It’s just all the other shit we’d fucked up. And if I was going to be honest, I’d have to confess I was the instigator for most of it.
So a lot was churning around in my brain as I tried to figure out what the best next step was for me. I’d reached a point where just about all my enemies hated me at West Hollywood, which is acceptable, but all my friends did too, which wasn’t. And it still killed me that my actions had so completely repulsed Chris. I didn’t know if I could fix everything, I didn’t know if I could fix anything … but I had to do something.
And I’d love to tell you that everything just got better on its own or that I found the perfect solution to fix everything. If my life were a Hollywood movie, Skyler would have turned out to be the sister I never had, one closer in age, one with everything in common with me, a best friend I’d cherish for the rest of my life. Chris would have overlooked the whole breaking-his-trust thing, because “love conquers all,” and everyone has some flaws, right? Anya and Andy wouldn’t be mad at me anymore because they knew they were in the wrong for hooking up behind Emily’s back; and Emily would get “scared straight” after being busted for shoplifting, but she’d get off with a warning because her parents’ lawyer was really good and he also had an incredibly handsome son who happened to be our age and he and Emily would start dating.
Also, Chris would be played by Robert Pattinson and I would be played by Angelina Jolie. Don’t worry about the age discrepancy—it’s my movie, and also, come on—half the stuff Hollywood churns out isn’t believable. (Including the reality shows. Especially the reality shows.)
But this was real life. And the only thing resembling “Hollywood” was the fact that it was the name of the town I lived in.
I couldn’t make Anya like me again. I couldn’t make Chris love me—if he did love me, and I’d like to think he did at one point, at least—again. And I couldn’t make my dad want to be with my mom again, or at least make him not want to be with Skyler’s skank-ass mom.
I can’t control other people. But I can control myself, and I can do what I can to show them how I feel, especially if it’s on an incredibly grand scale—and even if it requires taking a massive risk, one even bigger than all the risks I took this year.
The planning took longer than the execution, and the execution was going to take me all weekend. First I had to write it, to say exactly what I needed it to say. Then I drew it up, every detail, on my laptop, taking all the proper dimensions into consideration. I uploaded it all to my iPad and also put together extensively detailed printouts.
It was Saturday morning, and I was all packed up and ready to leave the house. I had told Mom I’d be staying with Grace overnight. When she asked why I was packing sandwiches to visit Grace, I told her Grace’s family was on this crazy Paleo diet and I wanted to be sure I had the food I liked. She seemed to buy it, or maybe she just didn’t want to argue because she knew the whole separation with Dad was hard on me. Whatever the case, I made it out with my backpack full of sandwiches—enough to sustain me for thirty-six hours—many cans of spray paint, some basic toiletries, and all my designs.
It was time to break into West Hollywood High.
Remember all those budget cuts? Like I said, security was not exactly a priority, which is kind of strange considering all the money they put into this school and all the state-of-the-art stuff in it. I hear they even used to have security guards on the weekends, but when you need to keep fire trucks and police cars on the roads, security at a high school—even a really nice high school—goes by the wayside.
As I packed my Mischief Bag—yes, that’s what I called it, because that sounds so much better than About-to-Commit-a-Felony Bag—I thought back to my last conversation with Noel. Mom and I had taken her to the airport. As screwed up as things were with our family overall—thanks again, Dad—Noel and I had reached a point where we felt much more comfortable sharing aspects of our lives. Mom and I were closer, and Mom and Noel seemed to have forged a better relationship as well. I guess we all needed each other’s support more than ever.
Of course, the irony was that I was about to do something I had to keep secret from both of them. And even though Noel might not approve of the specifics, I knew she’d be behind me in spirit. Before Noel left for her gate at LAX, we talked one last time about How to Be a Hater.
“You know,” I said, “for all the—um—misguided advice, there’s a lot of positive stuff in there too.”
“Of course,” she said. “The author’s a frickin’ genius.”
I smiled. “Maybe you should write a real advice book one day. Not for haters. Just for, you know, kids who lack self-confidence.”
“Maybe, sis,” she said. “But I’m thinking something more like teen vampire fiction.”
“No!”
She smiled, gave me a hug. “No. You stay in touch, Hay.”
“I will, No. You stay in touch too.”
“I will. I swear.”
I smiled at the memory. Noel would understand what I was going to do this weekend. Down the line, she might even say nice things about me in the courtroom.
It wasn’t exactly easy to break into West Hollywood, but thanks to a couple of our more truant Invisibles, I was aware of a security gap that could easily be exploited on a weekend. So of course I took advantage of this to do some vandalism. Well, that’s not what I’d call it, but I knew that’s what others would. I accepted that going in.
It undoubtedly would cost me my CalArts internship.
It could cost me a suspension.
It might very well end up getting me arrested and sent to juvie.
And before I went through the science lab window and added criminal trespassing to my ever-growing long list of crimes, I asked myself, Do you really want to do this?
Hell, yes.
I slid through and went right to work.
* * *
I’m sure some artists want to make money. Some want to effect social change. Some want to make people laugh or cry. But I think all artists just want their work to be seen.
