Revived (Cat Patrick)

from the clouds.
    I watch the guy for the rest of the period, but he never looks at me again. When the bell rings at the end of class, I lean down long enough to put away my stuff and pick up my bag, and when I sit back up, he’s gone. I’m disappointed until I realize that I’ll see him again tomorrow, and every day for the rest of the year.
    And for that, I silently thank Vice Principal Waverly.
    At lunchtime, Audrey and I meet up at our lockers as planned.
    “Hi!” I say as I approach.
    “Hey, Daisy!” Audrey says back, matching my broad smile. “How’s it going so far?”
    “Pretty good, actually,” I say. And then I look away, embarrassed.
    “What?” she asks, reading me.
    “Nothing,” I say. “There’s just a cute guy in my English class.”
    “Ooh, really?” she asks. “I want to hear all about him—but save it for the ride. We only have forty-five minutes.”
    We shut our lockers and turn to leave as two girls walk by. They look at me quizzically, then offer Audrey a pair of anemic waves, like they’re being forced to say hello but aren’t feeling it. Audrey shakes her head at them and refocuses on me.
    “Hungry?” she asks.
    “Always.”
    “Follow me.”
    Audrey expertly leads us through the crowded halls and shows me a few shortcuts on the way out to the student parking lot. Soon we’re buckled into her bright yellow Mini Cooper.
    “I love your car,” I say.
    “Thanks,” she says. “I love it, too. I spent two summers’ worth of babysitting money on the down payment, but it was worth it.”
    “You must have worked a lot,” I say.
    “My parents matched what I earned.” Audrey looks a little embarrassed.
    “Nice parents,” I say.
    “What do you drive?” Audrey asks as she pulls out of the student lot onto the main road.
    “Nothing… yet,” I say. “I won’t be sixteen until next month.”
    “No way,” Audrey says, shaking her head.
    “Way,” I say, and we laugh.
    Audrey reaches over and turns on the radio. She pushes a couple of buttons and lands on an alterna-song. She puts her right hand back on the wheel and taps her thumbs in time with the beat.
    “This okay?” she asks.
    “Sure,” I say, smiling. “Hey, have you ever had Mrs. Chang?”
    “Geography or art?”
    “Geography. There are two Mrs. Changs?”
    “Yep,” Audrey says, rolling down her window. The breeze flits through the car; I scratch at a spot where a tiny hair is tickling my forehead. “No, wait, I think maybe art is Chung, not Chang,” she says.
    “Anyway,” I say, “she seems tough.”
    Audrey shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had Chang or Chung.” She gives me a funny smile and I can’t help but laugh again.
    Audrey cranks up the volume when a popular song comes on and we ride without talking, bobbing our heads and tapping our fingers to the music. We arrive at a pizza place and Audrey whips the Mini into a spot like she’s racing someone for it. Inside, we both get the special: a slice of pizza and salad from the buffet. After we eat we have a little extra time to spare, so we play a quick round of lunchtime trivia and beat a trio of cocky businessmen wearing pleated Dockers that went out of style before I was born.
    “I can’t believe you know that Iowa is the hawk state,” Audrey says as we walk to her car, full of pizza and giddiness.
    “The Hawk eye State,” I say.
    “Oh, excuse me, Iowa expert!” Audrey jokes.
    “You should talk! You know Eddie Vedder’s full name!”
    “Edward Louis Severson the third,” we say in unison before breaking into giggles.
    “Seriously, how did you know that?” I ask. “Are you a closet grunge head or something?”
    “My mom has a crush on him,” Audrey says, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “She tells us about these amazing Pearl Jam shows she went to as a kid.”
    “Us?” I ask. “You have brothers and sisters?”
    “Just one brother,” Audrey says. “He’s a junior at Victory. You’ll meet him sometime.”
    “Oh, cool,” I say, flattered by Audrey’s assumption that I’ll meet her family.
    We climb into the car and the second she turns the key, we both lose it again: An acoustic version of Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” is playing on the radio. Audrey breaks into song and I can’t help but join in; of course I know the lyrics. With the windows down, startling pedestrians walking by, we scream/shout/sing at the top of our lungs the whole way back to Victory like we’re part of the Jamily.
    Like we go