by Robin Palmer
I may have felt bad for her, but that didn’t mean I was going to cave to her. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just wing it,” I said pushing the speech back toward her.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Before I could answer her, Dr. Carlson, the principal, had finished introducing me, and the applause from my classmates startled me back into the moment. I stood up. Wow. Talk about a complete 180 from the last time I did this.
“Yeah. I’m sure,” I said before making my way toward the stage. As I faced everyone, I could feel my palms start to sweat. “Good morning, fellow students,” I said. “So, um, I’ve got some exciting new developments to share with you in this month’s State of the Class address.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw my neighbor Erica Mandell, who had recently been sent away to one of those wilderness camps. “Erica! Hey! You’re back!” I exclaimed. “I love the new look,” I went on. “You can really see how pretty your eyes are without all that black eyeliner.”
“You know who I am?” she asked, amazed.
“Well, yeah. Of course I do.”
I watched as Brad leaned over to Andrea in the first row. “Why is she talking to yet another unpopular person?” he whispered loudly.
There it was—my entrée into my speech. “That’s a very interesting question you bring up, Brad,” I said.
“It is?” he asked, surprised.
“It is.” Grabbing the microphone from the stand, I stepped out from behind the podium and walked to the edge of the stage. “Over the last week, it’s come to my attention that there’s a real divide between social classes here at Castle Heights. Take the Ramp, for instance—”
“Please don’t take the Ramp,” Andrea moaned. “Please just leave the Ramp to us, like it’s always been, and let’s move on—”
“Who here thinks the Ramp is just as dangerous as the Berlin Wall?” I asked.
“What is she talking about?” Mitch Foster asked. “The Berlin Wall came down in 1989.”
It had? Huh. Seeing that Mitch considered the Encyclopedia Britannica light reading, there was no reason to doubt him. “Exactly! It did,” I said. “But before it came down, it was an ugly reminder of the way that we keep ourselves separate from one another so we can continue to make judgments about each other. Just like the Ramp allows us to do.”
At that, the crowd began to buzz. Buzzing was good, right? It meant that I had hit a nerve. In fact, I was so sure it was good that I was ready to take the plunge.
“Which is why I’ve decided that our only hope for solidarity and equality is for it to be demolished.”
I waited for the applause that I was sure was going to follow. Instead, I got crickets. It was like 1986 all over again.
I tapped the microphone. “Hello? Is this thing on?”
At that, the room went crazy. Phew. It wasn’t like 1986. Obviously they were all so stunned, it just took a moment to compute. In fact, the response was even better than I had expected. I loved knowing that my administration would really be leaving a legacy. A huge smile came over my face. “I can’t tell you how happy I am about your response to this. I had a feeling you’d be excited, but I hadn’t expected all this,” I yelled. “So let’s vote on it—who here thinks the Ramp should be demolished?” I asked.
At that, all the noise stopped, and it was back to crickets.
I tapped on the mike again. “Hello?”
This time it didn’t work. Not one hand went up. I scanned the auditorium looking for Alan Sharp—the guy whose hand had gone up when I gave my last speech, back in 1986, because he had earwax buildup and couldn’t hear me, but this time even his stayed down. Maybe I was just so ahead of the curve that it was going to take a minute for everyone to catch up. “Okay, listen—I know this is a lot to take in right now,” I said. “It would be a huge change for everyone involved—popular or not. Which is why I’m not going to ask that we vote on this right now. All I’m going to ask is that someone seconds the motion I’m putting forth, that we vote on the demolition of the Ramp. Can I at least get that?”
Still nothing.
I looked around before zeroing in on Matt Wondriak and Russell Pogach, the founders—and only members—of the Anarchists for World Peace Club. “What about you guys? You’ll second it, right?”
“Dude, the Ramp is like . . . an institution,” Matt said.
“Totally,” Russell agreed.
“Yeah, but as anarchists, you’re against institutions, remember?”
They looked at each other, confused. I shook my head. “I’ll ask again. Who here will second my motion?”
Rachel Sidar’s hand shot up. I smiled. “I knew I could count on you, Rachel.” Any form of injustice—an animal about to go extinct, an ocean being polluted, a kid being discriminated against—Rachel was on the front lines, leading the charge.
“Actually, I could care less about the Ramp thing,” she replied. “I just had a question. Is that outfit you’re wearing vintage, or did you buy it new?”
I sighed. “It’s new.” Here I had gotten what I thought I wanted—the opportunity to be in power so I could make a difference—and it wasn’t working. “Fine. So much for promoting tolerance and equality and all those other things that admissions counselors look for on college applications. I guess we’ll move on to something you guys really care about. Like . . . I don’t know . . . a vote about whether the vending machines should include 5-Hour Energy drinks—”
Andrea turned to Brad. “I know how much you like them.”
Okay, maybe Andrea wasn’t evil like I thought she was, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t in love with my boyfriend.
