by M. F. Lorson
Sloane
After a long weekend spent binge-watching '80s movies and scarfing down popcorn like it were the only food on loser island, I was actually looking forward to returning to school.
Whenever Harper and Reagan went on one of their Girl Scout campouts I felt the full weight of their absence. You heard that correctly. My two best friends were active Girl Scout participants, despite the fact that almost every other Girl Scout in real life or the movies had the good sense to quit by middle school.
Reagan’s mom worked for the actual Girl Scout organization so it made sense. Harper on the other hand, I hadn’t quite figured out yet. I suspected she did it just to be ironic, but I couldn’t say that to her. You so did not accuse Harper of being anything less than badass and live to tell the tale.
The Gremlin sputtered to a stop in front of Reagan’s house. She and Harper stood waiting under a wooden lean-to her Dad had built when she was a kid. It was supposed to be a bus stop shelter, but we called it the manger because it had a very Jesus was born here feel to it.
Harper grabbed shotgun, shaking the rain from her blonde hair as she pulled the seatbelt across her chest.
“Today’s your day, right?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “It is, but I would skip watching it for the first week. It’s gonna be nothing but flubbed lines and poor transitions.”
Harper laughed. “You do realize that no one has the option of skipping this, right? Good Morning, Grover will, as always, be front and center in every classroom with a screen. Only the freshman gym class is gonna miss your debut.”
My stomach sank. “Let me pretend, okay? If I think about it too much, I’m gonna puke all over my camera rig.”
“You’ll do great,” said Reagan, placing a hand on my shoulder from the back seat. I knew she meant to be encouraging, but it was hard to be comforted by kind words from Reagan. I wasn’t sure she even knew how to be mean. It was like against Girl Scout rules or something.
“What makes it so bad?” asked Harper. “I mean, it’s always bad, so what makes it worse?”
I thought about the question. The guy who ran camera two was still a bit too heavy on the zoom feature. There were times when the display screen was close enough to Becca’s face to count her pores, and although the audio guys were returnees from last year, they still weren’t all that great at remembering to turn the mics off in between segments. Those things alone would have made the show rough, but the real dagger to the heart was the interaction between Becca and Gabe.
She was so focused on our poor man’s teleprompter, that sometimes she forgot she had a co-anchor at all, and Gabe...something was just off about his performance all together.
“It’s hard to pinpoint,” I lied. Then I quickly changed the subject, so I couldn’t be coerced into throwing Becca under the bus. It was bad enough that our media studies class witnessed her poor performance. The whole school didn’t need to know about it.
“You look nice, by the way,” said Harper, squinting at me suspiciously as we made our way from the parking lot to the front doors of Grover High School. “Any particular reason the camera girl needs to up her wardrobe game?”
“And hair,” added Reagan meekly.
I reached up to tuck a loose curl behind my ear. They were dead on, of course. I had gotten up a full forty-five minutes earlier than usual to transform my long red hair into loose waves. I had also tossed my favorite jeans in the dryer to make sure they were extra form-fitting—but I wasn’t about to cop to any of that.
“I’m blossoming,” I answered, batting my eyelashes for dramatic emphasis. “We’re juniors now. We’re supposed to blossom.”
Harper made a gag-me motion before looping her arm through Reagan’s and heading toward their first class. I was about to pull open the door to Media Studies when cameraman number two reached in front of me and snagged the handle.
“Allow me, miss,” he drawled in a terrible fake accent before pulling the door aside to let me walk through.
“Thanks?” I mumbled. I couldn’t remember the last time a boy held a door for me that wasn’t my dad. Maybe that dryer trick was more effective than I thought!
Feeling extra confident, I grabbed a seat in the front row and waited for the rest of the class to fill the seats around me. Becca hustled in a few minutes before the bell. She was holding a Starbucks to-go cup in one hand and looking nervous despite the extra care she had put into her appearance.
I knew comparing myself to other girls was poor form, but it was hard not to feel second rate next to a girl like Becca. Her eyes were such a uniquely beautiful green that even I had a hard time not getting lost in them.
“Sloane?”
“Hm?” I asked, realizing I totally missed Becca’s original question.
She looked at me a little funny. “Guess I’m not the only one who is nervous,” she laughed. “I asked if you had seen Gabe.”
I frowned. “No, you two didn’t drive together?” It was a totally normal follow-up question considering what she had just asked. But Becca’s face stiffened, and I could tell I had touched a sore spot.
I wanted to say something fluffy to lighten the mood and let her know I was just asking, not judging, but my nerves snuck in, and I couldn’t think of a single witty thing to say.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to, because just as the bell rang Gabe pushed through the classroom door. I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle, as Becca’s eyes went wide with terror. Gabe Maxwell had chosen quite the outfit for his first day on the air!
Gabe
Guys in Europe have a thing for tight clothes, or at least my European friends did. And while I was there, I had to buy clothes, even if I was too scared to wear them in public. On more than one occasion, Leo took me shopping and made me buy certain items that remained useless and unworn in my closet—until today.
