Pretenders

by Lisi Harrison

  As columnist Gina Simmons from the Noble High Times put it, “Exotic and striking, even Vanessa’s features overachieve.” My middle school principal signed my yearbook with, “Beauty and Brains, you are proof that girls can have both.”

  I prefer using quotes to characterize myself for three reasons:

  1) Quotes prove opinions.

  2) No one likes a gloater.

  3) I must be liked.

  My favorite hobby is winning.5 The endorphins feed my heart and carbonate my blood. It’s a euphoric rush, but it ends as soon as I get my prize. The only way to get it back is to win again. I compare it to the ever-stale Bazooka bubble gum—tough work for a moment of sweetness. But, oh, how sweet that moment is. Hence, the reason I’m always chasing that next piece.

  Well, it’s half the reason.

  Veritas6 ? It goes deeper than endorphins and carbonated blood. I’m just not sure how to explain it, since “it” is more of a feeling than an actual thing.

  Actually, it’s fragments of a feeling. Fleeting fragments like scattered dandelion fluff. Fuzzy bits drift by but I’ve never tried to grab them or piece them into thoughts. Maybe because thinking them in full would make them real. And I don’t want them to be real because they have to do with my parents.7

  But Ms. Silver asked for innermost so I’m going to connect the fuzzy bits and tell you what I try not to think about. Ready?

  It’s my parents. How much they fight. And why that affects my grades and wardrobe.

  This morning began with a screaming match about my older brother, A.J.8 Then it became about Dad and how he’d rather dissect computers than listen to stories about Mom’s evil boss at the hotel. Which transitioned into the things Mom flushes down the toilet. Nothing says “Good luck on your first day of high school” like an argument about clogged pipes.

  I’m never involved in these squabbles but I am allergic to conflict, so I suffer. Veritas? Fighting sounds make me itchy. I have red marks all over my arms and legs to prove it. Like I was jumped by the Real Housewives of New Jersey on Acrylic Day.

  Peers assume I’m modest because I wear long sleeves to keep from scratching. Modesty on a girl with features that “overachieve” does make her more likable, so it’s not all bad. But it’s not all good, either. Obvious frump factor aside, running track in sweats leads to heatstroke. In 98 percent humidity, hallucinations. But it’s worth it. First place means my parents will stay together another day. So I cover up and run like a nose in flu season.

  You see, every time I get an A, or win something, or am elected, crowned, honored, published, or profiled, we celebrate at Benihana.9 A.J. and I can order anything we want. Wear whatever we want. We’re even allowed to get double desserts. The only thing we can’t do at Beni’s is fight. It’s our family rule. And it sticks like chewed Bazooka.

  In summation: Overachieving = Benihana = Peace = No divorce.

  Simple.

  If you focus on success, you’ll have stress. But if you pursue excellence, success will be guaranteed.

  —Deepak Chopra10

  Sept. 4.

  One more thing.

  A FemFresh case with a lock is not gonna happen.

  I’d rather hide my journal in dirty boxer shorts.

  Safer that way.

  Less embarrassing too.

  Wednesday, September 5, 2012

  Blake rode over before school this morning to give me a dozen yellow roses.

  “Yellow signifies new beginnings,” he said, one foot still on his skateboard.

  I flicked his cheek, which was always tanned, even in December. “I know what yellow means.”

  He smiled. “I owe you, big-time. If there’s ever anything you need—”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  We stood there for a minute. Him with his wet black hair and me with a glob of syrup on my denim skirt, remembering the day we decided to go for it. I know he was thinking about it too because Blake has been my best friend for eight years and we know everything about each other.

  The public school thing came up for the first time in June. We were coming back from Six Flags when his mom said she had to go back to work in the fall. Translation? After eight years of homeschooling, Blake would have to go to Noble.

  The news gave him a crazy asthma attack. Which always makes me cry. And when I cry, Mom cries. Then Mrs. Marcus started because she felt responsible. She said she had no choice because they needed the money. Still, Blake kept right on wheezing.

