Alibi Junior High by Greg Logsted

here…you want to talk now?”
    I stare at my shoes and sneakers lying on the floor. They’re scattered around like bodies. I see the waitress winking at me again. I can see her face, her smile, the way she lifted her little pinkie while she poured my dad’s coffee.
    I clear my throat. The words flow out of my mouth like water from a broken pipe. I’ve got no control over them; they’re rushing to be free. My voice sounds strange, almost like it’s not mine.
    “Me and my dad were at this café in Santiago…”
    I tell her the whole story, everything I can remember. When I get to the end, to the part where I find the waitress lying next to me, my voice starts to crack, and before I even know what’s happening I’m crying, crying like I haven’t cried in years.
    I feel the door being pushed with gentle force against myback and I give in to it. A moment later Jenny is sitting next to me, tears flowing down her face. She holds me tight; her hands are rubbing and patting my back. I close my eyes and sink into her.
    For the moment, I feel safe and warm.

EYES
     
    When I first looked into Renee Carrington’s eyes—those big, beautiful brown eyes—I realized I had to spend as much time as possible with her. Whenever Mrs. Smith says something stupid or misguided I’ve learned to just let it slide so I can spend more time next to this special girl.
    I discreetly watch her every move. I listen to her conversations with her friend Fiona. I study her extensive doodles, her colorful clothes, and focus on her odd comments in class. Like when Mrs. Smith asked her to explain the importance of the free press in a democratic society and she said, “It’s like having a menu that lets you know what every restaurant in town is serving.”
    I notice the different ways she styles her hair, holds her pen, and taps her fingers on her desk like she’s playing an invisiblepiano. I notice that she laughs at things the rest of the class doesn’t find funny, gets sad about stuff nobody seems to care about, and is excited by what others find boring.
    For the last week I’ve spent most of my time in class thinking about the best way to talk to her. Should I just introduce myself? Ask her about homework? Give her something? Write her a note? Hack into her computer? Everything I come up with feels really lame. I blame my clothes. They say clothes make the man; well these clothes make me feel like an insecure, tongue-tied boy. I miss my suits. I always felt confident wearing a suit.
    The bell rings and another opportunity to talk to her seems to be slipping away. I can almost feel the floor moving beneath me. She’s walking out the door with a quick, purposeful stride.
    I pick up my books as another wave of disappointment washes over me. I wish I could talk to her. What’s wrong with me? It has to be the clothes. These baggy, pocket-crazed pants are messing with my mind. I glance at her desk. It’s only a few feet away from me. It would be so easy to reach out and touch her. Why is it so hard to just talk to her?
    Then I notice the notebook. Her notebook. It’s on the floor next to her desk. She brought her art project to class today; it’s some kind of weird kite-type thing. Between juggling the artwork and her books, it’s not surprising something was left behind.
    Here’s my chance. I snatch it off the floor and dash toward the door after her.
    “Cody.”
    I look over at Mrs. Smith. I don’t believe it. What does she want and why does she want it now ?
    “Yes, Mrs. Smith.”
    She gives me a smile. “I just wanted to say that I’ve noticed a change in your attitude. It’s nice to see that you’ve decided to try harder in class.”
    “I’m not trying any harder.” I can see the clock over her shoulder and I swear that second hand is mocking me. “I’m just trying hard not to get kicked out of class.”
    She has a slightly puzzled look etched across her face. “I see…perhaps we might consider this a turning