Starcrossed

I’m not average, I’m special—just like everyone else,” Helen teased, anxious to cheer him up. She nudged him with her hip as she walked past him, wheeling her bike into the garage. “Now, what is there to eat? I’m starving, and it’s your week to be kitchen slave.”

Chapter Two
    S till without her own car, Helen had to ride her bike to school the next morning. Normally at a quarter to eight, it would be cool out, even a little chilly with the wind blowing off the water, but as soon as she woke up, Helen could feel the hot, humid air lying on her body like a wet fur coat. She had kicked her sheets off in the middle of the night, wriggled out of her T-shirt, drunk the entire glass of water on her nightstand, and still she had woken up exhausted by the heat. It was very un-island weather, and Helen absolutely did not want to get up and go to school.
    She pedaled slowly in an attempt to avoid spending the rest of the day smelling like phys ed. She didn’t usually sweat much, but she’d woken up so lethargic that morning she couldn’t remember if she had put on deodorant. She flapped her elbows like chicken wings trying to catch a whiff of herself as she rode, and was relieved to smell the fruity-powdery scent of some kind of protection. It was faint, so she must have put it on yesterday, but it only needed to hold on until track practice after school. Which would be a miracle, but oh well.
    As she cruised down Surfside Road she could feel the baby hairs around her face pulling loose in the wind and sticking to her cheeks and forehead. It was a short ride from her house to school, but in the humidity, her carefully arranged first-day-of-school hairdo was a big old mess by the time she locked her crummy bike to the rack. She only locked it out of tourist-season habit and not because anyone at school would deign to steal it. Which was good because she also had a crummy lock.
    She pulled her ruined hair out of its bonds, ran her fingers through the worst of the tangles, and retied it, this time settling for a boring, low ponytail. With a resigned sigh she swung her book bag over one shoulder and her gym bag over the other. She bent her head and slouched her way toward the front door.
    She got there just a second before Gretchen Clifford, and was obliged to hold the door open for her.
    “Thanks, freak. Try not to rip it off the hinges, will you?” Gretchen said archly, breezing past Helen.
    Helen stood stupidly at the top of the steps, holding the door open for other students, who walked past her like she worked there. Nantucket was a small island, and everyone knew each other painfully well, but sometimes Helen wished Gretchen knew a little bit less about her. They’d been best friends up until fifth grade, when Helen, Gretchen, and Claire were playing hide-and-seek at Gretchen’s house, and Helen accidentally knocked the bathroom door off its hinges while Gretchen was using it. Helen had tried to apologize, but the next day Gretchen started looking at her funny and calling her a freak. Ever since then it seemed like she’d gone out of her way to make Helen’s life suck. It didn’t help matters that Gretchen now ran with the popular crowd, while Helen hid among the braniacs.
    She wanted to snap back at Gretchen, say something clever like Claire would, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she flipped the doorstop down with her toe to leave the door propped open for everyone else. Another year of fading into the background had officially begun.
    Helen had Mr. Hergeshimer for homeroom. He was the head of the English department, and had mad style for a guy in his fifties. He wore silk cravats in warm weather, flashy colored cashmere scarves when it was cold, and drove a vintage convertible Alfa Romeo. The guy had buckets of money and didn’t need to work, but he taught high school, anyway. He said he did it because he didn’t want to be forced to deal with illiterate heathens everywhere he went. That was his story, anyway. Personally, Helen believed he taught because he absolutely loved it. Some of the other students didn’t get him and said he was a wannabe British snob, but Helen thought he was one of the best teachers she’d probably ever have.
    “Miss Hamilton,” he said broadly as Helen stepped through the door, the bell ringing at exactly the same time. “Punctual as usual. I’m certain you will be taking the seat next to your cohort, but first, a warning. Any exercise of that talent