  Like me, Blake loved being a Homie (our slang for homeschoolers) and did not want to be a Pub boy (slang for public schooler). He loved thumbing his nose at the mainstream. And loved that our moms taught us together. He couldn’t stand Pub drama and was afraid he’d get mixed up in it. But I knew the truth. Blake was afraid people would pick on him because he’s gay.

  I reminded him that New Jersey is a blue state and, anyway, Noble kids are too intelligent for ignorant behavior, but he kept quoting statistics from a survey that said being gay was the number two reason kids get bullied.

  “What’s number one?” I asked.

  “Appearance.”

  “Then I have more to worry about than you,” I said.

  “Moot,” Blake snipped. “You’re not being sent to Pub. I am.”

  So I asked my parents if I could go to Pub too.

  They said no.

  I appealed with a seven-page essay on the benefits of diversifying my education. I set up a tour of the school. Blake pulled the stats on what percentage of Noble grads went to Ivy League colleges. It was 47 percent. They caved.

  On one condition: I have to maintain my A+ average. If not, I’m back home.

  Blake and I laughed at that one. Not succeed at Pub? With my education? Failing would be harder.

  Once the news was official, Blake began wheezing in a good way. He couldn’t believe I did something so selfless. He promised he’d make it up to me. I told him that wasn’t necessary because that’s what best friends do. I didn’t tell him about A.D., though. Better that he thought I was doing it all for him.

  I put the roses inside, yelled goodbye to my mom, and grabbed my red board.

  Yesterday, the human traffic was so overwhelming we skipped the afternoon and hung at the mall. Which, ironically, wound me up even more. Teenaged mannequins were everywhere, layered and scarved and effortlessly stylish. Not a single one wore a syrup-stained jean skirt. Yes, I wore it two days in a row. It’s the cutest thing I have.

  So today, we skateboarded up to school late to avoid the crowds. Holding hands, Blake and I inched down the school path with trepidation, like Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion approaching the Wizard.

  “Freeze!” called a man as we pushed through the arched doors.

  We froze.

  The stranger gave us tardy slips and a smug grin, as if those pink papers would show us a thing or two. We didn’t care. We were relieved to have the hallway to ourselves.

  Our damp Chucks squeaked against the checkerboard-tiled floors as he Dorothied and I Lioned our way to class. We passed rooms full of strangers, muffled voices of teachers, sentinels of sticker-covered lockers, vending machines, cafeteria smells, and multi-stalled bathrooms. Nothing Teen Vogue or Seventeen has written could ever have prepared me for this sensorial barrage.

  “This is so weird.” I giggled. “We’re actually in Pub. Think we’ll make it through day two?”

  “Get to class!” shouted Tardy Slip.

  “Nope,” Blake whispered.

  “You owe me,” I whispered.

  “I know.”

  So far so good, though. It’s last period and I’m still here. I’m in Algebra, zoning because this stuff is so easy. I’m writing so it looks like I’m taking notes.

  I still haven’t told Blake my secret reason for wanting to go to Noble. A reason that has nothing to do with friendship, diversity, prestige, or Ivy. And everything to do with the boy next door.

  His nam
e is Andrew Duffy. He has dirty blond hair, green eyes, full lips, and a space between his teeth. Tall and slender, he walks with a slight forward lean. When he’s not dribbling a basketball, his hands are in his pockets. He wears hoodies and uses the hoods. Right now he is copying equations off the board. Watching him feels like skateboarding down a winding hill.

  9.5.12

  INT. SHERIDAN—NIGHT.

  Lavender-scented bath oil glistens off SHERIDAN’s skin. She twists damp hair into a towel-turban, flops down on her Broadway Lights duvet cover, and waits for “Good Morning Baltimore” (Hairspray Original Broadway Cast Recording) to fill her earbuds. It does. She writes.

  Audri and I went to the mall after school today to shop for back-to-school costumes. We call clothes “costumes” to feel more like actresses. Which we are. The only difference is I eat, breathe, and sleep the craft whereas Audri just breathes it. But it works. She’s been my understudy for seven plays in a row. Eight, once they cast the freshman play.

  I hope it’s a real drama and not some middle school number like Annie. I’m ready to stray from my comfort zone and play “down and out.” An outcast with a haunting solo. OMG, Éponine from Les Mis would be ideal. I’ve never been “troubled” before, and I’ve never channeled a depressed celebrity, so it would be a challenge. One I am ready to embrace.

