by Jennifer Yu
I was wrong, of course, and it wasn’t long until the next argument escalated, until I was storming out of his house and he was shouting after me that we were done, for real this time, I fucking mean it. But by the time the temporary euphoria of making up wore off and I realized how stupidly naive it was to think that a photograph could ever be anything more than just a photograph, I had already framed it and put it on my desk. And because hope is the cruelest of prisons, I haven’t been able to bring myself to take that one down, either.
—how to do this, Anne. I don’t know how to feel at home here anymore.
You MAKE IT feel like a home, Thomas. You COME HOME AFTER WORK and you SPEND TIME WITH YOUR WIFE AND DAUGHTER. That’s how.
It’s nearly three in the morning now. I wish the walls in my house were thicker. I wish I could text Lin about this. I wish Kevin were here. Mostly, I wish I could go downstairs with a camera and take a picture of my parents that would make them laugh together, if only for one night.
13.
By the time the tension between my parents reaches its apex in the spring, I will have spent many sleepless nights replaying their argument before Ashley’s party, thinking that that fight was the fight that did them in for good.
I don’t realize the significance of that argument at the time, of course. Even as the weeks in September unfurl into the beginning of October and my parents go from fighting once a week to twice a week to permanently snippy, I don’t really think anything of it. There are just so many other things on my mind. My teachers, for starters, seem to be under the impression that with junior year comes an unlimited capacity to do homework. My life becomes a series of worksheets, readings and essays. I start looking forward to weekends because they provide forty-eight uninterrupted hours during which I can catch up on everything I didn’t have time to do during the week. I do so many calculus problems that I begin doodling the integral sign absentmindedly in my other classes. My biology lab partner dislodges Katie from her longstanding position at the top of my “Most Frequently Texted” list. I begin to resent the whole of Europe for fighting so many goddamn wars in the nineteenth century, all of which I am somehow supposed to memorize.
“Why couldn’t they have just signed some kind of permanent peace treaty?” I complain to Lin one afternoon while we’re holed up in her room doing homework.
Lin snorts. “A permanent peace treaty. That’s cute. Wait ’til you see how that worked out in the twentieth century.”
Then there’s cross-country. It’s not that I come to dislike the eight hours a week I spend in practice, because I don’t. The beginning of fall—when the temperature is cooling down and the air around you feels crisp, feels somehow new—has always been my favorite time to run. And running is still the only effective escape that I have from the stress that sometimes feels like it’s taking over my life. Karen says that quitting cross-country is the last thing that I should do, and for once, my therapist and I are on the same page. It’s just that by the time I get home after every practice, it’s already half past five, and the mountain of things I still have to do feels absolutely insurmountable.
To top it all off, there’s Lin. Lin is anxious about Brown. Lin is more anxious about Brown than ever. Lin is so anxious about Brown, in fact, that I start to experience secondhand anxiety about Brown. Sometimes I find myself going down this train of thought while daydreaming in English class: If I get a C on this paper, is it going to tank my GPA? Will Brown think I’m a major slacker if I only take one AP class senior year? Are my SAT scores so bad that even pulling all A’s next semester won’t save me? Wait a second, I haven’t even taken the SATs yet.
Lin is so stressed that even Kevin and Yago have started sitting with us during our shared last period study halls to try and make her feel better, which usually goes something like this:
Kevin: You know, one almost feels bad for Nietzsche. So brilliant, yet so unhappy.
Lin: [Stares at laptop screen.]
Yago: You know what Nietzsche needed? Weed. He needed weed.
Kevin: That’s one suggestion.
Lin: [Stares at laptop screen. Her eye twitches.]
Me: Was Nietzsche a, um, recreational user of many drugs?
Yago: Dunno. But if he was, he definitely wasn’t smoking weed.
Lin: [Stares at laptop screen.]
[An uncomfortable silence descends.]
Yago: Lin, have you considered smoking some weed? I really think it might help.