And then Jonah’s hand went up.
“Really? But you’re so sensitive to caffeine,” I said, confused, before catching myself. “What I mean is lots of people are sensitive to caffeine—”
“I’m not talking about the energy drinks. I’m seconding your motion.”
“You are?”
He nodded.
I smiled at him as we locked eyes. “Well, thanks for speaking up,” I said softly.
Montana’s arm shot up as well. “I think it should go, too,” she said firmly. As I looked at the two of them—looking like one of those cool couples that I had seen on a Tumblr page about Brooklyn hipsters—the spell was broken. Maybe she thought kissing him was like kissing her brother, but they looked good together. “Thanks,” I said. I should have been happy to get another supporter, but suddenly I felt empty. “Anyone else?” I asked.
No one bit.
“Okay, then. We’ll table this until the next meeting.”
“Thank God,” I heard Andrea say to Brad. “Hopefully by then we’ll have talked some sense into her. Hey, do you know if there’s any sort of studies that show that lots of carbs can make you crazy?”
“I can’t believe you actually want us to eat down there,” Andrea said as we sat on the Ramp at lunch later.
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like that’s something that you’ll have to be worrying about any time in the near future,” I said. I was still bummed about what had happened that morning. It sounded so stuck up to admit it, but I had really thought that my popularity would have gotten me a bunch of supporters.
She and Brad looked at each other before Andrea cleared her throat. “Zoe?”
I looked up from my phone. I couldn’t believe it—in the few hours that had passed since my speech I had actually lost some Facebook friends! “Yeah?”
“Brad and I were talking, and we think it’s time for an intervention.”
“Yeah. Like that show on TV,” Brad added. “But not because you do drugs or anything.”
“For what?”
“Because of the Ramp thing,” Andrea said. “We’re worried about you.”
“That’s sweet, but I’m fine. Better than fine, in fact.” I took a picture of myself. Whoa
. Fake smiling hurt. My first selfie. I posted it on Instagram and waited for the likes to start piling up. Who was I? This wasn’t me. I didn’t care about this stuff. I stood up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Where?” Andrea asked.
“I’m going to take a walk. I’ll see you guys later,” I said as I started to leave.
“Wait—what about tonight?” Brad called after me.
Oh right. Tonight. Our big date.
“Have you given any more thought to that walk on the beach at sunset thing?” he went on. “When I Googled romantic things chicks dig, that was the first thing that came up.”
Andrea sighed. “I love walks at sunset. Those are always my favorite scenes in Nicholas Sparks movies. Especially when there’s a Top Forty ballad playing over it.”
“Yeah, I’m not really a walk in the sunset kind of girl,” I said.
I didn’t know what kind of girl I was anymore.
As I made my way toward the exit, I saw Jonah bussing his tray, so I took a detour. “Thanks for supporting me,” I said as he put his tray on the belt.
He turned, startled. “Oh, you’re welcome.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was a huge deal,” I replied.
Was his face turning red? “I have to say—I was surprised you did that,” he replied. “I didn’t peg you for someone who was so . . . I don’t know . . . radical.”
I laughed. “Is that a compliment?”
Now he was definitely turning red. “I don’t know. I guess.”
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” I said, suddenly wanting to get out of there. What was wrong with me? First I tried everything I could to get Jonah to talk to me, and now that he was, I felt all awkward and wanted to bolt.
Things just got weirder and weirder.
Maybe it was because my ego was out of whack because of the reaction, or lack thereof, to the Ramp idea. But later that day, in study hall, instead of flipping through magazines, or reading my favorite celebrities’ tweets (I didn’t know who this Seth Rogen guy was, but he was hysterical), I decided to try to gain some more support for the ideas I wanted to push forward in my administration. Today’s debacle had shown me that bringing them up during a speech and expecting instant support just wasn’t going to happen. Panning the room, I saw a bunch of members of the Cultural Exchange Club huddled together on the stage. Back in 1986, they had liked to dress in clothes of the country they represented. Like Monique Brower (her real name was Susan, but she had changed it because there really wasn’t a way to make Susan sound French), who had a different beret for every day of the week. And Kunta Solomon (né Michael, an African American kid who was adopted by a Jewish couple), who favored colorful dashiki shirts. Monique and Kunta were still wearing their respective odes to the countries they loved, but today they didn’t look out of place at all. Neither did Russia-loving Aaron Kavorsky, with his T-shirt that read TOLSTOY WAS RIGHT. (Despite the fact that L.A. pretty much never got cold, it didn’t stop him from wearing a fur hat in the winter months.) As I watched them attempt to surreptitiously divvy up a baguette and spread it with Brie, I got an idea.
“Hey, guys,” I said after I made my way over to them. “Mind if I join you?”
From the way their eyes widened (wide eyes plus full mouths equals a trio of moon pies) this was not how they thought they’d be spending their Friday afternoon. They looked at each other and shrugged. “I guess?” Kunta finally said.
