How Not to Spend Your Senior Year

by Cameron Dokey

  “Well you don’t have to get all bent about it,” Diane said.

  A spontaneous round of laughter erupted, effectively putting an end to the discussion. Even Mark joined in, though I noticed he kept his eyes on me, their expression somehow managing to be both thoughtful and sharp all at the same time.

  “Wait a minute. I am just about to be brilliant!” Rob suddenly exclaimed.

  Great. So precisely what I do not need, I thought.

  “I don’t suppose I could talk you out of it,” I said aloud.

  “The exchange starts next week, doesn’t it?” Rob said, completely ignoring me and turning to Mark.

  Mark’s eyebrows shot up. He nodded. “On Monday.”

  “The what?” I asked. Not that I was really all that sure I wanted to know.

  “The exchange,” Rob said once more. “The inter–high school journalism exchange. It’s happening with all the high schools in town. One staff member from each paper is trading places with their counterpart at another, then writing about what it’s like to be a senior somewhere else.

  “It’s sort of a citywide special interest story: ‘How the Other School Lives.’ Kind of a cool idea, if I do say so myself.”

  “That’s because you thought of it,” somebody commented.

  Rob grinned. “Hey, can I help it if I know a good idea when I think of one? My point is this: Beacon is our partner in the exchange! We’re about to become the envy of every other high school paper in town. I say we send Claire to do the exchange and report on the ghost sightings at the same time!”

  “Now wait just a minute,” I began.

  But by now Rob was off and running. He began to sputter around the room like a general planning an elaborate campaign.

  “I should send a photographer along too,” he said. “Just for a couple of days or so. It will be important to capture all those initial candid encounters.”

  “I thought Mark was going to do the exchange,” Diane spoke up.

  Rob’s sputtering stopped abruptly.

  Saved, I thought.

  He couldn’t send me instead of Mark. My guess was he was their star reporter.

  “Mark should definitely be the one to go,” I said.

  “I agree with Rob. Claire should go,” Mark said at the same time.

  “There, see? Mark agrees,” Rob said.

  “You guys cannot be serious,” I said, appalled. “You’re going to send me over there because you think I look like that girl who died. How creepy can you get? Not to mention, how tabloid.”

  “It is not tabloid,” Rob protested. “It’s a perfectly legitimate way of getting a story. The fact that you’re a dead ringer for this girl who died actually makes it all more poignant.”

  “Could we please dispense with the phrase ‘dead ringer’?” I interrupted.

  “If I might put my two cents in,” Mr. Hanlon suddenly spoke up. At the sound of his voice, every head in the room turned toward him. I wasn’t quite sure when he’d come out of his office, but I was glad he had.

  He’ll put a stop to this, I thought.

  “I think that, if handled with sensitivity, Claire’s resemblance to the Beacon student could actually bring out some unusual insights,” Mr. Hanlon said.

  At his words, I felt my heart sink like a stone. How can this be happening? I thought.

  “But I think that it’s important not to lose sight of the original purpose of the exchange: to provide insight into what it’s like to attend a different high school. Having the chance to write an article at a school where people are grieving does present a unique opportunity. And Claire’s resemblance to the student who died might actually enable her to get people to open up in a way they might not otherwise.

  “But the fact that she resembles the friend they’ve lost could also be a two-edged sword. There may be some people who can’t handle the resemblance, who resent Claire for it. She should only go if she feels the situation is one she can handle. She is brand-new to the paper, and our school, after all. Mark does have more experience.”

  “So, what do you think, Lois Lane?” Rob asked. “Are you up for a challenge?”

  “Don’t think that’s going to work,” I said. “You’re not going to get me to say yes just because I don’t want to back down from a challenge.”

  From across the room I saw Mark London grin. A thing that actually made him look almost human. “Nice way to call a bluff.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly. “I’ve been waiting for your seal of approval all morning.”

  “Why don’t Claire and I work together?” Mark proposed, his grin growing a little wider. “She can start the exchange while I get going on some background. If Claire discovers she can’t handle things, we can switch.”

  Talk about a nice way to call a bluff, I thought. Mark’s proposal was so reasonable, he’d pretty much given me no way out. Not only that, he’d added something. While I was busy coping at my old school, he’d be snooping around behind my back, a far-from-thrilling prospect.

  “It’s a good suggestion,” Mr. Hanlon said. “But my feeling is that to be truly in-depth, we need one person’s point of view throughout the entire article. If Claire feels she can handle the additional complications her appearance may present, fine. She can take the assignment. If she prefers not to, Mark will go as originally planned.”

  “Well, Claire? What do you say?” Rob asked.

  Once again I could feel every single eye in the room upon me.

  There’s no way I can turn this down, I thought.

  If I did, the inevitable would happen. People would start to wonder why. There would be whispering. Gossip. And that might lead to the asking of questions I couldn’t afford to answer. It would be bad enough to have Mark snooping around in Jo O’Connor’s background.

  The only way I could get out of it was to break a leg. Or possibly a neck, preferably Mark’s or Rob’s.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll take the assignment.”

