BACK TO PRESENT DAY. STILL RAINING. STILL SOAKED. STILL NUMB TO IT ALL.
The most heinous part of this whole ordeal? Mr. Kimball posted the cast list on Friday. Audri did not make Glinda’s understudy. She got Elphaba. The bad witch. The lead. The role I played last year. Octavia got Glinda. And I, Sheridan Spencer, have been cast as Glinda’s underst—
Dad’s here.
To Be Continued…
END SCENE.
INT. BMW M5—LATE AFTERNOON.
Dad is going on about some new salesman he hired—a junior at Noble. Someone who reminds him of himself when he was starting out. I keep saying cool and sounds great but I’m journaling instead. Duffy biked up to the Pick and Flick right when Dad pulled up, and even though I get carsick I have to put quill to paper while our conversation is still fresh in my head.
Were you on vacation? (Me.)
No, why?
You weren’t in English today and you’re all tanned.
It’s not a tan. I have a fever.
Then why are you here? School’s over.
Delivering a check to my basketball coach.
Why did you ride your bike in the rain if you’re sick?
I don’t have a driver’s license. (Duffy.) Why do you look like you were at a funeral?
I was.
Whose?
My own.
We laughed.
Why are we asking each other so many questions? (Him.)
Why do you think?
We laughed again.
Where are you going now? (Him, looking at my dad’s car.)
To sing show tunes for my old Barbies.
Break a leg. (Him.)
Did you just say ‘break a leg’?
Yeah, sorry. I’m kinda superstitious. It means—
I know what it means.
Must stop writing. Feel carsick.
Okay, better. Anyway, I can’t believe Duffy knew what break a—
Just puked.
I wish I could channel the end of a movie and fade out.
To Be Continued…
END SCENE.
Monday
Feeling = Slick.
I had no choice.
My parents are in the red. Amelia lectured me on “the character-building benefits of delayed gratification” and Bubbie Libby has $20 Canadian. Mandy could get me an interview at Abercrombie, but I needed the money right away.
ME: Can Gardner help?
MANDY: His parents are in the red too.
ME: Then how is he rolling in green?
MANDY: He works.
ME: Where? Italian Vogue?
Mandy looked impressed by my reference. I only knew Vogue came in Italian because the magazine was on her desk with a ton of junk from CVS.
MANDY: Why don’t you play on the freshman team?
ME: Why don’t you date Coops?
Mandy was on her bed. She knocked over a bottle of yellow nail polish when I said that.
MANDY: Seriously?
ME: Seriously, what?
MANDY: Leaving Varsity to play Freshman is like me dumping Gardner for Coops?
ME: Worse.
MANDY: Fine.
She picked up her cell with her palms and said, “Call G-licious.”
SIRI: Cal-ling Gee-liss-i-us.
She put Gardner on speakerphone and told him I needed money. Gardner made me swear on my basketball career that I would never tell another living human what he was about to tell me.
ME: I swear.
He said he could get me the money if I skipped school on Monday.
ME: No prob.
GARDNER: Meet me at Regal Park. 8:00 AM. No hoodies or taped-up shoes. You sleep in a home, not a refrigerator box. Dress like it. Mandy, take me off speaker.
My sister poked the phone with her elbow and brought it to her ear. Her hair got stuck in her wet nail polish.
MANDY: Yeah… I can pull some stuff from Abercrombie… he will… he won’t… yes you can trust him… okay… thanks G-lish… L Y 2…
Feeling = Mad at my parents.
If they weren’t in the red I would have told Gardner I’d rather look like I came from a box than an Abercrombie sale. I wouldn’t have spent my Sunday at the mall with Mandy—where I had to hide from Lily, Vanessa, and Blake so they wouldn’t see me with shopping bags covered in naked dudes. And I definitely would not have accepted this slick new job. Correction. Slick new “lifestyle.”
