She shakes her head and goes back to typing. “Does Horace ever do anything around here?”
I let out a groan, grab the keyboard, and bring it up to my forehead, banging twice. “Ugh.”
Laney expertly pats me on the back with one hand while the other keeps typing. “It’ll be okay. We’re going to finish this and then, after it’s sent to the printer, we’re going to strap Horace upside down to the flagpole … by the balls.”
Despite myself, I let out a laugh.
I don’t know what I’d do without Delaney Patel. She’s my rock. She always knows exactly what to say to make me feel better.
And she loves saying balls.
I log in and take a deep breath as I wait for the machine to boot up. That meditation book my dad gave me said something about oxygen being Mother Nature’s remedy to everything. But I honestly don’t think Mother Nature ever had to put out an award-winning school newspaper every month.
I suck in another deep inhale and scowl. I can still taste Austin’s coffee on my lips.
No, wait a minute. That’s not coming from me.
I sniff at the air. “Do you smell … coffee?”
Laney immediately covers her mouth. “Oh, sorry. I went to Peabody’s this morning. It must be me.”
I look over at her, tapping furiously to finish her story. “That’s weird,” I say. “Austin went to Peabody’s this morning, too.”
She stops typing as an unreadable expression blankets her face. “That is weird,” she says flatly.
“Did you see him there?”
It takes her a moment to respond, like she’s trying to remember. She must be more stressed than I am if she’s having trouble remembering the face of a guy she’s known for three years. “No,” she finally says. “I must have just missed him.”
The computer finishes booting up and I click on the file for this month’s issue. Thankfully, it opens and all the work we did yesterday on the new layout is still there. I let out the breath I’ve been holding since last night and stare at the front page. Last night I was happy with it. Now everything looks wrong. What is the story about the new science teacher doing on the front page? That’s not front-page news.
I start shuffling things around, but stop when I get the strange sensation that someone is watching me. I look up to see Laney staring at me from the next terminal. “What?” I ask, smoothing down my hair.
She blinks a few times and shakes her head. “Nothing. Do you want me to email Horace and ask him to come down here after first period?”
I grunt. “No. I’ll make the graphics myself. Like always.”
Laney nods for what feels like a lifetime and then goes back to typing.
“Lanes,” I say, studying her curiously. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah,” she says, but her voice is unusually high. “Everything’s great. I’m just stressed about the issue.”
I sigh. “I know, me too.”
She rubs my back again. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be good.”
I shake my head. “It can’t be good. It has to be great.”
“It’s going to be amazing! First class! Genius! And the balls of every member on the SPA committee are going to fall right off when they read it.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Laney grins and goes back to working on her story.
Seriously. Thank God for Laney. She’s the only person in my life who can keep me sane.
If We Don’t Win
Not to brag or anything, but the Southwest Star was kind of on its last legs when I took over. I turned this whole paper around. With the help of Laney, obviously.
The truth is, Laney and I weren’t even planning to be on the newspaper. The whole thing was kind of an accident. We were both looking for the debate club but we ended up walking into the newspaper office instead. It’s actually how we met.
The creative writing teacher, Ms. Testerman, had been trying to keep the newspaper afloat for months. They had this sad little online site with the totally uninspired name of “The Southwest News,” and no print edition. The school board was about to shut down the club because no one was actually reading the paper.
When Laney and I walked into room 212 after school on the first day of freshman year, thinking it was the debate club meeting, Ms. Testerman was trying to rally the five completely lethargic students who called themselves the newspaper staff by asking for story ideas.
I happened to have just been complaining to Austin earlier that day about the disproportionate funds that went to the football program as opposed to the library, so I raised my hand and pitched the story.
Ms. Testerman was positively thrilled and told me to look into it, which I did.
That story ended up winning us our very first Spartan Press Award. It turned out the head football coach was illegally siphoning off funds from other programs in the school. So while the tennis team and the cheerleading squad had to sell lollipops or frozen cheesecakes to be able to go to their state finals, the football team always seemed to have plenty of money to do whatever it wanted.
After the story ran, the head coach was fired and the money was returned to the rightful departments. Now I always snicker quietly to myself when a football player comes up to me in the hallway and asks if I want to buy a lollipop.
By my second month as a freshman, I was unanimously voted in as editor in chief. Now, more than three years later, with three award-winning front pages framed and mounted on my bedroom wall, I have the enormous burden of releasing a kick-ass issue every month.
But this issue is more stressful than most. Because this issue is the one we send to the Spartan Press Award for consideration. And once you’ve won it three years in a row, people kind of expect you to win it again.
The issue is due to the committee in two weeks and the winners are notified by email on December 15, which just happens to also be the day Columbia early decision letters arrive.
Let’s see those Tibetan monks deal with that kind of pressure.
