Backshift-Replay by Judy Colella (books for students to read .TXT) 📕

I found my Sociology class, and had no problems other than boredom with the juvenile displays of rebellion from several of my new classmates. No one bothered me, though. The teacher, Mr. Feldsohn, a youngish man who insisted on being called by his first name (Miles), was nice enough and seemed invested in the subject.

But then came lunch. Some things simply don’t change, regardless of time or place, regardless of similarities or differences. High school cafeteria politics is one of them. Like I once had in the previous version of my junior year, I stood with my tray of horrible food, staring out at the sea of tables and their occupants, wondering which one I should try and join. Regardless of my newer, more confident self, I could still fall victim to rejection; those at the table I chose might leave the moment I sat down, making clear their disapproval.

Then again, why would anyone disapprove – other than…Nicole, was it? I headed into the noisy pond, making silence ripples as I passed. A few tables ahead sat the girl who’d been crushing on me in math class, and my decision was made. I parked myself at the nearest one, refusing to look in her direction, certain she had spotted me. The kids at this table stopped talking and eating to stare at me with widened eyes.

“Hi. I’m Tosca. New here. Hope you don’t mind.” I gave them what I hoped would come across as a friendly glare. One could never show fear in these circumstances, I knew.

The young man beside me swiveled about, his gaze doing the up-and-down thing I was beginning to find more irritating than I ever had before. “You a senior?”

“Junior. Why?”

“This is a senior table.”

I nodded, glancing around. “Don’t see a beard. No sign, either.” I picked up my burger.

“Where are you from?” asked the girl sitting opposite.

“Colonia.”

Blank stares I pretended not to notice, followed a moment later by, “Is that in America?”

I nodded. My mouth was full of hamburger – better-tasting than I’d expected – and managed a crooked smile.

“You into sports?” This from the boy sitting next to the girl.

I swallowed. “You guys wanna give me your names so I don’t keep thinking of you as ‘that chick,’ ‘that dude,’ or ‘the one with the green shirt’ kind of thing?”

“Chris,” said the one beside me who was still checking out my body. The clothes I’d found in the closet that morning may have been appropriate for the time, but all of it came from the land of “daring,” leaving little to anyone’s imagination as to my endowments. I may be tall with an almost boyish figure, but my “girls” were exceptional.

“China,” said the girl, who looked more like glass – delicate, small of stature, and beautiful.

“Aramis,” said the one beside her, adding, “like the Musketeer, so yeah, no need to ask.” He grinned.

On China’s other side was a girl who looked like she might be close to my height, but was muscular in a more bulky way. I raised an eyebrow at her.

“Deanna.”

The young man who was blocked by Chris leaned forward to stare at me. “Will you have sex with me?” He gave me a hopeful smile. “My name is Chase and I do my best to live up to that.”

I nearly choked. “Wow. Okay, no. But thanks for asking.”

Chris, who had hooted with laughter at his table-mate’s question, started pounding him on the back. “You’re sick!” He kept laughing, making it clear this was a compliment.

Unbelievable. Funny, but unbelievable. I finished my meal in silence, the grin I wore controlled but involuntary. The five friends continued their conversation, and when I got up to leave, thanked me for joining them. I had no idea why.

And then Chase stood up. He was the same height as me, maybe a half-inch taller. “I wasn’t joking,” he said, running a finger down the side of my face.

For real? I thought. “Neither was I.” I put a hand on his, and lowered it. “You’re probably very nice, but I don’t know you. I also doubt you could keep up with me.” Don’t know why I’d thrown that one out there, perhaps the hormones of youth were beginning to have a party with my flirting mechanism. Whatever. Horrified with myself and not wanting Chase to realize that, I turned away and walked off. Behind me I heard cheers and laughter, peppered with a few expletives dressed in appreciation.

And you were saying WHAT about me?

Shut up, Shadow. Where are you?

On your right, heading out the door. See me?

N…oh. There you are. Wait up.

Don’t tell me you’ve started flirting, too, Tosca!

All right, Niam. I won’t. And don’t you start, too. You guys spying on me or something? I reached Shadow, whose grin was infuriating.

“Something,” Niam said, joining us.