That’s how Anton, my “style sensei,” suggests I “view” this “shopportunity.”
Anton is the owner of Trendemic. Trendemic is “a marketing company that turns products into trends and designers into millionaires.”
I spent five hours in his secret Mission: Impossible headquarters. I was interviewed, measured, weighed, photographed, spray tanned, manicured, and allergy tested. Then I was hired. Correction. “Contracted.”
ANTON: As of today you are no longer Andrew Duffy. You are an “It Guy.” A human billboard. A tastemaker. A 3-D, HD, breathing advurt-es-mint.
ME: Huh?
ANTON: Your job is to model clothes by avant-garde designers. Enjoy revolutionary snack foods and savor revolutionary drinks in public. Scent your body parts with mists that conjure images of far-off places. Use our sporting gear, hair products, accessories, and high-tech footwear in the presence of your wealthy peers. Make it look… sexy. Crucial for social success. A cinch to buy. Because the more they spend, my accessibly handsome It Guy, the more you make.
The lights dimmed. Video started to play on the LCD screen behind his desk. Italian Vogue –type clothes, veggie chips in metallic bags, fur-covered sunglasses… I started to sweat through my Abercrombie Henley. (Why’s it called a Henley?) My pits smelled like baby powder because I ran out of deodorant in the summer so I’ve been using Mandy’s. Thinking about the new things I was going to smell like made me sweat even more.
The freak show ended and the lights came back on.
ME: I have to wear that stuff?
ANTON: Inspiring, isn’t it? Each week a box will arrive at your house with the latest and greatest. Wear it, eat it, drink it, spritz it and they will come.
ME: Who will?
ANTON: The fourteen-to-twenty-five-year-old males.
ME: For what?
ANTON: For what you have. They’ll compliment you. You tell them you have a hookup. You can get them the same thing at a discounted rate. Give them the coupon code that arrives with the shipment and send them to the specified website address. They buy it. You get twenty percent. Girls too. Show them our female brands and I’ll give you twenty percent of that too.
ME: The thing is, Anton—
ANTON: Sensei.
ME: Sensei, I need twenty-five hundred today.
ANTON: Sign this contract and I will give you an advance. You’re sixteen, right?
ME: Actually, I’m only—
ANTON: Of course you are.
He gave me a stack of papers and told me to take my time reading them.
I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was showing up at school in tight red jeans and a white belt. Cowhide blazers and shirts with different colored buttons. Logos! What would Hud and Coops say? They’d know something was up. What would I tell them? What could I tell them? I had to walk away. I had to run.
How could I, though? The only thing I ever wanted was to play Varsity. If I quit, Hud and Coops would know something was up and it’s not like I could tell them about the bankrupt thing. I promised my dad.
I told myself that this job is temporary. I could make the money back in a few weeks and then It-quit. Anyway, Dennis Rodman wore lipstick. He dyed his hair green. He dressed like a bride. He pierced his face. And he was inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame, so.
I signed all twenty pages. Now I’m in the red too.
Anton gave me the check and I rushed it over to Coach Bammer. He was afraid I wouldn’t show. He asked m
e why I looked tanned. I told him I had a fever. Same thing I told Sheridan when I saw her. I wanted to tell her the truth. She seems easy to talk to. But I can’t. I signed a contract. I have no clue what it says but I’m sure keeping this quiet is in there.
Feeling = Hall of Fame here I come.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
On our way to Brooklyn for a belated Rosh Hashanah dinner at Aunt Laura’s. Goodbye 5772 and hello 5773! This new year couldn’t have come at a better time. So what if it’s the Jewish one and we’re celebrating ten days late because Uncle Eli had the stomach flu? A fresh start is a fresh start. And oy, do I need one.
Vanessa and I met on Monday to study for our AP World History test. Only we kind of forgot the studying part. Not to say that the rise and achievements of African civilizations, including but not limited to Axum, Ghana, Kush, Mali, Nubia, and Songhai, are not important. They are. Especially when considering the reasons for their decline. But I already knew about animism and trade systems. What I needed to learn was how to be normal.