* * *
After school, once the entire newspaper staff has assembled in the office, I call for everyone’s attention. “Okay. I know everyone wants to get out of here at a reasonable hour, so I’ll try to make this short. First, I want to thank you all for being here on Drop Dead and giving up whatever you had to give up today. Second, the new layout has been causing some formatting issues with the sections, so please quadruple-check everything before saving. I know it’s kind of a hassle, but I really think the new layout will impress the judges at the SPA. The old layout was getting stale, and if you want to keep winning you have to keep evolving, right?”
There are a few apathetic echoes of “Right” on top of Laney’s overly enthusiastic one. I flash her a grateful smile and she nods back at me.
“I have an idea,” Horace interjects, without even looking up from his monitor. I know he’s playing his stupid computer game instead of actually working on a story. I can see it reflected in his glasses. “Why don’t we write a story about how no one reads newspapers anymore because everything’s online?”
I can feel my temperature rising. Laney gives me a look that says, “Just let it go. It’s not worth the fight.”
Horace is technically our design editor. But all he really does around here is annoy people with his bonehead comments while he plays Excavation Empire.
I’ve tried to play. Just to see what the fuss is about. And I don’t get it. You build things. With bricks. And then you wait for people to tear them down. It’s like a digital version of the sandbox when we were four.
I would have fired Horace ages ago if I was actually allowed to fire people. But it’s school rules. Since newspaper isn’t a sport it’s considered a “club,” and the rules clearly state that anyone who wants to be in a club is allowed to be.
Trust me, I’ve read the rules over and over again. Extensively. I even asked my mom, the lawyer, to help me find a loophole, but she claims the document is ironclad and even looked a litt
le impressed when she read it.
So bottom line, Horace is on the newspaper staff whether I like it or not.
“Thank you, Horace,” I say tersely. “That was very helpful.”
“No problem, chief,” he says, before pounding angrily on the keyboard and shouting at his screen, “I hope your city gets bulldozed by the Inferno Dragon!”
“Okay,” I say brightly. “Remember to save your files every three minutes so you don’t lose any work. As soon as your section is done, message me so I can add it to the final file. Let’s try to get out of here before dark.”
“I don’t know what we’d do without you,” Laney says, coming up to me after the staff has dispersed. “You save this paper’s balls like every single week.”
“We work as a team,” I remind her. “But, thanks.”
She touches my arm. “I better go proof this article so I can get home in time for How Is This My Life?”
I let out a groan. “Oh God. I forgot you watch that thing, too.”
Laney looks practically offended. “Of course I watch it. It’s only the best show on Netflix.” She lowers her voice an octave. “Here comes the big one! Here comes the whaaaaammmy!” Then she laughs so hard, she snorts.
“That show is so stupid! I can’t believe both you and Aus—” I break off, my mind suddenly putting pieces together. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.
“Laney!” I say urgently, grabbing her arm.
I can feel her stiffen. “What?”
“You have to go over to Austin’s and watch it with him!”
She’s silent for a full five seconds before stammering, “W-w-why would I do that?”
God, based on her reaction, you would think she’s secretly hated my boyfriend’s guts for the past three years and was too afraid to tell me.
“Because,” I say, as though it’s obvious. And it is. At least to me. “You both love that show. And I feel bad because I have my dad’s gallery thing tonight so I can’t watch it with him. But if you go over there, then you can watch it together!”
It really is one of my finer ideas, if I don’t say so myself.
“No,” Laney says brusquely, picking up a stack of papers off a nearby desk and straightening them like it’s the most important job in the world. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Yes it is!” I insist. “You guys even quote the same stupid line from his bit. You’re clearly meant to watch this together.”
Laney lets out a weird chipmunk laugh. “Yeah, right. Me and Austin? We’re not meant to do anything together. We have like nothing in common.”
Why is she acting so strange? The three of us hang out all the time and she’s never acted like this. What’s the big deal?
“Um, you have me in common. And apparently also this lame comedy show.” I grab her hand and tug on it. “Please do it. It would mean so much to me. You’re just going to be watching the show tonight anyway, right? Why not watch it with Austin? You know stand-up comedy is more fun to watch with someone else. Please, please, please!”
Laney stares down at my hand. Is it just me or does her breathing look a little erratic?
I tilt my head. “Laney? What’s going on?”
She lets out that weird rodent laugh again. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on. I’m fine. I’m totally, one-hundred-percent finesies.”
Finesies?
“So you’ll go?” I confirm.
She gnaws on her bottom lip. “Yeah. Why not? I mean, if it’ll make you happy.”
I let out a sigh. “Yes. It will make me very happy.”
“Great,” Laney says, but I hear a hint of uneasiness in her voice. Maybe she really does hate Austin. Maybe she’s just been too polite to tell me this whole time. Sure, he can be a little weird sometimes and he has a knack for saying and doing the most embarrassing things in the middle of the hallway. And he totally overuses the phrase “for all intents and purposes,” except he says, “for all intensive purposes,” which is actually not the phrase. And he …
Well, anyway, the point is, he’s my boyfriend and I love him and if Laney has a problem with him, then a few hours of hanging out with him might do some good.
