DC Trip

by Sara Benincasa

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

  factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living

  or dead, or locales is merely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Adaptive Studios

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced,

  distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including

  photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical

  methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher,

  except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical

  reviews and certain other noncommercial uses

  permitted by copyright law.

  Visit us on the web at www.adaptivestudios.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 2015943072

  ISBN 978-0-9960666-3-1

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9864484-5-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Designed by Neuwirth & Associates

  Adaptive Books

  3578 Hayden Avenue, Suite 6

  Culver City, CA 90232

  For Gretchen Rae Bauer Stanford and Rachel Sivan Perry, who did nothing that resembles anything in this book, aside from being excellent friends then and now.

  And for three great high school educators, who did nothing that resembles anything in this book, aside from being excellent role models: Ms. Jennifer Peck-Nolte; Dr. William Fernekes; and especially my grandfather, the late, great Joseph Donnelly.

  From: Alicia Deats

  To: Karen Henry

  Subject: Buckle up, it’s gonna be a wild ride

  Hi Karen. You may be wondering why I’m sending this message to your private email instead of the school email, since it’s about the sophomore class trip. I know we try to keep our faculty mentoring relationship separate from our friendship, which is good because I doubt the principal would appreciate us hanging out in the faculty lounge and talking about how I got you high the night after your first faculty meeting in August. Nor does the principal need to hear us gossip about Hot Brad the Yoga Teacher at our new favorite studio downtown.

  By the way, did you know some people in Flemington still consider yoga to be a “cult-like” activity? Not the principal, obviously, but some of the parents. You’d think an upper-middle-class town in suburban New Jersey would be a little more educated about these things, but I seriously had kids’ parents complain when I taught yoga workshops during gym class my first year here. (You may ask why the hell a social studies teacher would give up her free period in order to teach downward-facing dog to a bunch of hormonal beast children, but I wanted to be Little Miss Helpful.)

  Those conservative parents still try to mess with my curriculum each year. And you should hear how they freak out about Patti Bump’s health and human sexuality course. I don’t know how I ended up in the only consistently Republican county in New Jersey, but life takes us on weird journeys.

  Okay, so, we haven’t really gotten to talk about the sophomore class trip in person. You’ve been running around trying to be the perfect first-year teacher in spite of my warning that this is a totally impossible task. You say yes to everything anyone asks of you, and I swear to Goddess by next year I’m going to have taught you how to say no, Karen. But I get why you’d want to co-chaperone the sophomore class trip. I did the same thing my first year. It sounded fun, it was a chance to get out of the classroom and travel, and the stipend they offer you is surprisingly hefty.

  When I went on my first, and to date only, sophomore class trip, I was your age—twenty-three. I was idealistic and hopeful and excited, just like you. And I’m not going to say that the trip diminished my love for teaching or for this school. In fact, some amazing things happened that changed my life in fantastic ways and made me love this gig even more.

  It was also a royal pain in the butt.

  You know those girls who visit me each year, the ones I introduced you to at Christmas—Gertie, Sivan, and Rachel? They were my favorite students my first year. They’re still my all-time favorite students, although Katy Henk in third period rivals them in greatness. Well, turns out my favorite students were also my most mischievous ones. I just didn’t fully realize it at the time, because they hid some stuff pretty well. But a few years back we all got drunk the day after Thanksgiving and they spilled everything. Everything.

  Then again, so did I.

  You know how I get when I drink.

  Anyway, in the interest of full disclosure, and of hopefully protecting you from the rude awakening I got, I’m going to tell you everything that happened on my first and only sophomore class trip. You are to share this tale with absolutely no one. I one hundred percent trust you, and not just because we have always spotted each other during handstand in yoga class.

  I suggest reading this with a glass of wine. Not two or three glasses—a hungover trip chaperone is an unhappy trip chaperone. But one glass. Sip it slowly and savor the magic I’m about to drop on you.

  And in case anything crazy happens on your trip—don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Love you,

  Alicia

  By the time Gertie, Sivan, and Rachel got to school, the rest of the sophomores were already there. The other students were gathered in a pack on the front lawn of the school, listening to Mr. Kenner and Ms. Deats, so Gertie, Sivan, and Rachel hurried to catch up with them.