My “in” came when Vanessa asked how I got so smart. I told her about my Homie past. I thought she would look at me all weird after that but she said I was lucky because I know so much. I said she was luckier because she’s pretty and everyone likes her.
“Looks are one thing, nothing I can do about that. But popularity? That can be taught.”
“I wish.”
“Trust me,” she muttered. “It’s easier than getting A’s, that’s for sure.”
“Go on.”
Astroturf-green eyes alight, Vanessa leaned across the table and whispered, “Popularity can be achieved in five simple steps.”
I swept our binders to the floor. Finally, information I could use.
“One: Be friendly and outgoing. Smile even if you are unhappy. Say things like, ‘That point you made in class? So true!’ or ‘Mind if I take your picture for my style blog?’ or ‘Who does your extensions?… What do you mean they’re not extensions? Hair like that cannot be real!’
“Two: Stay under the radar. Don’t attract attention. Attention leads to gossip.
“Three: Be a good listener. Ask questions. Keep unpopular opinions to yourself.
“Four: Don’t be a know-it-all. Don’t hog the ball. Don’t brag about good grades or awards. Stay humble.
“Five: Avoid weird clothes or hairstyles that inspire gossip. Stick with stylish, modest outfits. Dress like the people you are trying to befriend. Eat the same foods and drink the same drinks.”
Vanessa leaned back, satisfied. “Easy, right?”
“That’s it?”
“No. I need to cite my source. I found steps one through three at w-w-w-dot—”
“It’s okay,” I said, cutting her off. I didn’t care where she got my new toy. I just wanted to play with it.
I rolled it around and studied it from all angles. It was so simple—and the exact opposite of everything my mother taught me—so it had to work.
“I can do this,” I said. “Everything but step five. My parents are freaks about money.”
“Dip into your computer fund you’re always talking about,” Vanessa said. “Buy a few versatile basics and you’re done.”
She was right. A few A+’s and I’d replenish in no time.
Unfortunately, I got an A-on the AP World History test and Vanessa got a B. But we did end up going to the mall again with Blake, which seemed to cheer her up. Trike even apologized for his bad mood on Sunday. He asked for our home addresses so he could mail us some Friends and Family discount vouchers and started pulling outfits for me.
Blake and Vanessa waited outside the fitting room while I tried everything on. Every time I came out Vanessa said something about my cute body and how she had no clue I was so tiny. Blake agreed.
I paid $267.72 for two pairs of skinny jeans and a mint-green tank top from the sale rack.
“As long as your wallet is open—” Blake started.
“What?”
He mimed combing his hair. I hadn’t anticipated the extra expense of a brush but it was worth it. I spent $298.49 and I look like a million bucks. How’s that for a good investment?
We just pulled into Aunt Laura’s driveway. I am not wearing my new clothes. Mom would pull me from Pub if she knew I tapped my savings for clothes. She would also pull me if she knew about the A-.
But all of that is so 5772. Why go there?
Shalom.
Sept. 27.
I signed up for the Noble debate team.
Judge.
You won’t be the first.
I’m a lanky dude with shaggy hair. I dwell on the edge of society. I don’t dress to impress but to avoid arrest. Dudes like me are usually artists or rock stars. Poets or protesters. Not members of the debate team. Because debates are arguments with rules. And Jagger doesn’t do rules.
I do scholarships though.
Colleges don’t give those away to kids who play guitar in the garage. Besides, there is no garage at the pet store. Just a storage cube where Randy keeps the bugs and rodents I feed to bigger bugs and rodents.
The arts are for rich kids who can afford to take risks.
Dudes like me have to make a choice.
Feed your soul or your stomach?
Debate that.
Today’s topic was the death penalty.