And the work I did at West Hollywood over the weekend, well, it sure as shit was seen. It was seen by the whole administration when they arrived Monday morning. And even before the administrators tried to round up enough tablecloths to cover it up—before giving up because the sucker was just too big—everyone arriving for first period saw it. And they took pictures. And they took video. And they tweeted it and they Facebooked it and they Instagrammed it and they blogged it and they Tumblred it and it was seen. Man oh man, was it ever seen. Only two hours after school had opened—by Dahlia’s estimation, and hers is as expert an estimation as anyone’s—more than 25,000 people had viewed it, or at least portions of it:
My Enormous Super Kick-Ass Comic Strip Mural.
Which happened to be spray-painted all over the halls of West Hollywood High School.
Not all the halls, mind you, but quite a few of them. It really was epic. I’d poured my heart and soul into it, every detail, painting my ass off all day Saturday and most of Sunday, pausing only to grab some fresh air every hour or so before the paint fumes made me insanely dizzy. (How kids can huff that crap to get high I’ll never know, but there’s a lot I still have to figure out.)
The gigantic comic strip mural began at the main entrance, and then branched off through the various hallways, culminating in the cafeteria. It was a massive piece of art, more like a graphic novel with multiple subplots. The administration tried to find a way to cover it up at first, but Principal Dash and the rest gave up quickly. There was absolutely nothing the administration could do about it short of closing the school for the day.
I’d poured my heart out via Krylon spray paint, weaving an amazing true tale of how a girl wanted to become popular, became a hater and hurt all the people she cared about. It had separate vignettes showing how sorry she was and how much she appreciates Chris, Anya and all of “her” friends.
My goal was to make it funny and touching—hoping
to earn the forgiveness of the friends I’d let down. Certain aspects of the strip related to specific people, and I’d designed it so the panel where I apologized appeared right in front of those people’s lockers.
Like any good comic strip, it had a narrative that built as you went along. Each panel of apology built up to the final panel in the cafeteria. The huge final panel expressed all my remorse for becoming a hater: my sorrow for all the jerky stuff I’d done over the year (specific facts omitted, mind you—I’m not stupid) and my declaration that being a hater is idiotic. Tearing down others to make yourself feel better is like burning down your neighbors’ houses to make sure you have the nicest house on the street. You end up all alone and the view sucks.
If I do say so myself, it was mind-blowingly intricate and pretty damn genius.
What’s funny is that I actually skipped the first two periods that day. I knew I would be in a world of trouble anyway, and missing the first two periods wasn’t going to make things that much worse. But thanks to the miracles of social media, I didn’t miss a thing. I saw the Facebook posts and pictures on Instagram and Twitter as soon as my fellow students hit campus. Pictures, video, you name it—they were all over it. I sat at Starbucks with my iPad and drank my coffee—the barista eyeing me and wondering why this kid hadn’t gone to class yet, but not busting me either—enjoying the proceedings, yet also praying I hadn’t just written a death sentence for my future high school graduation.
The calls came in pretty quickly from all the people who mattered most. Chris was the first. We didn’t hash everything out, not by a long shot, but he told me he loved the panel where I apologized to him and said he was really proud of me for using my artistic skills in such a positive and awesome manner. Well, he probably didn’t say it exactly like that, but I can’t quite remember, because I was just so happy to hear from him and I was crying and the barista kept giving me the stink eye but I didn’t care.
Soon after, Anya called too—leave it to my friends, they all know how to talk their way out of class and make a call when they need to. She was touched by the mural, and as such a creative person herself, she told me she’d have to kick my ass because she was so jealous I’d done such an awesome thing … but that would have to wait until I got out of juvie. “Run for it!” she joked just before she had to hang up. “Head for Tijuana!”
I got texts and calls from Andy and Emily and a bunch of the Invisibles, all going on about their amazement, most saying it was the most incredible thing they’d ever seen at a high school, and some saying they didn’t know if a student could spend her entire junior and senior year in detention, but I should probably brace myself for that.
Quite honestly, I knew it could be worse: I could very well get expelled. And deep down, I was more than a little scared that would be enough incentive for my mom to make me move back with her if she left California. Sure, that would get me away from the horror of having Skyler as a stepsister—the very idea still made my blood boil—but I did not want to leave. It was a calculated risk, and I took it.
Now it was time to face the music.
Well, pretty soon. I stalled just a little—long enough to miss about half of third period—before steeling myself for what awaited me at West Hollywood.
That turned out to be the smartest thing I’d done in a long time.
* * *
Here’s what I’d learn later from Mr. Muñez:
Had I been there for first period, I would have been hauled off in handcuffs by the school resource officer and detained at the district’s remedial facility while my parents were called. Principal Dash was going to immediately recommend to the school board that I be expelled, an action he felt he had no choice but to make, given the degree of damage, and one the school superintendent would have demanded as well.