I plopped down on the stage next to them, and smiled as if this was exactly how I thought I’d be spending my Friday.
“Do you . . . want some?” Monique said, motioning to the bread and cheese.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, grabbing a hunk of bread and smearing some Brie on it. I took a bite. “Man, if this isn’t an advertisement for spending a semester abroad, I don’t know what is.”
Aaron—who was a little on the nervous side to begin with—was starting to get a little sweaty. “Why are you here?” he finally blurted out.
Obviously he was now a lot on the nervous side. “Okay. I’ll just get to the point,” I said.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean—it’s just that . . .”
“Whenever you talk to us it’s to make fun of us,” Kunta finished.
“I do?”
“Singing ‘It’s a Small World After All’ whenever you pass us?” Monique said.
I cringed. That was just stupid. “I’m sorry about that. I haven’t been myself for a while.” I reached for another piece of bread. “May I?”
They shrugged and nodded.
I added some Brie and popped it in my mouth. “It’s just so good.”
“It would probably be wildly inappropriate for me to ask if I could take a picture of this, right?” Kunta asked.
I nodded.
“I thought so,” he said.
“I want to run an idea by you,” I said. “It’s something I haven’t discussed with anyone yet.”
They looked intrigued.
I looked around to make sure no one else could hear, and then leaned in. “Cultural Kidnapping Day.”
No response.
“What do you think?” I asked excitedly. “Do you like it?”
“Maybe if we knew what it was, we could answer that,” Monique replied.
“Okay, well, in order to address the fact that we’re way too segregated as a student body, I’m thinking of proposing a program where everyone would adopt a friend for a day,” I explained. “Someone from a totally different social group than them.”
Instead of looking at me like I was a genius and that they had just been waiting for someone to come up with such a brilliant idea, they continued to look blank.
“That way, we’ll all get to see that no matter where we sit in the cafeteria, at the end of the day, we’re all just doing our best to figure this life thing out,” I went on. “We all have the same hopes, the same dreams, the same fears—”
“You’re afraid of clowns, too?” Aaron asked excitedly.
“Not exactly. I meant it in, you know, a general way. So what do you think?”
Kunta shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t like it?” I asked, disappointed. “I thought that you guys, out of everyone, would really go for this.”
“How come?” Monique asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Because you’re all about trying to make people aware of new cultures.”
“Yeah, but that’s different,” said Kunta.
“How so?”
“Well, because . . . it’s just . . . the thing is . . .” He looked at the other two. “Help a brother out, guys.”
“Si ce n’est pas casse ne le repare pas,” Monique said.
“I take Spanish,” I said.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” she translated. “Look, between wanting to take the Ramp down, and now this Adopt-A-Friend idea—”
“Cultural Kidnapping,” I correct. “I mean, it’s basically the same thing, but that sounds cuter.”
“—but why go ahead and shake things up?” she continued. “It’s not like it’s not working the way it is.”
I waited for the Just kidding! that I was sure would follow a statement like that, but none came. “Really? You think the way we’re all so divided and so judgey is working?”
“This is high school—that’s the way it’s supposed to be,” Kunta explained. “Haven’t you ever seen a John Hughes movie?”
If he only knew. Not only had I seen them, but I had seen them on the big screen. Whereas he had probably only watched them on his computer. “Sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
“Like I said, it’s really admirable of you—in fact, if I were you, I’d find some way to work that into your college essays—but I don’t think anyone’s going to really go for
it.”
“Yeah,” Kunta agreed. “If anything, it sounds like a lot of work.”
It was amazing. Everyone may have thought of me as being elitist and stuck up, but weren’t they just as bad? Didn’t they keep to themselves and not want to branch out, either?
Before I could tell them that that’s what they were doing (which probably wasn’t a great idea when I was trying to look for support) there was a tap on my shoulder.
“Nerdy Wayne. Sorry—I meant Wayne—” I corrected.
“It’s okay. I know everyone calls me Nerdy Wayne. I’m down with it.”
“Okay, well, that’s good,” I said awkwardly. “So what’s up?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“Sure.”
“Alone?” he asked, pointedly.
There it was again—yet another example of people not wanting to mix.
“Sure.” I turned to the Cultural Crew. “Well, thanks for hearing me out.”
“You’re not going to, like, curse us out for not backing you?” Aaron asked, confused.
“Of course not. What good would that do?”
“It wouldn’t do any good, but that’s, like, you,” Monique said. “It’s what you do.”
I sighed. “Like I said—this is a new me.” How many times was I going to have to say that? “See you around,” I said before following Wayne over to his seat in the way, way back.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I asked around and I know a guy who knows a guy who knows someone who might have some intel about that thing you were asking about,” he whispered.
He was talking so low and fast I could barely understand what he was saying. “Huh?”