Not exactly a scene out of a rom-com.
The worst part of it all is that I can’t help but feel somewhat disappointed as the weeks stretch on and Kevin and I remain nothing more than friendly-but-distant acquaintances. No matter how many times I tell myself that the chemistry I thought we had was all in my head, and that I barely even know the guy, and that he’s horribly pretentious, anyway (who reads Beauvoir for fun?), I can’t ignore the fact that when he speaks up in Mulland’s class or slides into the seat next to me in study hall, I feel...well, stupidly giddy. And I can’t help but spend nearly all of my calculus classes in the month after Ashley’s party conjuring up scenarios in my head, all of which seem to end in Kevin professing his feelings for me in deep, philosophical terms that I can barely understand. I spend half of my time feeling swept away by a torrent of irrational desire, and the other half of my time feeling mortified that there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The problem is that the fifty percent of my brain that thinks it might be a good idea to make an innocuous first move—you know, something “casual” and “cool” like asking Kevin if he wants to hang out after school sometime, or striking up a conversation during study hall that doesn’t revolve around Yago’s various drug recommendations—is combated by the other fifty percent of my brain that is terrified of rejection. I replay the following scenario in my head and physically cringe from the mortification so many times that Lin asks me if my anxiety is starting to manifest in a physical tic.
Me: Hey, Kevin. So, uh, no pressure, but, like, do you maybe want to hang out this Friday?
Kevin: Oh, hey, Stella. Is Ashley having another party or something?
Me: Oh. Um, no, she’s not. I meant, you know, just the two of us, together. But not like, just the two of us, alone, together. Like, just the two of us, hanging out together, in a place where there’s more than just the two of us. You know, like a movie theater. Or, um, a zoo? Or...a public library!
Kevin: You...want to go to the library on Friday?
Me: [Melts into the ground, becomes one with the Earth, am reincarnated as an inanimate object that does not bear the burden of socialization.]
“You have to help me,” I say to Katie at lunch one afternoon. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“You’ll get your alone time, Stella,” Katie says. “Sooner or later the unresolved tension will become so unbearable that the two of you will have no choice but to shove each other into the janitor’s closet and rip each other’s clothes off. And my bet,” she adds, smirking, “is on sooner.”
“Are you speaking from personal experience?” Lin asks, looking up from her laptop. There’s a sticky note on it that reminds us that the Early Decision application deadline for Brown is twelve days away.
“Was that supposed to be reassuring?” I ask.
Katie just smiles and tosses her hair—still magnificently purple—behind her shoulder.
“Maybe you should just try to forget about it for a while,” Lin says. “You clearly have a lot on your plate right now, and do you really think that getting with this random mysterious philosophy dude who may or may not have spent his last year on a serial killing spree across the country should be at the top of your priorities list?”
“Hmm,” I say. “I don’t think Kevin’s the serial killer type. He’s too honest. Maybe arson, you know, or—ooh, graffiti. Are there any underpasses in Hartford with Sartre quotes spray-pa
inted on them?”
“Let’s all focus on the facts here,” Katie says. “Which is that Stella thinks this guy is cute, and he clearly thinks that she’s cute, and—”
“Objection,” I say. “There is zero—and I mean zero—evidence supporting that second conclusion.”
“You hung out at Ashley’s party last month,” Katie says. “And he sits with you guys during your study hall.”
“He sits with us from study hall because he’s concerned that Lin is going to go catatonic from the stress of her Brown application,” I say.
“A reasonable concern,” Lin admits.
“And we hung out at Ashley’s party last month because you abandoned Lin and me to make out with Bobby all night and then Lin abandoned me to get high!”
“And who did you turn to in your hour of greatest need?” Katie says. She pretends to swoon.
“The only person available,” I say. “Who happened to be Kevin.”
“Bobby’s friend Markus was available,” Katie says.