  Fifteen

  How Not to Spend Your Senior Year,

  Rule #3:

  No matter how dire things get,

  do not panic.

  It will only make a bad situation even worse. Besides, by the time you’ve reached the hit-the-panic-button stage, it’s way too late. Nothing you do will make a difference anyhow.

  This is a phenomenon known to the ancients as irony. You may be more familiar with the contemporary expression of this concept: Life sucks.

  Particularly weekends.

  He’d only been confined to the apartment a couple of days, but already my dad was pacing like a caged tiger. I vacillated between depression over what had happened the previous week, and terror over the week to come.

  Why had Alex talked about seeing my ghost? It seemed completely unlike him. The only reason that made sense was that he was incredibly upset. A thing that made me feel incredibly guilty. I’d tried to make him feel better and had only made things worse.

  By the time Monday morning rolled around I was completely exhausted. It was almost a relief to stand at the bus stop as usual, even though I was pretty sure I was being transported straight into disaster. Anything was better than sitting in the apartment while my thoughts circled like hungry vultures.

  “You’re Claire Calloway, aren’t you?”

  I turned to see a girl who looked vaguely familiar standing at the stop.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  “Not really,” she acknowledged with a friendly smile. “I’m Julie Banks. We have first period history together. Diane Peterson is a friend of mine.”

  “Diane from journalism class?” I asked as I began to make the connection.

  The bus pulled up to the stop. Julie and I climbed on and she sat down beside me.

  “That’s right,” she nodded. “Diane says you’re going to do that exchange thing over at Beacon. Bet that will be freaky for all concerned.”

  You have absolutely no idea, I thought.


  “I tried to make that point,” I admitted. “Everybody else seems to think it’s a good idea, though. As a result, I didn’t get very far.”

  “When do you start?”

  “This afternoon, I think. Mr. Hanlon will give me the details in class this morning.”

  Julie was silent for a moment. “I saw that girl’s picture in the paper. You really do look like her, you know.”

  Here we go again, I thought.

  “I do know that,” I said. “That doesn’t make us the same person.”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” Julie said at once. “I just—I think you’re handling it really well.”

  She’s trying to be nice, Jo-Claire, I thought. You might try cutting her a little slack.

  “Thanks,” I said. “So, give me the scoop on Mr. Patterson, the history teacher.”

  For the rest of the trip to school, Julie was happily diverted by my clever change of subject.

  “So, we’re all clear about the way this works, right?” Mr. Hanlon asked.

  I nodded. The actual logistics of the inter–high school newspaper exchange were pretty straightforward. For the next several weeks I’d attend a variety of Beacon classes in the morning, then travel across town to Royer during my lunch break and attend my regularly scheduled classes in the afternoon. My Beacon counterpart would do just the opposite, thereby allowing each of us to be a part of our exchange school’s newspaper staff.

  The one exception would be today, when I’d head to Beacon just as soon as my meeting with Mr. Hanlon was over. So far, he’d voiced only one concern. I didn’t have my own transportation.

  “It will make for a hectic schedule for you, Claire,” Mr. Hanlon said. “You’ll probably end up spending most of your lunch period coming across town.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mr. Hanlon,” I assured him. “I can always eat on the bus. And riding is usually easier than fighting crosstown traffic.”

  I’d heard my dad say that. I hoped it would make me sound as if I knew what I was talking about.

  Mr. Hanlon was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

  “You’re sure you still want to go through with this?” he asked quietly. “I sensed some genuine hesitation from you last week. This transportation issue could provide you with a way out.”

  “Without losing face, you mean,” I said.

  “Something like that,” he acknowledged with a smile.

  I hesitated for a moment. I was tempted, I admit. But I couldn’t quite see myself backing out now. I’d still face the same questions that I’d feared last week.

  “To tell you the truth,” I said, “there are things about this assignment that make me uncomfortable. But I can also see that it’s a unique opportunity. If I don’t take it, I’ll probably look back and be sorry. I’m willing to work around the transportation issues if you are.”

  “All right,” Mr. Hanlon nodded. “Fair enough. Remember that you can come to me with any concerns.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hanlon,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, Claire.” He shook my hand. “Good luck.”

  I hope you’ll never know how much I need it, I thought. Tucking my transfer papers into my bag, I headed out of the school and toward the bus stop. I was just about to cross the street when I heard a voice call out:

  “Hey, Calloway. Wait up!”

  Calloway. That’s me! I realized.

  A moment later Mark London thundered up beside me. For a moment my heart gave a surge of hope. Maybe he’d spent the weekend regretting his decision. Now he was going to plead with me to change my mind. I’d pretend not to, then give in at the very last moment. All problems solved.

  “Hello, London,” I said, deciding two could play the last name game. “Change your mind?”

  “Nope,” he said, his voice disgustingly cheerful. “I just saw Mr. Hanlon. He was kind of worried that you didn’t have a ride. How come you don’t have wheels?”

  “I just moved here,” I said. “Riding the bus is a good way to get to know the city. Besides, taking public transportation is more socially responsible.”

