The Snow Queen of Somerville High (sample)
Sub in homeroom this morning. Mrs. Wolcott must be dead. There isn’t much else that would keep her from wrecking my life and the lives of the people around me. (She teaches bio. Not, shall we say, my best subject.) My scarf finds a home in my backpack. I throw the sub an acknowledging nod. My favorite seat beckons. It’s the one near the window that overlooks the courtyard. The world is turning white. Monday morning and I can’t do anything but grin. Winter’s great. Ignore my classmates’ complaints to the contrary. See, everyone’s weird about something. Some of us just don’t hide it that well. Even in a small town—and Somerville is small—you find stand-outs everywhere you look. Wally Rabuto sings soprano; he also plays halfback. Brianna Palmer can multiply three-digit numbers in her head. Elizabeth Medranda seems boringly normal till you see what she eats. I mean, she beats the banana-Sprite challenge, and knows what goes with seaweed, and at two consecutive meals enjoyed prairie oysters—look ‘em up. And me? I’m not a rebel. I don’t make odd remarks. I’m not a punk or a skater girl or Goth. I’m certainly not the rich kid, or the smart kid, or that one person everyone knows will be famous one day. I’m just the happiest girl, right here, right now. Don’t be fooled. Three seasons out of four I’m sure I pass for your typical teenage American chick. But some girls turn strange when the temperature drops. And in Somerville, New Hampshire, somewhere in the cold and the wet and the muck, you’ll find me. The girl who runs up to her window, and looks at the first falling snow of the winter, and smiles.
You know you’re from New Hampshire when… your snowblower gets stuck on the roof.
I’m beaming at the snowflakes. The sub is calling roll. Alec Purdee is here. Morgan Sampson is here. And me—well, it’s always a kick when people try my name—it’s a new sub, it’s one I haven’t seen before. “Whittaker… Snow?” he burbles, stumbling over pretty much everything. “Here,” I say, and I wait for his joke. “Snow. Is that really your name?” “Yeah,” I say, and wait again for his joke. “Huh,” he says, and that’s it. He must not feel creative.
Dispelling some wintertime myths: The Eskimos don’t actually have all those words for snow you think they have. First off, they just plain don’t. Second, there’s not just one Eskimo language. I could go on.
This is where you ask me, knowing full well I get asked this all the time, if my surname, ah, informed my meteorological tastes. Well, it probably did, but so what? What does that prove? Should that make me love it any less, write the glittering pageant’s effect on me off as a co-inky-dink? I prefer to describe it as destiny. There’s a theory that your name guides your life, like a star sign, but way less made-up. It’s called ‘nominative determinism’, the theory—dentists named Dennis and such. I’m a fan. As for my first name, at least it’s unique. We hear my last name quite a bit around here, and not always spoken with kindness. (Whittaker’s a boy’s name, by the way, but it’s off the beaten track to the point where no one knows that.) Anyway, the new sub’s name is Mr. Newman. I’m not making any of this up. He’s reading the announcements—last day for candy cane orders is today, don’t park in the lower lot ‘cause storms are coming in—when a different kind of new man blows in through the door. He takes off about forty coats before I see him. Bronzed face, almost stupidly tan. Prominent cheekbones. Wet black hair. He’s gorgeous. He’s wheezing. He’s cold. It’s weird to see a tan guy look pale. It’s not a shade often observed among Granite State folk. “I think I’m in the wrong place,” he gasps, and he trots out again to look up at the number on the door. “Nope. Mrs. Wolcott’s room?” Back in again. “That’s right,” says Mr. Newman. “Mrs. Wolcott’s out sick today.” (Good.) “And you are?” “Oh, I’m not in this homeroom—well, I am, but not really yet. I’m new.” He shakes the scraps of left-behind water from his hair, all the snow that caught in there and melted. “I’m Albin, I don’t think you have me.” Albin. That’s an interesting name. Albin’s in my homeroom now. Albin has fierce blue eyes— Jesus, Whittaker, stop.
This concludes the free sample, but you can buy the full story at this link! . . . |