  “Ah, Gertrude Santanello-Smith, Sivan Finkelstein, Rachel Miller,” Mr. Kenner said, ignoring the horrified look on Gertie’s face when he used her real name. “How nice of you to join us.”

  “It’s my fault we’re late, Mr. Kenner,” Rachel said sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him. “I’m really sorry. My mother was sick this morning and I had to make breakfast for my father before he left for the church elders committee meeting.” Gertie marveled at how easily a lie formed on Rachel’s lips—they actually were late only because Rachel had taken forever to fix her hair.

  Sivan stared at the ground, because she wasn’t good at maintaining eye contact with disapproving adults. She just wasn’t used to it—adult disapproval was a real rarity in Sivan’s experience. Her professor parents adored her so much they’d even started a PFLAG chapter in her honor at their synagogue, which made Sivan deeply uncomfortable.

  Rachel wasn’t particularly accustomed to adult disapproval, either, but she had no fear of it—not when she was sneaking out of class to blow football players in the bathroom; not when she was doing lines of coke off the actual altar in the chapel at church camp; and certainly not when she was fifteen minutes late for a fucking school trip. Rachel had the kind of blond hair and blue eyes and perfect skin and perfect tits that made her a standout in any crowd, and more than one good Christian son (and father) entertained impure thoughts as she stood in front of the huge megachurch congregation, singing a solo. Meanwhile, her parents beamed proudly from their seats, convinced their daughter was the most religious person since actual Jesus.

  “Okay, Rachel,” Mr. Kenner said, in a way that made it obvious he didn’t believe her. “Well, you’re all here, so let’s get to the important stuff. All of you need to listen up and keep your eyes on me and Ms. Deats. That means you too, Sivan.” Sivan looked up and nodded obediently. Of the three of them, Sivan was probably the one Mr. Kenner liked the most. As long as you tried hard in his class, he liked you, even if you weren’t good at math. That’s why he was most tolerant of Sivan, who tried very hard and happened to be great at math too. Gertie gave it a reasonable shot and made B’s, so she was all right by Mr. Kenner most of the time. Gertie gave everything in life a reasonable shot and played by the rules without fail. But Rachel doodled pictures of cute
animals on her tests and never showed up for the early-morning or after-school tutoring sessions Mr. Kenner offered. She also never did any extra credit assignments to bring up her grade. Therefore, he was obviously indisposed to any fondness toward her, though it seemed to bother her not one bit. Rachel found most men rather amusing, and Mr. Kenner was no exception.

  Then there was Ms. Deats, who was just a real sweetheart. She was nice to everybody, even the kids who were rowdy or disrespectful or made fun of her hippie jewelry. Today she was in top twenty-three-year-old hippie form, wearing a long, flowing purple skirt, Birkenstock sandals, a T-shirt that read BE THE CHANGE, and big Native American dreamcatcher earrings that you just knew she’d bought on a reservation when she went for a sweat lodge ceremony or something where the locals charged the annoying tourists an exorbitant fee for an “authentic” native experience. She was the kind of person who had a story about every article of clothing she wore. She’d tell you too, if you so much as glanced at a chunky turquoise-and-silver bracelet or a rose quartz ring.

  “Okay, students,” Ms. Deats said, clasping her hands together and smiling brightly. “You all know the three strikes, you’re out rule, but the principal requires us to go over it every single time we take you on a trip.” She gave a little chuckle, as if to indicate that she thought it was silly.

  “That’s because it’s very important,” Mr. Kenner said seriously, furrowing his brow. “Three behavioral infractions, and you’re suspended. School trips require good behavior because you are representing Flemington High School to the entire world, especially in Washington, D.C.” He glanced sideways at Ms. Deats. “And there’s an additional rule for this trip.”

  She winced a little. “Well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

  “We need to tell them anyway,” Mr. Kenner said.

  “Okay,” Ms. Deats said reluctantly. “Well, the principal has decided that any student who gets three infractions will not only be suspended from school, but will take summer school classes before being permitted to enter the junior year. This will go on your permanent record.”