  Mark smiled. Once again, I couldn’t help but notice how much nicer he looked when he did that.

  “So, here’s what Hanlon and I worked out. I’ll drive you over and pick you up. For today, at least. After that we can see how it goes.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but it’s completely unnecessary,” I said. “I’m a high school senior, not a kindergartner who needs to have her hand held.”

  Mark’s eyes did this funny thing just then. They flicked down to my hand, then back to my face. I felt this zing shoot straight up my spine.

  “Okay,” he said. “But don’t you even wanna know what kind of car I drive?”

  I gave up. Sometimes it’s easier than arguing.

  “Is it the kind that requires me to pay for gas?”

  “Not today.”

  “Then I love it.”

  “So,” Mark said as he piloted his car, which turned out to be a vintage VW Bug, through the Seattle traffic, “how do you like it here so far?”

  “It’s okay.” I shrugged. I could feel him give me a sidelong glance as we moved through an intersection. “All right,” I confessed with a quick laugh. “I’ll admit it. I love it.”

  “Bet it’s a pretty big change from Buzzard’s Beak,” Mark commented.

  “Buzzard’s Bay,” I said, knowing he was well aware of what the correct name was. “But you’re right.”

  “How come you moved here in the first place?” Mark asked. We pulled to a halt at a stoplight.

  “My dad’s job.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is none of your business,” I said, without heat, as the light turned green. “Could we please dispense with the interview portion of the program? You’re making me wish I’d taken the bus after all.”

  “Okay, okay,” he responded. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “Who says?” I asked. Mark chuckled. We drove for several blocks in silence.

  “You feeling all right about today?” he finally asked.

  I shrugged and nodded all at the same time. “I guess so.”

  Mark gave me a second sidelong glance. “Would you get all bent out of shape if I offered some advice?”

  “Probably,” I said. “Something tells me you’re willing to overlook that fact, though.”

  “And here I thought I was a man of mystery.”

  I decided to let that one slide.

  Mark braked to allow a pedestrian to cross the street, then negotiated a corner. It was a point in his favor that he wasn’t one of those guys who thought he could impress a girl by flashy driving.

  “So,” I said as the car began to pick up speed. We were traveling along a main arterial that bordered the water now. “Are you going to give me that advice or aren’t you?”

  “Well, since you asked . . . ”

  I laughed before I could stop myself. “You’re a pain. You know that, London?”

  “Of course I know it,” he said. “My parents tell me so all the time. It’s just that I was thinking it might be easiest to do the hard stuff first when you get to Beacon.”

  Like any of it is going to be easy, I thought. But then, I did face challenges he didn’t know about.

  “What do you mean, the hard stuff?”

  “The hardest interviews,” he said. “The boyfriend, Alex Crawford. And the best friend—What was her name?”

  “Elaine,” I said. “Elaine Golden.”

  “That’s good,” he nodded. “You’re right there with that name.”

  “I did some homework over the weekend,” I answered shortly. “You’re not the only one who likes to do a good job, you know. Why do you think I should do those interviews first?”

  “So you won’t let the potential freak factor of doing them at all get blown out of proportion. I’ll bet you’re already worried about them, aren’t you?”

  “What if I am?”

  “You see
?” Mark said. “There you go. Defensive already. That’s why you should do the hard ones right off. The freak factor will plummet, and it’ll be easier to focus on the overall assignment.”

  It was good advice, I had to admit.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s good advice, and I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Surprise flickered across his face. He didn’t expect me to admit he’d been right, I thought. For some reason, this made me like him a little better.

  “Don’t mention it,” Mark said.

  “I do have a question, though,” I continued as he pulled into the Beacon High parking lot.

  “Shoot,” Mark said.

  “How come you’re being so nice to me all of a sudden?”

  He gave a bark of surprised laughter. “Hey,” he protested. “I can be nice.”

  “Okay,” I said agreeably. “But why are you?”

  He was silent for a moment. He switched off the car, pulled the keys from the ignition, then, suddenly serious, turned toward me.

  “Let’s just say I’m returning the favor.”

  “When did I do you a favor?” I asked.

  “Last week. That thing about not finding anything wrong with my article.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said. “There was nothing to find.”

  “Exactly,” Mark said. “But you didn’t pretend there was. That’s what Shawna always does. She . . . ” Abruptly frustrated, he ran his hand through his hair. “I’m trying to think of a way to say this that doesn’t make me sound completely full of myself.”

  “You may as well stop trying,” I suggested. “I already think that.”

  He expelled a quick breath and shook his head as if chastising himself for giving me the opening.

  “Are you sure you’re not a kindergartner? You’ve got all the makings of a first-class brat.”

  I smiled sweetly. “Thanks so much.”

  He pulled in a breath. “See, here’s the deal,” he said. “I’m good at what I do on the paper. I want to be good at it. Being a journalist is what I want to be when I grow up. Some people have a hard time with that. They think I want to be good to show them up, when the truth is, it doesn’t have anything to do with them at all.”