Teen Phantom

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  To Tony DiSanto, for his generous, creative spirit

  ONE

  Chris

  Well, Toto, we are not in Manhattan anymore.

  Late. I was perpetually late. Even if this time it wasn’t my fault. Hollow Pines High’s computer equipment apparently ran on a prehistoric network, and now, having finally sorted out my schedule, I’d managed to completely miss first period.

  I stumbled bleary-eyed out of the administration office into the middle of first-to-second-period traffic. I adjusted the shoulder strap of my leather satchel, gripping it until my knuckles went white, and pushed my black-rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of my nose.

  First stop, physical education. I could do this. So what if I was the new kid? People would be friendly. This was the South after all. That was basically what they were known for, wasn’t it?

  I stepped out into the busy hallway and immediately got knocked sideways by a guy in faded jeans and steel-toe boots.

  I doubled over, nursing a sharp jab to my ribs. I held my hand up in a halfhearted wave. “Sorry about that. New here,” I said.

  “Nice hat,” the boy said without stopping to see whether his impact had caused any internal bleeding.

  My hand moved self-consciously to the droopy beanie on my head, noticing that, unlike back home, nobody was wearing one. Okay, so it was almost ninety degrees out, but this was a whole look. A fashion choice. That mattered.

  Except, as I took in my surroundings, it was mainly letterman jackets, denim, and sweat-stained ball caps as far as the eye could see. And I wasn’t exactly blending in as much as I’d planned.

  I moved deeper into the school, a labyrinth of orange, black, and white posters telling me all the year’s activities I could join, events I wouldn’t go to, and lists of awards won by people I didn’t know. Back in New York, I would have been on those lists. I would have been making homecoming plans and looking forward to the fall dance. On top of that, I would have been attending opening nights for my dad’s shows and rubbing elbows—figuratively, at least—with Tony Award–winning actors and Pulitzer Prize–winning playwrights. I would have been in the mix. The center of it all. Leave it to me to have ruined all that.

  I was, above all, a world-class idiot.

  I exhaled a long breath, missing the anonymity of the big-city hustle with a throb that ached painfully in my chest. Right, gym, though, I remembered, bringing myself back to the small-town high school bustle that I was going to have to grow accustomed to sooner or later.

  At the trophy case, I had a choice: right or left. I tapped a girl on the shoulder as she passed. She had silky, shoulder-length hair and a friendly, round-cheeked face. “Excuse me,” I said. “Could you help me—”

  She startled, cutting off the animated conversation she’d been having with her friend. She narrowed her eyes and pulled away like I had a rare skin disease. “Look, don’t touch, ’kay?” she said with obvious attitude.

  I swallowed hard. “I—I’m, um, sorry. So sorry,” I stammered and stuck my hands in my pockets just to be safe.

  Great, start, Chris. Top-notch so far, truly. I spun in place, trying to dodge the throng of people walking in all directions. I should be able to handle finding the gym. I was smart. I’d gone to see The Crucible before I was eight. Hell, I was from New York. I could figure out a simple high school floor plan.

  I remembered the advice I’d given to my cousin, Ollie, the first time he’d visited me at our apartment on the Upper East Side: When in doubt, choose a direction and walk confidently toward it. You’ll be looking like a local in no time.

  I chose left. At least until I dead-ended into an auditorium. For a moment, I stared through the windowpanes cut into the auditorium doors, at the red chairs and blue carpeted aisle, and thought about the new season of show openings I’d be missing back home. Then, the warning bell sounded, and I wrenched myself back in the other direction, hightailing it to the other end of the school.

  By the time I found the elusive gymnasium and the boys’ locker room, the crowd in the halls had already started to thin. I tugged the fingerprint-streaked door handle and entered a locker room that smelled predictably of sweat and mildew. That part was the same as back home anyway.

  “Hey,” I nodded at a few guys lacing up their sneakers. “Hi, I’m Chris.” I patted my chest. “Hi.” Most of the guys barely looked up at my rushed greetings and were already busy filtering into the gym.

  I found a stack of washed uniforms waiting in a bin and selected one that looked the cleanest, carrying my collection to the nearest pine bench where I could find an open locker. I quickly started unbuckling my belt, yanking off my beanie, and shoving my belongings inside.

  A sharp laugh came from behind me, and I felt the prickle of recognition that the laugh was aimed at me. “Is that a man purse?” a voice asked.

  I turned to see a boy with a barrel chest and sandy hair that curled around his ears staring at me. He was wearing a baggy PE uniform and scuffed sneakers, but I thought the denim and sweat-stained ball cap were more than implied.

  “Um, no.” I pulled the bag off the floor and propped it against my knee, patting the leather affectionately. “It’s actually a satchel. It’s unisex,” I said, shrugging, though I wasn’t loving the hint of toxic masculinity, to be completely frank.

  “Dude.” His friend—long nose and patch of hair growing on his chin—pointed at my pants, which struck me as not very Southern or charming, and I felt a corresponding wave of disappointment. “You are wearing skinny jeans.”