We were about to pick sides when Vanessa Riley walks in. A late sign-up. Most of the guys looked at each other because she’s pretty. They can have her. I’m more of a quirk-man. Mr. Cannon welcomed her and asked if she’d like to hit the ground running.
She surprised us all and said sure, I’ll speak for the proposition.
Mr. Cannon asked who wanted to take the opposition.
Guys wanted to date, not debate, girls like Vanessa. So I volunteered.
I’d rather eat dog biscuits for Christmas than be the center of attention. But this was more than a topic. It was the story of my life—a story ending with my parents’ deaths.
I walked to the podium. Chairs creaked. Spectators were settling in for what promised to be an entertaining match. Beauty versus Beast.
Beauty proved to be a worthy opponent.
Her arguments for the death penalty:
– Important tool to preserve law and order.
– Deters crime.
– Costs the taxpayers less than life imprisonment.
– Honors the victim.
– Ensures this criminal will never be back on the streets.
My arguments against the death penalty:
– Criminals don’t consider punishment when they commit their crimes so it’s not a deterrent.
– Wrongly gives the government the power to take human life.
– Perpetuates social injustice by targeting people of color and low incomes.
– Lethal injection is the easy way out. Jail is worse.
Turns out Beauty had brains but Beast had heart.
It was time for the closing rebuttal.
Beauty did a fine job summing up her argument. I did the same. And then I added this:
My mother and father are on death row. They avenged a minor who was the victim of a heinous bully attack. Now they are paying for it with their lives. And mine. On June 1, 2014, I will be an orphan. This is why I am opposed to the death penalty.
The spectators were still.
Then they were not. They cheered and whistled. I won. Everyone in the club had questions. Condolences. Invitations to eat with their families. I accepted them all.
Vanessa ran for the door.
I went to look for her but found Audri instead.
She was wearing a yellow tennis skirt and a white tank top. I forgot about Vanessa.
Audri joined the tennis team. We won’t be able to have lunch together because that’s when her partner likes to practice.
She said we’ll have to find other times to hang out.
I offered her a ri
de home on my bike.
She accepted.
I gave her my seat and stood behind her, pedaling. Her hair blew against my face. I smelled strawberries. I’d rather look at Audri’s blue glasses than Vanessa’s green eyes.
We stood outside her house for a while. She didn’t want to go in. She had just spent the weekend with her dad but she still missed him. She missed having him at home. She cried.
She apologized for crying. I told her not to. I know what it’s like to miss family. I told her I cry about it sometimes too.
She asked if she could tell me something. Something she’d never told anyone. Not even her best friend Sheridan. I said of course.
Last March, on that crazy snow day, school closed early. Audri and Sheridan thought it would be fun to walk home in the storm so they didn’t call home for a ride. Soaked and freezing, she hurried up the steps to her house. Her mom was home too. She could see her through the window. She was with a man in a suit. She couldn’t see his face, only his back. Still, it was obvious what they were doing. Audri took their picture with her phone and then hid in the garage until he left. She sat on the washing machine, shivering and crying for two hours.
She didn’t tell her mother what she saw. Telling her would mean talking to her, and she never wanted to speak to her again. So Audri printed the picture and mailed it anonymously to her father. She hoped they would talk about it, realize it was a misunderstanding, and everything would be fine.
It wasn’t.
Her parents fought for months.
Her father moved out.
Audri blames herself.
Time to feed the pets.
Having a hard time falling asleep.
I can’t believe Audri told me her biggest secret.
I wish I could tell her mine.
September 27th
OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygod
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OH MY GOD!
I am at Starbucks decompressing with a decaf caramel latte. Why? Because caffeine would detonate my heart.40 Instead of journaling on a worn velvet couch by a fake fireplace, I should be under police protection. Far away in another town with a new name and a wig. I could be tortured for what I know. Arrested. But I won’t be. Because I won’t use this classified information to my advantage. Even though I want to. Even though I could.
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