I Hate Everyone, Except You

by Clinton Kelly

  Another favorite game of ours was called Would You Rather, in which one of us would present two death-related scenarios and the other would choose the preferable demise. For example, I might ask my four-year-old sister: “Would you rather die being pecked to death by crows or drowning in a kiddie pool full of puke and orange soda?”

  “Orange soda,” she’d answer. “Would you rather get shot in the head or stabbed in the heart?”

  “In the head,” I’d say, “any day of the week.”

  Courtney and I also spent a lot of time practicing cheerleading moves in the backyard. “When you jump, keep your elbows bent,” I’d tell her. “I’ll lift you up from there and then you can stand on my shoulders. Got it?” She would nod, her big green eyes unblinking. She looked like one of those paintings in our pediatrician’s office. “And what do you yell when you’re up there?”

  “Go, defense!”

  “Right!” I had never watched a football game in my life, nor did I intend to. I knew approximately four football-related words. Defense, tackle, touchdown, and . . . ummm . . . ball. So we just rotated through those, Courtney shouting from atop my shoulders: “Get the ball! Yay, a touchdown! Tackle that bastard!” I was going to make sure Courtney became a cheerleader if I had to become a hunchback in the process—because cheerleaders, I was certain at the time, didn’t have a worry in the world.

  Occasionally Terri would open the back door to check on us, the corded kitchen phone wedged against her ear. She was going through a phase in which she had to spend every waking moment talking to her friend—and our former housemate—Lynn. Though Terri and Lynn had each remarried, they seemed to be having a difficult time living five miles apart. No subject, however mundane or highly personal, was off-limits between those two, which was most likely the reason my sister Jodi barely left her room between the ages of twelve and sixteen. They were obsessed with their daughters’ pubescent developments. On any given day in our kitchen you might hear one side of the conversation that went something like this: “I’m making chicken cutlets for dinner. What are you making? . . . Pork is nice, as long as you don’t overcook it. . . . Bra shopping? How did that go? . . . Oh, Candice is a C? Jodi’s still a B-cup, but I’m sure she’ll be a full C by the time she finishes high school. That’s what I was. You know, any bigger and a different kind of man is interested . . .”

  And on it went, all day. The backyard was my and Courtney’s only escape from talk of suburban homemaking and fourteen-year-old-girl parts.

  “Could you please not kill your sister,” Terri would call out to me.

  “I’ll try, Mom,” I’d yell back.

  “I don’t know what he’s doing. He’s got her hair in pigtails and he’s throwing her around the yard.” She shut the door.

  By the time I left for college, I felt pretty sure I had aimed Courtney directly toward my—I mean, her—target: unparalleled popularity! How could she not hit the mark? She exuded all the qualities I never possessed in high school: Self-confidence! Joie de vivre! Willpower! A steely poker face when confronted with disappointed authority figures! (If my parents told me they were “disappointed” in me, I would immediately burst into grotesque sobs. But not Courtney. She would look you straight in the eyes like, You think I give a crap about your opinion of me?) Granted, she was only six, but the kid had star quality.

  I don’t know too much about Courtney’s high school years because I was in my late twenties by that time, and wholly obsessed with my own love life, career, body, social life, and future. Jodi had moved to Japan after college, and I was living in New York City, so Courtney was basically raised by my parents as an only child. She and I would talk on a regular basis, however, so I knew she was a captain of the cheerleading squad and quite popular. And while she could be sweet and silly around me, I could recognize in her when she spoke about the social dynamics of high school a certain ruthlessness, and a weariness, as if staying on top of the pile was taking its toll. I was so proud of her and yet I felt profoundly sorry for her. I guess I had forgotten to mention, after moving out and moving past, that I was just kidding. Those games we had played, they were just games.

  Life went on, as it tends to, if you’re lucky. Courtney married her high school boyfriend after she graduated from college. Today they have two beautiful sons, the older one named Clinton. I got a little choked up when they announced that decision. We talk all the time about things like our marriages and her kids and our parents and our mutual love of wallpaper. And once in a while she asks her big brother for a favor.

  * * *

  “I don’t know, Courtney. High school was different for me,” I said. “You don’t understand.”

  She was quiet on the other end of the line, then said, “You’re right. I probably don’t completely understand, but I think it would be a nice thing for you to do. There are probably a bunch of kids in this class who hate high school as much as you did. Do it for them. Besides, you’re rich and famous. Who the hell cares what a few brats think of you?”