In ninety-nine out of a hundred similar situations, that’s where the story would have ended. It isn’t even a close call: When you break into your school and spray-paint a shitload of it, you definitely get expelled. You almost certainly get charged (as a juvenile, which is only slightly better) with breaking-and-entering and destruction of county property. You take a nosedive into one deep-ass pit that you’ll spend years climbing out of. It’s a mother.
(No, I don’t spend my free time reading legal texts. I looked all this up on Google before I decided to go for it. I had to have some idea of what I was getting into, right?)
So that almost certainly was my fate, and I was ready for it. Not thrilled about it, but ready for it. And as I later learned, that’s exactly what was being discussed as first period went on. Apparently anybody who was anybody in the school system was being consulted on this one. And I guess it went on through second period. And then some other people got consulted. And then there was third period, and I showed up at class—and about three seconds later, no shock here, I was escorted by my teacher to Principal Dash’s office. Not told to go, mind you: escorted.
My parents were already there. This was the first time I’d seen them together since the news of my family falling apart courtesy of dear old dad had come to light, so I wasn’t exactly going to take anything he said about a “moral compass” and “knowing right from wrong” seriously. That said, they were both angry. Words like “disrespectful” and “vandalism” and “criminal” were bandied about.
I was asked to explain myself, and I did, but at the end of it all, I told the principal: “Just read the mural. That’s my story. That’s the best explanation I can give you.”
Principal Dash shook his head. “Hailey, for whatever … aesthetic merit your enormous art piece had, you broke into a school. You permanently defaced school property. Those are serious crimes. The sheriff’s office says it’s up to the school district to determine whether to prosecute. I’m honestly surprised we haven’t been given the go-ahead yet.”
“You think I’m going to be arrested?” I asked. Even though I’d prepared for this, the thought genuinely terrified me. I’d seen some of the kids who went to juvie. They were pretty scary.
The principal sighed. “I just don’t know. It’s not up to me. I’m sorry, but you and your parents should prepare for some very serious consequences. For now, while I’m waiting to hear back from the superintendent, you can go home. You’re on indefinite suspension until we get this hashed out. If you need anything before heading straight home, that’s fine. Mrs. Turley will escort you to your locker—”
“Is that really necessary?” my mom chimed in.
“Let’s just play it safe,” Principal Dash shot back, “unless you want me to have your daughter searched for stray crayons and Sharpies.”
I saw Chris when we were leaving the principal’s office. I gave a hopeful “phone” gesture (holding an imaginary phone to my ear) as subtly as I could and he nodded yes, which was encouraging. I tried to read his face, his eyes, to see if there was a chance that things could go back to how they were. I hoped they could. I wanted that more than anything. But I couldn’t really gauge much of anything from that brief moment.
I knew I should be worried about more serious things, like a life of pressing license plates behind bars—I’m kidding, I think—but I couldn’t help but think about Chris. I’d have to be satisfied that he agreed to call me later. Assuming I had phone privileges, that is.
Things were not pretty when I got home. Mom and Dad must have asked me a million times what the hell I was thinking. I had my printed designs of the mural, and I showed them to my parents. It didn’t exactly satisfy them. Mom worried I’d be tossed in jail. Dad worried that the school would sue us for damages. Both worried that a year from now, I’d be working at Burger King and still trying to pass the GED.
More than anything, we waited. And waited. We expected the knock on the door anytime that day, but it never came. No city police, no sheriff’s deputies, nothing.
My dad called Principal Dash in the morning. The principal said to sit tight, things were still being discussed. I tried to glean what information I could. Anyone
who knows anything about kids knows that electronics are currency, and when someone gets in trouble, those are the first to go. (Which is not to say my allowance wasn’t also docked—hell, it was revoked.)
But though my phone and iPad were taken away, I did have access to my laptop (so I could eventually do my homework), and on Tuesday morning I enjoyed a Facebook page Dahlia had put up called “Free Hailey!” It had photos and videos and comments from tons of people who “Liked” the page—many of them not even West Hollywood students—going on about artistic freedom and the power of art, you name it. And more than a few claimed they would sign a petition for Principal Dash’s firing if I was expelled. I didn’t think that was exactly necessary—the guy was just doing his job, after all—but I appreciated it.
More good news trickled in over the next few days: Principal Dash advised my mom that after a “spirited and passionate debate among faculty and administrators,” the district had chosen not to press criminal charges. (Thank God.) However, it would be billing my family for the costs of cleaning up the mural. I remained on indefinite suspension, though I was allowed to contact my teachers for homework.
The school didn’t wait for me to get back from suspension and do the repainting myself. They hired contractors to come in and paint over my masterwork right away. Mom told me that would be coming out of my allowance until it was paid off or I got a part-time job or whatever, but bottom line: I would be paying for it.
Friday afternoon, I got another bit of great news from the school: I wouldn’t be expelled. I’d serve another full week of suspension in addition to the one I’d already served, but I’d be responsible for all the class work I’d missed in the meantime.
That was just the start of my punishment. I’d be spending long days at school until sophomore graduation: three hours of clean-up detention every day after school. Because my mural was covered up by the time I got back, I would get to clean sinks and toilets, pick up trash on the quad, all that fun stuff.
Confessions of a Hater Page 29