  Anyway, back to the mall. I have a modest chest, flat abs, and a Rubenesque undercarriage. I know it’s pointless to be upset about things you can’t change, especially body parts, and double-especially healthy ones. But according to the Old Navy denim bar, I’m a “pear.” And let’s be honest, there aren’t a ton of leading roles for pears. So I left in a huff without trying anything on.

  Audri said I could try out for a Fruit of the Loom commercial. We cracked up all the way to Jamba Juice. Then I got upset again because that place is all fruit and I felt mocked.

  While browsing at Forever 21, Audri said there are a lot of ample-bottomed stars, like Jennifer Lopez, Jessica Biel, Maria Menounos, and the Dove models. She offered to trade bodies with me because she’s a “celery.” She dangled her skinny arms by her shapeless hips to prove it.

  Curves are sexy. (Audri. Suddenly an authority.) Trust me, Sher, boys prefer pears to celeries.

  Why?

  More to sink their teeth into.

  I practically choked on my Five Fruit Frenzy because just as she was saying that, three semi-hotties walked by and heard the whole thing.

  When did you become such an expert? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. (It felt so good to be back at the mall laughing with Audri, I didn’t want to ruin the moment.)

  Audri and I have been sole mates since first grade. FYI, that was not a spelling mistake. We call each other sole mates because yes, we are soul mates, but we are also sole mates because we’re all we need.

  She spent all summer at sleepaway camp because her parents were going through a divorce and they needed “space.” It felt like my entire left side was missing. I worked at Retirement Village to stay busy. You’d be surprised how much money you can earn reading books to the elderly. I made $475 and an extra $63 in tips because I made an effort to enunciate and used a different voice for each character.

  So I had all this cash and Audri had guilt money from her mother so we loaded up the dressing room with colorful skinny jeans. This o’course made me crave Skittles, which reminded me of tasting the rainbow, which made me think of my Lucky Charms burp, which flashed me back to the first day of school. I asked Audri what she thought of Noble so far.

  It’s kinda hard.

  I know. I already have math homework and a social studies essay due Monday.

  Same.

  We should get glasses at CVS and channel Alex from Modern Family.

  I was expecting Audri to say “same” again because she always agrees with me. But she said, I’d rather be Haley because she gets tons of guys and Noble has mucho cute ones.

  Any One Direction-ers? (Harry Styles is my favorite.)

  Hundreds. Audri checked her celery butt in the three-way mirror. I need tighter.

  It was totally weird to hear her say that because Audri has never really talked about boys or tight clothes like that before. I wanted to ask her if she learned it from sleepaway camp but I didn’t want to sound like a prude so I told her about the guy in my English class who was looking at me and drawing hearts.

  Babe? (Audri.)

  The talking pig?

  No. Babe as in cute. Is he cute?

  I guess. (Me. Annoyed that I’m having a hard time zipping up a pair of red skinny jeans.)

  Cute enough for tongue?

  Audri!!!

  Well?

  He’s kinda shy.

  That means he likes you.

  You mean he likes pears. (Me, kicking off the tight jeans and cursing my Rubenesque undercarriage.)

  Audri gripped my chin and turned my head to face the mirror.

  Sheridan Spencer, you are super hot and everyone knows it. Wavy blond hair, caramel eyes, zero blemishes. Guys always check you out and you always get the lead in plays. And it’s, like, impossible for you to look ugly in a head shot.

  I Mona Lisa smiled at my reflection. Audri was right about one thing: The lens loves my flat round face. Audri, who is more on the pointy side, thinks she photographs like a rodent. Templeton from Charlotte’s Web to be specific, especially when the camera gives her red-eye. I still think she’s pretty in an Emma Watson kind of way.

  I wanted to ask her why my ratings are so low this season. Or why no one is making an effort to talk to me if I’m so “super hot.” But Mrs. Levinsky at Retirement Village said low self-esteem gives women wrinkles. And that a performer with my abilities should act confident when she doesn’t feel it. She made me promise not to put myself down and then passed, like, two days later. So I held my tongue in honor of her dying wish.

