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Chapter One
I was a misfit. If you'd asked me, I'd have guessed school uniforms were a good idea. Like camouflage. I'd have been kidding myself. On registration day, in my blue regulation crested polo and khakis that cleared my ankle despite fitting the week before, I knew I'd never fit in at Gate-Brickell Christian, my new school, in Miami, my new town.
I stood in the registration line, squeaking the vinylized wood gym floor against my Top-Siders. (The student handbook mandated "conservative" shoes. Also, "traditional" haircuts and "no piercings, except females, who may have one hole per ear only.") I tried to look shorter.At fifteen, I was already six one, skinny, and my dark head stuck out above the swarms of mostly blond ones. They greeted one another passionately after a long summer or, more likely, a long night. I watched them — the girls especially — trying to pretend I wasn't. A blond with glasses cornered a redhead.
"What'd you do this summer?"
The second girl, who managed to have breasts even in the hideous plaid jumpers the girls wore, shrugged. "Didn't do jack. Just vegged in Europe, then vegged here while the 'rents busted on me for wasting my youth."
The blond rolled her eyes. "I hear you."
A guy approached the blond. "Vamp 'do, Kirby."
An insult, from her reaction. Hard to tell. Their English was foreign, and I struggled to understand. Suddenly, I had the feeling I wasn't alone.
"You look confused." Someone behind me.
She meant me. I turned but said nothing.
Her hair was the best thing about her. From the rear, she could have been beautiful. Dark ringlets hung down her shoulders,gypsyish. The hair was a waste. The face, downright ugly, a screwed-up little face with eyes like raisins sunk in rice pudding, all hidden behind enormous glasses. She stared me down. She was skinny and almost as tall as I was. I realized she'd been watching me awhile.
"Can you talk?" she demanded. "I mean, are you physically able to speak? I'm not being sarcastic, just curious."
I glanced around to see if anyone was listening. No one was. "I'm not confused."
"It speaks." She smiled, sort of a Mona Lisa thing she was trying for. Apparently, word hadn't reached her that she wasn't a supermodel. "You look confused. Around here, looking confused is as bad as being confused. Worse, maybe. Any sign of weakness, they eat you alive."
"Oh." Was talking to her a sign of weakness?
"I'm Binky Lopez-Nande." She stuck out her hand, sort of a weird thing to do.
I took it. "Paul Richmond." Her ridiculous name sunk in. "Binky?"
"Short for Belinda. Couldn't pronounce it when I was little, so my parents called me Binky. It's the bane of my existence."
I doubted that.
"What are you confused about, Richmond?"
"Nothing. I'm just figuring out a schedule."
"You're new here? We don't take well to newcomers unless you're someone important. Are you?" Her raisin eyes said I didn't look it.
"No. I mean, I'm going here because my mother works here." Hoping maybe that would end the conversation. Two guys my age had gotten in line behind us.
"Best reason I've heard for coming here."
"I'm trying to decide between Spanish and art." A few steps sideways, away from her, leaving only a toe in line.
"Depends. Are you college bound or running out the clock until some big trust fund kicks in?"
"Well, there's no trust fund."
"Didn't think so." A few steps toward me. "What sort of classes did you take at your old school?"
I shuffled, considering my answer, not wanting to reveal, even to her, that there was no old school. I'd been homeschooled and felt younger than the other sophomores, despite my height. I mumbled something about moving a lot because Dad was in the army. That was true, at least. I glanced back at the two guys. They paid me no attention. Why should they? They were part of things, normal. I tried to listen in. The bigger guy, who looked like a refugee from World Wrestling Federation, with arms threatening to bulge through the bands of his uniform polo, had said something to insult his friend.
"You're a bastard, Meat," the friend said. "Know that?"
"Watch your language," the big guy — Meat — said.
His friend, even taller than me, but not clumsy, let fly a string of obscenities that would have offended a rap group. Meat took a swing. I thought they were kidding around, but next thing I knew, they were on the floor, hurtling into my knees, and I was a human missile. My nonskid shoes didn't help. My legs flew past my head, my butt hit ground. They stood, laughing, leaving me where I'd fallen. I sat a second. When I was pretty sure they'd forgotten me, I stood, edged back into line. I ignored Binky's averted eyes.
"Apologize!" A voice from nowhere.
I froze. Did he mean me? "What?"
"Not you," said the voice. I dimly recognized there was a person connected to it. Whitish hair, white chinos, white polo. He turned toward the guys, and I understood he was their leader. "Apologize to the kid."
"Aww, Charlie, we don't have to," Meat said.
The better-looking one nodded. "Not like geek-boy's going to do anything."
"Boys, boys." Charlie folded his arms. He was much shorter than his friends, but he didn't look up. Rather, they backed off to make eye contact with him. "When we crash into people, custom calls for an apology. No matter who they are." He nodded at each of them. "Meat? St. John?"
And the subject was closed. Their unison apology sounded more like a curse. They walked away, heads down...
Breaking Point. Copyright © by Alex Flinn. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