Judging by the expressions on everyone’s faces as I made my fashionably late entrance, my outfit was no longer useless. It was doing exactly what I intended it to. These skin-tight joggers had everyone’s attention because no one’s eyes traveled above my waistline. It was like the white-washed denim and royal blue loafers had them in a trance. Couldn’t forget the argyle socks, of course.
“What...are you—?” Becca asked before I cut her off with a quick kiss.
“Good morning, babe,” I said. “Good morning, Grover!” I shouted, addressing the whole class.
Nadine and Ms. Mitchell stood with their mouths open, watching me take my place at the anchor desk. “Let’s get this show on the road,” I said, knowing exactly how ridiculous and corny it sounded. Inside, I was dying of embarrassment, naturally. I didn’t do crazy things like this. Never.
I had spent the entirety of my time in Grover surprising no one. Playing the part and flying under the radar was my M.O. I didn’t step out of line or speak up, even when I should have. That’s what got me in this Becca mess in the first place. I didn’t tie her up in a three-year relationship because I wanted her to myself. I did it because that’s what people expected.
Clearly, I was done doing what people expected. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t terrified about it.
“I think I have to give you a dress code demerit,” Ms. Mitchell said unsurely.
“For what?” I asked, looking down at my outfit. I underestimated how uncomfortable sitting in these pants would be.
“Can boys get demerits for low-cut shirts?” Nadine asked, stepping up next to her and tilting her head to the side, eyeballing my super-V neck.
“I don’t have time for this,” Ms. Mitchell answered. “From now on, stick to the dress code, please.”
“You got it,” I answered with a smile.
Becca sat next to me, fidgeting with her hair. “I can see your nipples through that shirt,” she whispered.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Maybe I had one too many cheeseburgers since I’ve been back. This is what my friends and I wore in Prague. Sorry if it’s too weird for you.” I tried
to be sincere, I really did, but it was impossible not to say it with a smile.
She looked at me, her eyes roaming my body while chewing on the inside of her lips. “I mean, I like it. I just don’t want the other students judging you, you know?” She placed her hand on my arm and gave me a warm smile.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I realized that the outfit might have had the opposite effect than intended.
“Definitely keep those pants,” she said with a wink.
Feeling a little deflated, I turned toward the camera. The students in charge of production were working on the technical stuff while Becca and I did our warmups. It was my job to look into camera one while Becca had camera two. It was just a practice run, so Sloane wasn’t hiding behind the camera at the moment. She was staring down at her phone, the screen lighting up her face in the dim light of the studio.
Her hair was different today. I was so preoccupied with my entrance that I didn’t notice how nice she looked. Her red locks were fuller, had a curl to them, and her eyelashes seemed to be even longer, which didn't seem possible.
Look over here, I thought to myself while she kept her eyes on her phone. Look over here. For some reason, I just wanted to greet her. Wave good morning or share another wordless conversation. Maybe she was too mortified by my outfit to give me the time of day.
Ms. Mitchell stood in the middle of the room, banging on her clipboard to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, while I have you listening, I want to remind you all of the special segment you should be preparing. This is a piece that will—if chosen—play at the end of the 9-week term and should be something important to you. It should send a message to Grover, something you think they need to hear. Ask yourselves those oh-so-important questions when planning your piece,” she announced, and the class spoke in unison like we rehearsed it as she recited the questions. “What do they need to know and why should I be the one to tell them?”
“Alright, places. We go live in five!” Nadine called. The room seemed to erupt in a panic, everyone rushing to their post. “Becca, Gabe, stick to the script,” she said to us. “I want to see lots of energy.” Then, before turning to the other groups, she sent me one last furrowed-brow and a shake of her head.
When Nadine finally gave us the signal to start, Becca uttered her lines perfectly. After a short introduction, I did my part of turning toward camera one and reading the giant teleprompter without directly looking at it. Just as I was about to totally botch the whole thing, I realized that everyone in the room was counting on me. This was our first run, and for some of these students, their first show ever.
Staring down the lens, knowing that the person behind it was serious about this project and wanted this show to go smoothly, I didn’t have the heart to completely flop it. Instead, I delivered the morning announcements in the most...meh performance ever.
I tripped on words, skipped whole lines, and laughed way too hard at Becca’s playful banter. After I finished my segment and Becca addressed camera two, I glanced over at where Sloane watched the show, her face away from the camera.
Finally, her eyes met mine. She shook her head and mouthed, “what was that?” I stifled a laugh and shrugged, which made her laugh.
When the show came to an end, just before the camera panned back to both of us, I sat up a little straighter knowing the best part had yet to come.
“These have been your morning announcements. Thanks for watching. I’m Becca Landry, and this is Gabe Maxwell. Good morning, Grover!”
“Now please enjoy our morning song selection today, “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley.”
The room erupted in a collective groan just before the screen transitioned to the music video so cringe-worthy no one could move for a full thirty seconds. The oversized clothing. The awkward dancing. The guy who looked thirteen but sounded thirty.