  I accepted the invitation and regretted it immediately. So, I stopped thinking about it until the morning of the graduation ceremony, when I couldn’t ignore it any longer. What did I want to say? What did these kids want to hear? What were they capable of hearing? Would anyone heckle me? Could I cancel? Would they understand just how chic a mustard-brown cap-toe oxford is, especially when paired with a light-gray checked suit?

  “Thank you so much for inviting me here today,” I began. “It really is an honor and a pleasure to speak to the Comsewogue Class of 2014 as you embark upon the next phase of your journey into adulthood. I graduated from this very school in 1987. Every guy had a mullet. Every girl had a perm. And the school looked exactly as it does today, like a Lithuanian prison.

  “Because I graduated twenty-seven years ago, I’m roughly the same age as your parents, which quite frankly is very . . . how do I say this . . . depressing. Like really, really depressing. Have you seen those people? They are so old. But I won’t be too rough on them because I suppose they’re good people. I don’t know that for sure, but you’re here and not in jail so they can’t be all that bad.

  “As I was thinking about what to say to you today, I realized that when I was your age, I never would have taken the advice of some dude who was forty-five. Gross. But I would have listened to that old guy if he told me how to become rich and famous. So, Comsewogue Class of 2014, today I am going to share with you the secrets of becoming rich and famous!

  “Secret Number One: Dump the Fucking Assholes.

  “Dump ’em! There are people in your life who make you feel great about yourself. Keep them around. For as long as possible. Then there are people who will drain your life force, drop by drop, because making you feel empty makes them feel full. Life is a little screwed up like that. But you have a choice today, and every day until your last day on earth, when you find yourself in the company of someone who makes you feel fat or stupid or ugly or worthless or untalented to say, perhaps not even aloud, ‘You’re a real fucking asshole, and I want absolutely nothing to do with you. Have a nice life, because I’m outta here, douchebag.’

  “And if you happen to be dating an asshole, dump him or dump her tonight. And whatever you do, don’t make babies with an asshole. You will be stuck with the asshole for eighteen years, at least.

  “Secret Number Two of Becoming Rich and Famous: Don’t Be a Fucking Asshole.

  “Everybody here today—every student, parent, teacher, grandparent, television host—is guilty of being an asshole at one point or another. We all say insensitive things every once in a while. We all commit little acts that hurt each other from time to time. But your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to be an asshole as rarely as possible.

  “First of all, it’s just the right thing to do, but that might not be enough to convince you. So I will tell you what your parents might not have told you: Not being an asshole can make you more money. When people like you, they give you jobs, they give you raise
s, they give you promotions, they buy your products.

  “And that’s not all! Not being an asshole will make you hotter. I’m not kidding. I went to my twenty-year high school reunion, and all the nicest people were exponentially better-looking than the people who were assholes. It was actually kind of shocking. So if you don’t want to be nice because it’s the right thing to do, be nice because the alternative is that you end up all busted twenty years from now.

  “Secret Number Three of Becoming Rich and Famous: Forget Everything Bad That Has Ever Happened to You.

  “If that sounds impossible to do, you are right. But aspire to it anyway. When you wake up tomorrow morning, you can spend your energy thinking about all the people who have done you wrong: the teacher who gave you a C when you deserved an A; the popular kid who called you a dork; or worse, the coach that never understood your value to the team. You can think about all that stuff—but you will never be able to change it.

  “The energy you spend with your head in the past will never get you closer to the future you dream for yourself. I have been called every name in the book, and I honestly don’t care because . . . What you think of me says more about you than it does about me.

  “I’ll repeat that. What you think about me says more about you than it does about me.

  “That thought might be too deep for you right now, but someday it’s gonna click and you’re gonna be like, That Clinton Kelly is a fucking genius! And I’m gonna be like, Yeah, no shit.

  “Secret Number Four of Becoming Rich and Famous: Do What You Love.

  “It’s as simple as that. If you are going off to college this fall to study accounting because you love numbers and spreadsheets and tax law, that is awesome. If you are going off to college this fall to study accounting because your parents convinced you it will lead to a steady job with good benefits and a 401(k) plan, you . . . are . . . screwed.

  “You’ll probably have to work forty-five years, at least, until you retire. That’s a long time to do something you hate. Find something that makes you happy, whether it’s writing or cars or flowers or sports or fashion or science or travel and do something related to that. Trust me, life is so much more fun when you’re doing something you love.

  “Now, I have a confession to make. I’ve been lying to you. Those are not the secrets to becoming rich and famous. They are the secrets to becoming ridiculously happy, which is so much more important. And let’s be honest, you wouldn’t have listened to me if I had started this speech by saying, ‘These are the four secrets to happiness.’ Lame.

  “And I guess that’s all. Have a nice life, dipshits!”