  “Yeah, but at least I’m in the middle of taking them off?” I tried the joke. It bombed. It wasn’t very good anyway.

  The first boy folded his arms. “Where are you from?” He asked with a hint of suspicion like I could either be an alien or a terrorist and thank god he was here to get to the bottom of this.

  But I was grateful for the icebreaker. “The City, actually,” I said.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Which city?”

  “Oh, uh, New York … City.”

  The other boy scoffed. “Yeah, like that’s the only one.”

  I winced. “Okay, I’m sorry.” I held out my hand. “I feel like we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. I’m Christopher.” Why did I say Christopher? No one calls me Christopher. I didn’t even call myself Christopher. The image of a plane spiraling into the ground didn’t feel too far off base.

  The sandy-haired boy stared down his nose at my lingering hand but didn’t take it. “Okay, then,” he said, in a slow drawl. “We’ll see you in there. Christopher.”

  “Chris is fine!” I called after them but the door was already closing behind them. “Perfect. I think that went well.” I nodded tersely to myself, then began undressing. I pulled the orange shorts up to my waist, noticing that they stopped halfway up my thighs to reveal thin legs that were an arresting shade of white.

  A coach opened the door and screeched his whistle. “Last c
all. Hurry up, stragglers.”

  A boy with an inhaler trotted past me and out the door. I took one last look at my knobby knees and jogged out after him to where a group of boys and girls were milling around on the basketball court.

  I didn’t want to be self-centered, but it was impossible not to notice people staring at my electric white legs and, honestly, who could blame them? It was like someone had shined a black light on them; that was how unbelievably pale I was.

  In Manhattan, there weren’t a lot of occasions for shorts and sunbathing, but judging by the rest of the class’s less vampiric complexions, sun was actually a thing here. Fantastic.

  I gave tight-lipped smiles to anyone with whom I accidentally made eye contact.

  The coach—who introduced himself as Coach Carlson—blew his whistle again in two sharp bursts. “Listen up!” He clapped his hands. He was big on loud noises. “We are going to be running a timed mile today to get a baseline for everyone’s school year progress. Sound good? Good. I need everyone lined up on the track in five minutes. Failure to do so will result in a mark of tardy.” He twirled the whistle string around his knuckle until the tip of his finger turned purple from lack of circulation. “Now, hop to it!”

  I perked up. Running I could do. In fact, my best friend and I went running in Central Park almost every weekend. As we all converged toward the door, I felt a shift in my day’s fortune. Yes, the day had gotten off to a rocky start, but here was an activity I wouldn’t embarrass myself doing. I could get back on track—pun totally intended—and that was critical because making my stint at Hollow Pines High a success wasn’t optional. My options were here, living with my aunt and uncle two thousand miles away from home … or military school. And I’d already done the math and concluded I wasn’t cut out for army boots, mess halls, and a life without Starbucks.

  I followed the class out to the football field and the ring of black Tartan track that surrounded it. Bleachers stretched high above us on either side, and the sentinels of unlit stadium lights loomed lifelessly.

  It took the students an inordinate amount of time to arrange ourselves in an orderly manner, reminding me of rush hour traffic while trying to shove into the L train. My goal was to take up as little room as possible and avoid pointy elbows.

  My shoulder pressed against a girl much shorter than I was and with freckles dashed across her nose and forehead. “I usually offer to buy dinner first,” I said. She stared up at me blankly. I cleared my throat. “Sorry, bad icebreaker.” Aware of how many times I’d apologized in one morning, I was eager to press on. “I’m new to Hollow Pines. Chris,” I said.

  I was immediately struck with the reality of how easy I’d had it back in New York. I’d been going to the same posh private school since fourth grade.

  “Yeah,” she said, without smiling. “I saw you in the admin office earlier. I could tell.”

  I grinned. “Oh yeah, what gave it away?”

  “Well, you kind of dress like a barista,” she said.

  My mouth clamped shut. At that moment, Coach Carlson blew his whistle, and I had no problem taking off running without another word. For the record, I had once applied to work at Starbucks for the employee discount, and I hadn’t even gotten hired.

  I rolled my eyes at my own internal thoughts. What did it matter? I wasn’t here to make droves of friends. I wasn’t here to be popular. Would it be nice not to hop aboard the first train to Loser Station? Sure. But the most important thing was to keep my head down and follow my Chris Autry Patented Rules for Staying Out of Military School.

  Then, in two years, after graduation, maybe my father would forget that I was no longer “good” for his “reputation,” and I’d be on the first plane back to Manhattan with its late-night sushi dinners, endless Chinese take-out choices, and a new show opening every week.

  Not that I was obsessing or anything.

  After the first half lap, I felt my heart rate begin to climb. It had been a few weeks since I’d last gone running, and I felt the stiffness in my legs, the way my quads felt like they had knots in them that needed undoing. But gradually, my breathing fell into a rhythm, and I moved up to the front of the pack by the time we looped around.