Laney scurries back to her computer and slides into her seat. I stand in the front of the room, watching my team at work.
Relax. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
The issue is on track. Austin has someone to watch his comedy show with. It looks like I might get out of here in time to make it to Dad’s show.
Everything is working out great. All it needed was a little delegation.
If They Knew the Truth
Miraculously we get the issue done by seven thirty-two and I race out of the school with the flash drive in hand and zoom over to the printer on the other side of town. I always hand deliver the final files to Eric for every issue. Too much can happen when you email or upload to the cloud.
A virus could corrupt the formatting. The email could end up sitting unseen in someone’s spam folder. Aliens could decide today is the day they finally hack Earth’s cyberspace.
All very likely possibilities.
Thankfully the gallery is only a mile away from the printer, so after dropping off the drive, I make it there slightly before eight o’clock. I park on the street a few buildings away and sit in my car for a moment to decompress. It’s been a long day and I need to get my head back on straight before I go in there.
I turn up the music on Woody’s stereo and close my eyes, trying to collect my thoughts and transform myself from the title of “Editor in Chief” to “Supportive Daughter.”
I flip the visor down and check my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t have time to change so I’m still wearing my jeans and brown leather jacket. Not that I’d have much to change into. My closet basically consists of what I’m wearing right now.
I do take the time to rebraid my hair, though, just so I feel like I’ve done something.
As I walk toward the gallery, I swipe on my phone to see that CoyCoy55 has posted a new picture. This one is of her and her best friend, Luce_the_Goose.
I don’t know either of their real names, just their profile names. Luce_the_Goose is obviously something like Lucy but I have no idea what CoyCoy’s real name could be. I’m convinced, however, it’s something really cool and unique like Cleo or Lark, or maybe something über literary like Ophelia or Brontë.
In this picture, they’re doing one of their hilarious Caption Challenges. That’s when one of them suggests a silly caption and they have to act it out for the picture. This one is called “Meteor! Heading right toward us!” They’re both pointing at the sky and screaming. I chuckle when I see it. The Caption Challenge pics are always my favorite. It shows how much fun they have together.
With a sigh, I shut off my phone and toss it into my bag.
You made your choice, Kennedy, I remind myself for the billionth time. This is your life.
I’ve tried unfollowing CoyCoy55. I have. Several times. But it’s like an addiction I can’t kick. One time, a few months ago, Laney caught me looking at CoyCoy55’s feed. We were sitting on the grass in the soccer field eating our lunch and I was complaining that the grass at our school was too coarse and itchy and was giving me a rash. I took out my phone to look at one of CoyCoy55’s many photos of her and Luce_the_Goose lounging on the perfectly green, soft grass at the Windsor Academy and Laney glanced over at my screen and laughed at me. “Do you ever think that maybe people at Windsor are stalking our SnipPic feeds, wishing they had our life?”
I snorted at this. It was almost too ridiculous to respond to, but I did anyway. “No,” I said confidently. “They’re too busy living their amazing lives to worry about what we’re doing.”
Laney is really the only person who knows about my obsession with the Windsor Academy. But even she doesn’t know the full extent of it. For instance, she doesn’t know that I purposefully drive a specific route to school every day in hopes that the light will turn red in front o
f the gates so I can steal a peek inside. She doesn’t know that I practically have CoyCoy55’s entire school schedule memorized. She also doesn’t know that I fall asleep almost every night wondering what my life would be like if I went there. If I was one of them. If I wore that uniform and sat on that lawn and ate in that gorgeous student union.
I would never tell Laney any of these things. I would never tell anyone any of these things. They’d surely have me locked away. Or at the very least send me to some kind of stalkers anonymous group.
But that’s only because they don’t know the full story. No one does. Not even Laney. I never told a soul what really happened.
Laney, like everyone in my life, still thinks I never got in.
If Eyes Could Talk
Dad’s show opens to the public at eight p.m. I walk through the back doors of the gallery with two minutes to spare. It’s a spectacular space. The walls are white, the floors are wood, and the ceilings are unfinished, making it look like we’re inside a chic factory.
I walk through the large, open room in amazement as Dad’s artwork stares at me from all sides. Literally.
The series is called “Portals.”
Dad takes these mind-blowing photographs of people’s eyes. Although you would never really know it when you first look at them. The pictures are so zoomed in and enlarged, they no longer look like eyes. They turn into completely other things. Forests. Rivers. Blades of grass. Sunrises. Solar systems.
Different people see different things. That’s the beauty of what Dad does.
It’s like a really psychedelic Rorschach test.
I stop when I see the photograph that I captioned this morning, giggling slightly when I remember that Dad thought it looked like varicose veins. Instead, I chose to caption it “Purple Rain,” because it resembles violet-colored lightning streaking across the sky, and also because my dad loves that song by Prince. Apparently it was playing when my parents first met in a bar during Dad’s “edgy phase.” It’s kind of ironic that this particular eye belongs to our garbageman—the epitome of suburban living and the polar opposite of an “edgy phase.”
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 3