“Bobby’s friend Markus? Oh, the one who really likes your boobs? Yeah, I’m sure he’s a riveting conversationalist.”
“Ooooh. Is Kevin a...riveting conversationalist?” Katie’s voice gets low and salacious.
“Okay,” I say, determined to put an end to this conversation. It’s been half an hour and I’ve barely even touched my lunch (although, given the look of today’s “eggplant Bolognese,” that might be a good thing). “Am I into Kevin? Sure. He’s cute and not a total imbecile, which, given the state of our fellow classmates at Bridgemont Academy—”
I gesture around the courtyard. A group of wannabe punks sits to our left, with enough hair dye between the four of them to cover the entire spectrum of visible light. Past them are Brady and his circle of Harvard aspirants, who would probably rather go 0-for-8 on the Ivies than hang out with someone not on the AP track. And in the center of the courtyard, the entire football team is crowded around one completed math worksheet, all jostling for optimal copying position.
“—is unfortunately pretty much where my standards are. But I’m not you, Katie. I’m not the kind of girl who can just waltz into some guy’s brain and, I don’t know, make him want to make out with me.”
“So you do want Kevin to make out with you!” Katie says.
“Is that really what you got out of what I just said?”
“All right, Stella,” Katie says. There’s an air of finality in her voice that means there’s no point in protesting. “Here’s the plan. You’re going to invite him to hang out with us at Homecoming.”
“I’m not going to Homecoming,” I retort immediately. “It’s a glorified high school mating ritu—”
“Not the homecoming dance,” Katie says, rolling her eyes. “I gave up on trying to get you guys to go to that years ago. No, I’m talking about the homecoming pep rally. Sit in the bleachers. Watch the dance team. Rah-rah-Bridgemont, rah-rah-Tigers. That sort of thing. We all have to go, anyway. You might as well tell him to hang out with us while we’re there. And it’s a low-key ask. It’s just like—”
Katie does an impression of me and Kevin talking to each other that makes me want to transfer schools immediately:
“‘Yo, I’m so over these pep rallies.’
“‘Yeah, I know, right?’
“‘Well, Lin, Katie and I are gonna be in bleacher four if you want to suffer through it together.’
“Then, bam. You’re in the bleachers, getting it on.”
“Have you ever considered reading some cutesy chick-lit novels?” I ask. “Because I really think you’re their target audience.”
“Have you ever considered reading some cutesy chick-lit novels?” Katie retorts. “Because I really think your life is in desperate need of some romance.”
“Have either of you ever considered reading East of Eden?” Lin says. “Because it’s the greatest American novel of all time—I don’t know if you guys have heard.”
“Okay, fine,” I say. “Maybe I will ask Kevin and Yago to sit with us during the homecoming rally.”
“You’re going to ask Kevin and Yago to sit with us during the homecoming rally,” Katie says.
“How can you possibly know that?” I ask.
Katie’s smile turns wicked. “Because if you don’t ask him, I will. And I’m sure you can imagine exactly what I’d say.”
14.
“LAAADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOOOOYS AND GIIIRLS! IT’S THE DAY WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR. THE DAY WE’VE BEEN COUNTING DOWN TO SINCE THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. A DAY THAT ONLY COMES ONCE EEEEVERY YEAR. IIIIIIIIT’S HOOOOMECOMIIIIING!”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned at Bridgemont Academy, it’s that pep rallies are serious, serious business. This is not some poorly planned day party where students just mill around the gymnasium cheering halfheartedly until everyone can go home and start pregaming for the football game later in the evening. No, the Bridgemont Academy Homecoming Pep Rally is planned down to the minute. With every cheer, boom from the speakers and dance set to the latest pop hit, the amount of pent-up, repressed teenage energy in the audience doubles, triples, quadruples, until even the alternative, emo kids in the very back of the gym can’t pass off their enjoyment as “ironic.” And yes, even I—avowed hater of unruly crowds and social nobody with zero school spirit—find myself standing and cheering as the band marches around the gymnasium, cymbals clashing, drums pounding.