  The afternoon was sunny and warm, so graduation was held outside on the football field. As I walked across the lawn to the folding chair with my name on it, I couldn’t help but quietly laugh at the absurdity of it all. Me on a football field in a two-thousand-dollar suit. Boys in blue caps and gowns, girls in gold. The marching band playing “Pomp and Circumstance.” Parents, grandparents, siblings sitting on bleachers. My parents and Courtney were out there, too, somewhere, but I couldn’t pick them out of the crowd. It was all so solemn, this rite of passage, as if these four hundred kids were being sent off to fight some epic battle, which of course they were. A battle to be the kind of human you want to be, to fight the fights worth fighting. Maybe a few of them were aware of that, but I doubted it. What did I know at their age? Not much more than that I wanted out, never to return.

  Yet here I was. Back and bigger than ever. And why did I hate it so much in the first place again? It was getting harder and harder to remember. Because kids are jerks? Maybe. But, I’ve learned, as we all must, that adults are jerks too. At least some of them. And that’s why I feel so strongly that if you have the opportunity to surround yourself with people who aren’t jerks, you should not just take it, but grab it, seize it, squeeze the living hell out of it.

  * * *

  I met my parents and Courtney at a local restaurant. They had made an early reservation because Courtney’s husband was watching their kids. When the waitress delivered our drinks, Mike raised his and said, “Excellent speech, son. I’m very proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said.

  “You should take that speech on the road. There’s big money in graduation speeches. Did they pay you for that?”

  “No, Dad. I did it for free.”

  He shrugged. “Next time.”

  “That’s a beautiful suit,” Terri said. “They’re making pant legs narrow again. I like that. It looked very expensive even from far away.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said. I really was glad to hear it. “What about you, Courtney? What did you think of my speech?”

  She smiled a sly smile. “If you gave that speech at my graduation,” she said, “I would have thought you were pretty cool.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Did you hear that, Mom and Dad? The captain of the cheerleaders thinks I’m coooooool.”

  Everyone laughed. “You’re such a spaz,” Courtney said. “Let’s order dinner. I want to be home in time to kiss the boys good night.” So we all opened our menus. There seemed to be a few dozen more options than necessary. Courtney closed hers within fifteen seconds.

  “That was quick,” I said. “Do you know what you want already?”

  “Yep. I’m having the salmon.”

  “That’s such a grown-up choice,” I said.

  She looked at me and scrunched up her nose. “You do realize I’m thirty-three, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Thirty-three. Eighteen. Six. What’s the difference, really.

  AFTERWORD

  Dear Grandma,

  I’m sorry for all the foul language. I hope you don’t think less of me after reading this.

  Love,

  Clinton

  PS: I didn’t tell any of our stories because I can’t bear to share them with anyone. You’re all mine.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you so freakin’ much:

  Kate Dresser, my editor at Gallery Books, for the sage advice regarding the structure and tone of several of these essays. And for your limitless patience with my missed deadlines. And for letting me include some fiction. And for not taking it personally when I completely avoided your phone calls and e-mails for, like, six months. Sorry. I can be ostrich-y at times.

  Jen Bergstrom, at Gallery, for asking me to write this book in the first place. Most of all, however, I will always be most thankful for you inspiring me to adopt a dog all those years ago. “If Jen Bergstrom can do it,” I told Damon, “we certainly can!” (I meant it as a compliment.)

  Jen Robinson, at Gallery, for being a superstar publicist. I always enjoy our car rides together when you can give me the dirt on other authors, like when [REDACTED] and you were on tour and she [REDACTED] with [REDACTED].

  Lauren Galit, my longtime literary agent and longer-time friend, for always being such a calming influence on me. You’re a fantastic cheerleader because you’re not manic or a bitch.

  Bob Chibka, my former professor at BC and current friend, for making me want to be a better writer.

  Infinite thanks to Mike and Terri for all the laughs over the years, but mostly for being the most supportive and encouraging parents a guy could ever ask for.

  My sisters, Jodi and Courtney, I want you to know how incredibly proud of the intelligent, strong, kind women you’ve become. I’d do anything for you and your beautiful families.

  Damon, the smartest decision I ever made was hitching my rickety old wagon to your brilliant star. I love you. Beyond.

  Clinton Kelly is the bestselling author of Freakin’ Fabulous, an Emmy Award–winning cohost of The Chew on ABC, and the former cohost of the wildly popular makeover show What Not to Wear. Originally from Port Jefferson Station, New York, Clinton now resides with his husband, Damon, and dog, Mary, in Manhattan and Connecticut.

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