Free Brittany Bends by Kristine Grayson Page A

pool is, there’s a huge auditorium that they use for music and plays and stuff.
    Mom says I’m really lucky to be here, because Superior pays attention to its schools. Even though Superior is a relatively poor community (especially compared to Duluth, across the lake in Minnesota), the entire community makes a point of getting the best education possible for the kids. Apparently, the adults search for grants and special funding and provide all kinds of extra-curricular activities that schools in big cities don’t even have.
    I asked Tiff about her school on the West Coast, and it doesn’t have half the stuff we have at Senior High. Crystal goes to some expensive private school in New York, and it has the same kind of stuff, except some of sports, which are (her word) for “plebes,” whatever that means.
    Mom takes the three of us going to the high school first, because our school is closest to the house. She’ll drive to the elementary school next, and end with the middle school. She calls this carpooling, even though I have no idea why.
    She drops us off near what I think of as the back door. It’s not, really, because it’s right in front of the natatorium. There’s a big open area when you walk in, but this entire part of the school smells like chlorine from the pool.
    When I first came and found out there was a pool, I asked if I could use it. Mom’s been apologizing ever since because she had no idea that I’m part fish. I love to swim, and we missed the deadline to get me on the swim team, although I could join the synchronized swim team if I wanted to. I don’t want to. It looks totally lame to me.
    Still, I love the smell of chlorine, even though I know it’ll mess with my hair. I’ve mostly gone swimming in lakes and rivers and natural settings, which, my gym teacher says, makes me a stronger swimmer than people who just learn in pools. But I have grown fond of the pool since I’ve been here. I go swimming here sometimes on open swim weekends, and I just love it.
    Lots of kids have shown up. They’re all chattering and carrying books and goofing around. They all seem wider awake than I am, and they all seem completely unconcerned by the snow.
    I snuggle into my coat and walk past the wall of windows to the core of the building. My locker is here, away from everything. Eric told me I should get a better locker because I have to walk such a long distance to it, but I figured then (and I still think) that I shouldn’t call attention to myself.
    I pull off my coat and get instantly cold. I’m wearing a pink cable-knit sweater—a fisherman’s sweater, Lise called it when she gave it to me—and my thickest pair of blue jeans. I’m also wearing boots that Eric once called “shit-kickers” when Mom and Karl weren’t around.
    The boots at least are keeping my feet warm.
    I hang my coat on a hook inside my locker. The coat sticks out because it’s so bulky. That’s new. I grab my drama textbook off the top shelf, along with an extra notebook and some pens. Then I shove the coat really hard into the locker and slam the door closed.
    The door bounces open and I feel totally stupid. I shove the coat in harder, and it expands like it fills with air.
    Five boys whose names I don’t know are staring at me. My face heats up. I know I look terrible, with my half-wet hair and bright red skin. I shove the coat inside the locker, and the door still won’t close. I’m tempted to kick that damn door and see if it dents. In fact, I want to kick the door and turn those kids into stone or something. If I still had my magic, they’d understand how terrible it is just to stare at someone.
    Then I take a deep breath.
    I’m sure Megan would say this is why most kids don’t get their magic until they’re grown. Men get their magic around age twenty-one, but women have to wait until they’re past the age of having babies. I think that’s stupid, especially now that my magic is gone and I’m going to have to