“It’s funny,” Kevin says over the cheering. “I never would’ve taken you for a pep rally kind of girl.”
“Don’t let the sarcastic exterior fool you, Kevin. Stella can be very enthusiastic when she wants to be. Isn’t that right, Stel?” Katie waves her noisemaker in the air and winks at me while I consider pushing her off the bleachers.
Fortunately, everyone’s attention is diverted back to the floor as the cheerleaders run out in uniforms so tight that it’s a miracle they can move at all, much less do a round-off back handspring while someone backstage cranks the volume up to earsplitting levels.
Jennie von Haller grabs a microphone and shouts: “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT!”
She holds the mic out to the crowd, and the crowd responds: “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT!”
I shoot Kevin a helpless look. Kevin makes a face and rolls his eyes in mock exasperation.
Jennie, now even louder: “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT!”
The crowd, stomping so hard all of the bleachers are shaking: “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT!”
The sound of an airhorn blares through the speakers. Out run the girls’ and guys’ dance teams, who join the cheerleaders on the floor in a routine that is ten percent acrobatics and ninety percent gyrating. Needless to say, it’s a real crowd-pleaser.
“HAS NO ONE NOTICED THAT THIS IS HORRIBLY EMBARRASSING?” I shout over the crowd.
“EVERYONE’S TOO BUSY HAVING FUN!” Katie shouts back.
“I THINK I’M GOING TO GO DEAF!” I say.
“WHAT?” Lin says.
“I THINK I’M GOING TO GO DEAF!” I repeat, shouting as loudly as I can.
Lin shrugs and mouths the words Too loud, can’t hear, before turning back to the action. I turn to look at Kevin, who has an expression somewhere between a grin and a grimace on his face.
“DOROO WANNA GUESS AN EAR?” Kevin says.
He catches the blank expression on my face, opens his mouth as if to repeat himself and then seemingly changes his mind. Instead, he points once at me, then at himself, and finally at the gym doors.
The meaning is obvious, but I’m so distracted by the extreme nervousness that has just detonated in every fiber of my being that I don’t actually manage to give Kevin a response. Instead, I gape at him.
Kevin mistakes my shock for confusion and tr
ies again. He points at the exit and mimes walking with two of his fingers.
“All right, then,” I manage to say, nodding weakly. And I barely have time to turn around and signal to Lin and Katie that I’m leaving—ignoring Katie’s shit-eating grin and Lin’s wink—before Kevin is on his way down the bleacher steps and I’m scrambling to keep up with him.
* * *
The second the metal gym doors clang shut, trapping most of the noise behind us, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“That was...” Kevin starts.
“Loud,” I say.
“Yes. That. It was definitely very loud.”
He makes a face and starts walking, stopping when we reach a set of lockers a few halls down from the auditorium. Then he sinks down to the ground, sitting with his legs extended in front of him, his back slouched against the lockers, his hands folded in his lap. There’s a smile on his face that should be irritating—he is making fun of me, after all—but I can’t bring myself to feel anything remotely resembling anger. Kevin looks so at ease. Like there’s nothing at all unusual about the two of us sitting next to each other right now, in this empty hallway, completely alone.
That thought, of course, is enough to send my pulse skyrocketing again.
“Well, anyway,” Kevin says after silence has settled around us. He leans a little closer and the air between us starts to feel like a flimsy, physical barrier; one that I could reach out and rip right through. “You wanna get out of here?”
He lifts his blue eyes to mine and grins so innocently that it takes me a second to understand what he’s just said.
“Get out of here,” I repeat. “As in, like...”
“As in, like, leave,” Kevin says. “Exit the building. Flee the premises. Abscond, if you will.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right.”
Of course, I think. Of course he wants to get out of here. What did you think the two of you were going to do, Stella? Pace around the halls for three hours?