I sat back and smiled while the whole school watched, but there was one smiling face in the corner who I noticed tapping her foot.
Sloane
I was distracted. Big time distracted. The first time Gabe Maxwell ever opened his beautiful lips to talk to me, it was about an '80s song, and this morning, when it was his opportunity to pick a song to play out the final moments of Good Morning, Grover, he had chosen the Rick Roll anthem. Everyone knew “Never Gonna Give You Up” was an iconic music video, but did he know that I was an '80s girl born in the wrong decade? Did he know he was playing the music of my people? That somewhere on the set of a classy, yet under distributed, indie film, Molly Ringwald was humming that very tune?
I could not get Gabe out of my head, especially not right now, as he strode past the windows of my math class, taking extra small steps to prevent ripping his ridiculously tight pants. I didn’t know exactly what he was trying to pull, showing up at school dressed like a long lost member of One Direction, but it certainly made the morning show more interesting. One might almost forget how all of the life seemed to drain from his eyes the moment Nadine called action.
“And the measurement of the angle is what, Ms. Miller?”
Crap. Mr. Bailey was asking me a question.
“The angle?” repeated Mr. Bailey.
The only angles coursing through my brain were the crisp square lines of Gabe’s jaw.
My eyes flew to the board at the front of the classroom for help, but I’d been zoning out far too long to make sense of anything up there.
“Ninety, “ called out Harper, jumping to my rescue.
I could tell that Mr. Bailey wanted to reprimand her for interrupting when the question was clearly directed to me, but since Harper never raised her hand in class, suggesting she talk less was not in his best interest.
I mouthed a thank you across the classroom, and she shot a wink my way before returning her focus to the list of math problems on her desk. She went back to sketching something all over the front of her textbook. Meanwhile I hadn’t even been listening carefully enough to know what page we were on.
To say I was relieved when the bell rang was an understatement. The girls and I hustled out of the student union and under the overcast sky. A lifelong Washingtonian, the gray skies and wet mornings didn’t bother me. They made for great sweater weather, and the one-shouldered Flashdance look was kind of my signature anyway.
Burger Barn was mostly deserted that afternoon, making it easy for the three of us to snag a booth in the middle of the restaurant and quickly order our favorite after school snack. Mozzarella sticks and waffle fries.
“Excessive amounts of ranch please,” I requested. The waitress rolled her eyes, but she wrote it down on her little pad so I forgave the attitude.
“So,” said Harper. “You were pretty out of it in math today. Anything your two best friends should know? Problems at home? Trouble concentrating?” She cocked her head to the side attentively.
I smiled and shook my head. “No, counselor Harper. There are no problems at home. I was just thinking about an assignment for Media Studies.” This was not the case of course, but I didn’t want to admit I had been daydreaming about Gabe.
“What type of assignment?” asked Reagan. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned in toward me. “Maybe we can help,”
“We?” said Harper. “Let’s withdraw the we till we know what the assignment is.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not planning to enlist your help anyway. It’s a fun assignment actually. I’m just not sure which of my six zillion ideas to go with.”
Our server returned, placing our food in the center of the table. I frowned at the two tiny ramekins of ranch adorning our basket of fries. Two was the standard amount, hardly the excessive amount I had requested.
“You can have them both,” whispered Reagan. “Just let it go.”
I let out a deep sigh, but pulled both cups of ranch closer to me for good measure.
“Tell us more about the assignment,” said Harper, reaching over Reagan to dunk a fry in my ranch.
I tugged it even closer. “E
veryone gets the chance to work on a special segment for the end of the term. There are no real guidelines which makes it a lot more fun than the day-to-day stuff. I could literally do a piece on why ranch is the optimal condiment.”
Harper laughed. “You could, but I think we all know you’re about to go John Hughes on this project.”
I raised my eyebrows and smirked, “No film project is complete without an ode to the greats before you. Now I just have to figure out how Hughes would have personified a battle of the condiments.”
There was a rustling in the booth behind me, and Gabe Maxwell rose from his seat and pulled a chair up to the end of our table.
“Somehow,” he said, addressing the table as if it were completely natural for him to join us. “I can’t see Nadine and Ms. Mitchell selecting Ranch vs. Ketchup as the big end of term send off.”
Harper snorted with laughter then seized the opportunity to steal my ranch. Not that it was a difficult task, seeing as how I was still sitting wide-eyed and jaw open.
Gabe
I couldn’t help myself. When I heard Sloane mention the class assignment, I had to bud in. It was my opening. My chance to finally have a real conversation with this girl and pick her brain about this project. I had a good feeling that she’d be the right person to work with.
At least we would be having a conversation if she wasn’t staring at me with her mouth open like a fish.
“You okay?” I asked with a smile.
“Sure,” she answered, unconvincingly.
I glanced over at her two friends who also ogled me as if they couldn’t quite figure out what species I was. In their defense, I still had my low-cut V-neck, and it was a lot to take in, considering this was the first time I ever spoke to them.