  Anyone cool in your classes? (Me. While Audri is paying for a see-through tank top even though winter is on the way and it’s been raining for days.)

  There’s this one guy in American History. I think his name is Jagger…

  Reddish-brown hair? Thin? Indie band-ish? Yeah, we’re in English together.

  I heard his parents are on death row.

  What? Why?

  Not sure yet. But I do know he lives alone and is allowed to sign his own report cards. I’d say that makes him “cool.”

  I guess.

  I should sit with him at lunch one day.

  What about girls? Any cool ones?

  A few have introduced themselves but… I dunno, Noble is kinda different. It’s like everyone is more into the school part of school than the fun part.

  Exactly. (Yay. She hadn’t met anyone she liked yet either.)

  Where to now?

  I shrugged because I really didn’t know. All I wanted to do was go home and journal. Weird, I know. But it’s what I was feeling so I owned it. Oprah would have been proud.

  On the ride home Audri and I agreed that if we did everything together like carpool, study, act, and have sleepovers on the weekends she’s not in Montclair with her dad, we wouldn’t feel so separated. Audri even suggested we leave secret notes for each other in the cafeteria since she has early lunch and I have late. How cute is that?

  The mall was great even though I didn’t buy anything. The plans I made with Audri helped me feel better than a thousand costumes ever could.

  END SCENE.

  Friday

  I’m in my room waiting to Skype Amelia. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for three days so she could tell me how to write about feelings. But she’s been too busy with college and needed to “set a time.” Friday at 6:40 PM is our “time.” I swear. She can be so—

  Okay, just got off Skype. For someone so “busy” she certainly had “time” to bore me with the differences between the female and male brain and how we “process emotions.” Can’t she just answer the question?

&nbs
p; This was me: Hey A, I’m supposed to write 250 pages about my feelings. What do I do?

  This was her: Oh, wow! How cool. Who is the teacher? Is she new? Sorry. That was wrong of me to assume she’s a woman. But something tells me she is. Is she? (I nod that she is. Amelia looks proud of herself). Journaling should be mandatory in high school, especially for boys. They have such a hard time expressing (yawn = deaf)… think about Dad and… (yawn = deaf)… Andrew stop yawning, it’s rude… this is crucial… manage stress… reduce the risk of heart attack… (bored = deaf)… not to mention a better husband and father, especially to young…

  Mom’s calling me for dinner.

  That was me interrupting because my legs were getting restless.

  Any tips? You know, on how to do it? What do I talk about?

  HER: Write about the most important thing that happens to you each day and how it makes you feeeeel. Once you get more comfortable with that process we can take it further, more along the lines of—

  ME: Coming, Mom! Gotta go. Thanks, Amelia. Love ya.

  Amelia is super smart but she’s so serious. Then there’s Mandy, who’s way more into her slick boyfriend Gardner and fashion and stuff. She’s cool too but they’re both kind of annoying. I would never hang out with a girl like Amelia or Mandy. It would be cool to find one who’s a mix of both, smart and into girl stuff. A sister-mutt.

  Anyway, I got Amelia’s point. Write about the most important things that happen each day and how they made me feel. So here’s today.

  School dragged.

  Had lunch with Hud, Coops, and four girls who whispered and giggled.

  Six more days until basketball tryouts.

  No hoops after school again because it’s raining.

  Feeling = Bored.

  Bubbie Libby said we should gather the animals and build an ark. I’ll donate the two Malteses Mom bought to replace Amelia. We’ve had them for three weeks. All they do is yap and poop on the carpet in the TV room. Mandy won’t walk them in the rain because she got a blowout. My parents can’t because they work late. Bubbie says low air pressure gives her joint pain. And I refuse to walk dogs that wear matching outfits and pink hair bows. Besides, I still don’t know their names. One day it’s Maybelline and Revlon. Then it’s Vanilla and Blanca or Ellen and Portia. No one can agree. I told Dad we shouldn’t name them anything. That way when no one is talking they’ll think we’re calling them and they’ll come. Dad said someone is always talking in this house so that would never work. He’s right.