“Hi, Shadow.” A girl whose head was only a few inches higher than his waist gave him a smile and a blush, then a quick look of terror at me, ignored Niam, and went past us into the hall.

“Looks like you’ve been busy, too. Where are your next classes, guys?”

“I swear I didn’t do anything.” Shadow took the map from his pocket, the paper badly folded and wrinkly. “Uh…yeah.” He opened it, then pointed at a spot on the paper. “One floor up. I think Niam has the same one.” He directed a questioning look at the Irishman.

“Yup. We’d better get going. They don’t seem to give us much time in between to get places.” Niam, who had been holding his backpack in one hand, swung it up on to one shoulder. “See you later, Tosca.”

I sighed. “Later.” I had Physical Education next. Not my favorite class. At all. Ever. In any life. I was strong, yes, and did a lot of exercise, but sports? Hated them. My area of expertise being in the martial arts, I figured I would find regular gym class as big a bore as algebra.

Among the papers we’d been given, were all kinds of instructions about the social norms of the time, together with information on what was expected in school. This included protocols for Physical Education, or P.E. Even though I hadn’t known that morning what classes I’d be taking, I didn’t want to take the chance we’d have this one, and be unprepared. So after throwing on my regular outfit – what was the deal with these crazy skinny jeans? Holy cow! And the flimsy yet form-fitting tops that didn’t work well with a bra? – I had stuffed a pair of black shorts, a yellow tee-shirt, ankle socks, and a pair of athletic shoes into the backpack. Good thing.

By the time I found the locker room on the far side of the gymnasium, most of the other girls were in their P.E. wear. I was shown an unused locker, and without thinking, stripped.

The fact that I had no undergarments on didn’t mean anything to me, but it seemed to mean something to the others. I heard gasps and turned around, still stark naked. “Is there a problem?”

At first no one spoke, but then one of them, whose name I later learned was Kish, said, “Damn, girl! You are one brave bitch!” She laughed, taking the insult out of the term. “Then again, if I had a body like that, I’d probably be brave, too!”

Bemused, I gave her a lopsided grin, turned back around, and got dressed. The shorts, I discovered, were as tight as the jeans. Great. Sighing again (something I was doing a lot of that day), I ruffled my hair with one hand, tossed my clothes, shoes, and backpack into the locker, and headed out behind the rest of the class.

The P.E. teacher was a large man with a tight set of abs and a pleasant face. The minute he saw me, I knew he wanted to get to know me a whole lot better. My older self was flattered and interested. My younger self was revolted. This was going to be an interesting class, I told myself, one in which I would probably find out which of my “selves” was stronger. I returned the teacher’s smile, and told him my name.

“Welcome to Dickson, Miss Blane.” He put out a hand.

Looking directly into his eyes (we were the same height), I took it. “Thanks. And you are?”

“Oh! Sorry! George Schlicting. Nice to meet you.”

“You, too, but you should probably stop shaking my hand now. Someone might notice.”

His eyes widened and he let go, cleared his throat, and looked past me, the movement self-conscious.

Containing a laugh, I turned away and went toward the class, which had begun doing sit-ups. I had to assume this was how George – Mr. Schlicting, I corrected myself – started every class. I lay down on my back, hands behind my head, and did my own version of the same exercise. This consisted of a rapid rise-and-fall motion in which I twisted to touch my right knee with my left elbow, then the opposite. I had done about a hundred when I realized I was the only one still on the floor, and stopped.

“Impressive,” Schlicting murmured.

Standing, I shrugged. “We were pushed pretty hard at my last school. Sorry.”

“Damn.” Kish again.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry – what’s your name? I’m Tosca.”

She told me, and over the course of the class that day, we somehow became friends.

As we were leaving the gym for the locker room, Schlicting called for me to wait. He trotted up to me as the last of the other girls was leaving. “Hey, listen. About before, I don’t – ”

“I know what you want.” I had interrupted to spare him from embarrassing himself by making an ingenuous remark. “We’ll see.” A brief smile, and I left.

Behind me, utter silence. I was ever so glad my fellow Shifters had been nowhere about. For real.

Publication Date: 03-22-2015

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