  Pretty soon, I was relaxing into my pace. This was what I enjoyed about running, the way it freed up my brain, releasing all the unimportant stuff to make room for the essentials. Oxygen, muscle, blood flow. Those were all that existed. The present.

  While I could have easily passed the front-runners, I lagged slightly behind them, reminding myself that I didn’t need to stand out. Instead, I took in my surroundings. It wasn’t so bad, was it? Okay, yeah, the team name was the Oilers and that totally went against every eco-friendly fiber in my being, but the school’s banners and trophy case promised rowdy football games, pep rallies, the quintessential American high school experience. Surely there was something romantic in that.

  Just as I was finishing the third lap, I spotted a girl crossing the lawn to the school. The sun lit up her auburn hair, forming a halo of warm light. Her milky skin seemed to give off an angelic glow as she clutched a stack of papers to a pale pink sweater-vest. My chest squeezed involuntarily.

  I rounded the bend of the track, but unable to resist, I craned my neck back for one last glimpse of the girl whose face looked like it might belong better in a Jane Austen novel than at Hollow Pines High.

  That was when my foot collided with something solid, followed by my chest and by the time I looked forward again, I was already careening into the ground with the barrel-chested, sandy blond Kid from the Locker Room. My arms shoved out in front of me, trying to keep my chin from planting into the track, but I wound up shoving the boy and before I knew it I was half on top of him tangled on the ground. My kneecap scraped cement, sending an instant sting up my leg.

  “What the hell, you psycho!” he yelled.

  I closed my eyes and rolled off him where I lay unmoving, face up, the hot blacktop burning the skin on the backs of my arms. “Sorrryyyyyyyyy,” I said, moaning up at the sky. “I am so sorry.”

  I was, after all, an idiot.

  I listened to footsteps approach. “You alright, John Mark?”

  And then I squinted to see his friend help to peel the Kid from the Locker Room whose name I now knew was John Mark off the track. John Mark was limping slightly. He gave me a nasty look, and neither one of them lent me a hand up, which was fine, because I was seriously considering staying here until my body began to decompose anyway.

  What was wrong with me? I had three rules. One, no girls. Two, no fast cars. And three, absolutely no trouble. The fact that a lingering glance at a pretty girl made me instigate a two-boy pileup was a perfect illustration of why the rules were in place.

  Idiot. Already, my body ached from the fall. Virtually the entire class had passed me. I completed the last lap with the walkers, managing a pathetic shamble on one sore ankle.

  I didn’t need any more time; I was ready to call this as the worst day ever. Surely the folks over at the Guinness Book of World Records would want to know. I finished showering and wrapping a musty old towel around my waist when I opened the locker and found that my clothes were missing. They had to be kidding me.

  No, this couldn’t be happening. Could. Not. Be. Happening.

  It was happening.

  “Really, guys? Nothing more original?” I called, but John Mark and his tweedle-dumber were nowhere in sight.

  I banged my fist against the locker just as Coach Carlson was walking by. “Mr. Autry, you will watch your temper in this class, or you will find yourself in detention.” He pointed a pen at me.

  “Yes, sir.” I rested my forehead against the cool metal. This sucked.

  Think, Chris. So far I had no friends, no clothes, and nowhere to go. I could wear either a gym uniform or a towel for the rest of my first day of classes, and neither one of those options seemed appealing.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. The minutes to third period were ticking by. Joh
n Mark and his friend didn’t reappear, and it was looking less and less like the clothes stealing would turn out to be some sort of good-natured hazing ritual that we’d all share a laugh about in the end.

  I took deep breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth. This was fixable. It had to be fixable.

  And then it came to me. A lightbulb inspiration moment. I’d crossed an auditorium on the way here.

  I turned the thought over in my mind. Where there were auditoriums, there were stages. I should know since all my life I’d practically grown up in theaters. Memories of my producer-father shouting directions at a frightened stage manager flooded in. Countless shows, countless managers, but always my father about to have a coronary leading up to curtain call.

  What mattered now though was that where there were stages, there were costume departments, and where there were costumes maybe, just maybe, there were clothes that fit.

  Reluctantly, I slid back on the sweaty uniform and shoved my wet feet into my sneakers and then waited in one of the bathroom stalls until everyone had left. When I was certain I was alone, I crept out of the stall and through the locker room into the quiet hallway where the dull buzz of an air-conditioning unit dampened the squeaking of my rubber soles.

  I remembered the way back to the auditorium and pressed my face to the door to listen for signs of life. When I could hear no sounds and see no movement, I cautiously cracked open the door and peered inside. The theater was dark. I skulked in between the aisles of folded auditorium chairs toward the stage. There, I climbed the side steps and brushed past the velvet curtains so that I was now backstage.

  It was actually pretty cool being here when no one else was. The ropes and pulley systems hung in the wings. I fumbled around in the dark until I found the switch to one of the dressing room mirrors. The bulbs around the border flickered to life, and I startled when my reflection appeared, staring back at me. Dark, unkempt hair; glasses; a dimple in my chin that made me look like the son of a politician. I swept a damp lock from my forehead.