeder her dad installed in the back a few months ago.

But it’s not to be. She glances at the clock. Five thirty. In a little under an hour the school bus will pull up and gaggles of teenagers large and small will file in, beginning a ritual that will be repeated several times over. She won’t be one of them. That’s the good thing about being able to drive in a beat up old Honda. Not having to listen to twenty some odd spoiled brats talk about nothing for forty five minutes is one of the rare privileges of being a rising senior in one of the most prestigious high schools in the South.

It’s no small achievement. Yet even in the face of such accomplishments, it’s hard for Tracy to see the upside. She kicks the covers off, thoughts of dread racing through her head like dragsters on a speedway as she brushes the bangs out of her eyes and pushes the bridge of her glasses against her nose. She grabs a clean pair of panties and an undershirt from the dresser and disappears into the bathroom, shrinking from the prospect of seeing her reflection in the mirror.

And for good reason, too. Instead of seeing a vibrant, average-looking yet smart young woman, she spies a short, ginger, geeky mess. The type who is the last to be picked for the volleyball team, the person singled out for exclusion whether it is in the cafeteria or the locker room. It’s bad enough that the other girls tease her about the size of her breasts, or her stubby legs, or the way she speaks. But to have to endure it five days a week for four years isn’t just a fact of life. It’s torture.

The thought haunts her as she gets ready to go through it yet again. But true to form, Tracy pushes it out of her mind. Even as she slips into her faded blue jeans, knowing what awaits her in home room, she concentrates on other things, like her National Merit Honor Scholarship, her award-winning poetry, her plans to attend Harvard and put the last several years behind her, for good. The jocks and the cheerleaders and the delinquents and the members of the school band would never get that chance.

Even as she pours her coffee into her thermos and clamors into the car, she’s distracted by thoughts of the here and now. As she merges into the bumper to bumper traffic, she gazes out at the cars stretching out across the horizon, an armada of automobiles transporting their human cargo to the battlefields of commerce, corporate warriors waging the fight to earn their keep. The line seems to go on for an eternity, an apt metaphor, not just for them but for her entire life. She manages to pull into the parking lot of Bentley High School, with time to spare before opening bell. Most days it’d be a lot hairier. A note of pride swells in Tracy’s chest as she spots her allotted space in the back of the school. She slings her backpack over her shoulder and strides towards the building’s doors, savoring the small victory.

“Ten minutes ‘til.” The burly security guard greets her as she walks through the metal detector. “Tryin’ to beat the world record, huh, Ms. Elgin?”

Tracy grunts.

“What’s wrong, wrong time of the month or somethin’?”

Fuck you, she wants to snap back, but all that would do is earn her a spot on the school’s shit list, along with those kids who called in the bomb threat last year and the boy who accidentally left his hunting rifle in his truck. She shakes her head. The more things change...

Something hard brushes against her shoulder as she walks down the hall.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” A female voice intones.

Tracy spins around.

“Well if it isn’t Colleen Hanna, captain of the cheerleading team. Are you still trying to be the next Debbie Does Dallas, or have you gotten tired of the football team too?”

Colleen smiles politely.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not deaf, Colleen. I hear the rumors in the cafeteria. I understand there’s a video going around. Puerto Vallarta, 2006. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Colleen brushes a hand through her platinum blond hair.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Tracy. You know how it is these days, with the YouTube and the MySpace and what not. Gossip’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

If only there was a way for Tracy to wipe the smirk off the poor girl’s face. Yet all she can do is ball her fists, smile and pretend to be civil, as if there’s anything civil about the cheerleader anyway. Lord knows she has it coming to her. Good luck getting anything to stick. Colleen’s like Ironclad—nothing but steel and Teflon. Knowing her, she should have her own line of pots and pans in the store, right next to those little stripper poles the soccer moms love to buy these days.

“Now if you excuse me.” Colleen grins. “I’m late for home room.”

As bad as it is running into her, its worse having to sit in a room of thirty-odd students of every race, nationality and background, doing everything they can not to acknowledge each other. Every possible group and cliché is packed in this tiny little space. Rockers. Punks. Art fags. Jocks.

Normally, Tracy would bury her face in her notebook of poems and ignore all of them, especially the jocks. But as fate has it, her eye catches the sight of the tall, older boy a couple of rows in front of her, harsh phosphorescent light illuminating his ten gallon hat. A boy destined to become a household name in this small community of fifty thousand, just as his father and grandfather had.

Everybody knows Horatio “Hank” Brisby as the Miracle Worker. The Bentley Tigers damn near owe the state championship to him, thanks in no small part to an impressive 18-0 record that has people calling it the best undefeated team this side of forever. Smart money says he’ll turn pro as soon as he gets to college, and even the dumbest gambler in the state wouldn’t put it past him to have a Super Bowl ring on his finger in the next decade. Naturally, he gets his pick of the girls in school—especially the cheerleaders. His fondness for a certain captain of the cheerleading squad is legendary.

Why Tracy would give two farts about them is beyond her. Yet even as she gazes at him, she notices something strange in his hands. Not just anything...a thick book.

No really, it’s thick.

Bet Colleen doesn’t know.

But before she can process that thought, the bell rings. She shuffles off to first period, backpack in tow, trying to forget about him. So begins a pattern that continues throughout the day, she trying not to remember the sight of him even as it invades her mind. Fortunately, the rest of the student body mistakes her flushed face for a break out of Resaca.

Driving home in the afternoon, her eyes tear up as she thinks of the quiet jock and the brassy cheerleader, hugging. Kissing...

Fucking.

Anger wells up in her. As she stands in front of the mirror at night, she cups her breasts and imagines his arms all over her, exploring feeling, touching.

If only there was a way I could get his attention...

If only.