  The students looked at each other in disbelief. Some of them groaned. Others said, “What?”

  “That’s not fair!” Brooklynn said. She was standing with Peighton and Kaylee, and they were wearing matching blue T-shirts and white short shorts, because of course they were. What’s the point of being the most popular, best-looking, shittiest girls in school if you don’t wear identical outfits?

  “I mean, I’m obviously not going to do anything wrong,” Brooklynn said, laughing her nasty little laugh and casting a snide glance at Rachel. “But for some of the people who are … prone to misbehavior. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It seems fair to me,” Mr. Kenner said. “That’s the rule.”

  “Well, I’m sure people will behave themselves,” Brooklynn said sweetly, staring at Rachel again. “Even the ones who don’t usually exercise self-control.” Rachel looked right back at her and smiled, waving.

  “Don’t piss her off,” Gertie hissed to Rachel.

  “I don’t care how she feels,” Rachel said at a normal volume. “If she has actual feelings.”

  “What’s that, Rachel?” Mr. Kenner asked sharply.

  “I’m really looking forward to the Air and Space Museum!” Rachel chirped.

  Mr. Kenner’s expression softened a bit. He even had a hint of a smile. “It’s my favorite museum in the world,” he said, and you could tell he meant it. “The history of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration is fascinating.”

  “I agree,” Rachel said. “So much beautiful math.”

  Sivan tried not to snort. Rachel was so ridiculous sometimes.

  When Sivan looked up, Peighton was glowering at her. Brooklynn was staring daggers at Rachel. And Kaylee, who was the stupidest member of the cuntriad, was narrowing her eyes at Gertie. Kaylee had no reason to hate Gertie other than that Peighton already hated Sivan and Brooklynn already hated Rachel.

  Sivan sighed. It was going to be a long trip.

  After the usual directions about behavior and logistics, the students crammed into the bus, finding seats in the complex teen dance of social hierarchy. Alicia and Brian stood on either side of the aisle in the front. Once everybody was seated, Brian cleared his throat loudly. The kids all knew what that meant, and they quieted down and looked at him expectantly.

  “I’ve chaperoned this sophomore D.C. trip for five years,” he said. “And in that time, I have had to suspend exactly one student. We all know about the incident that led to that suspension, and no, we will not be stopping at any lemonade stand near any fireworks outlet in Virginia this time. You will not embarrass yourselves, our school, or us. Got that?” The students nodded mutely.

  Alicia felt it burbling up inside her—that irrepressible urge to say something. She fought it for a moment and then decided that her duty as a teacher superseded her duty as a girl who was trying to get a boy to like her.

  “Of course we understand that it’s developmentally appropriate for you to test boundaries,” she said hastily. “It just wouldn’t be right on this particular trip.” The students tittered a little. Typical Ms. Deats.

  “Everybody stay quiet,” Brian snapped. “Ms. Deats, may I have a word with you?”

  “Of course,” she said, wishing she hadn’t said anything.

  Brian crossed the aisle and bent his head to whisper in her ear.

  “Can you do me a favor?” he said softly.

  “Sure,” she said, the top of her head tingling at how close he was. “Anything. Of course.”

  “Do not undermine me in front of the students,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean to—” she said, but he was already back to lecturing the students.

  “The trip to D.C. takes three hours,” he said. “We won’t stop between here and D.C.”

  “But what if I have to pee?” Kaylee whined. The other cheerleaders on the bus nodded vigorously. Kaylee was the cheer captain—a real feat for a sophomore, but she was very talented—and she possessed a notoriously small bladder. The cheerleaders were used to pulling over on the way to away games so that Kaylee could pee in a gas station or rest stop. Privately, they thought it was kind of funny, but they would never say so in front of their leader—and definitely not in front of her BFFs and co-rulers of the entire school.

  “Obviously, if you can’t hold it, we will pull over, Kaylee.” Brian sighed.

  “I mean, I have a medical issue,” Kaylee said. “My mother is a doctor and she wrote a note that says …”

  “We know about your mother’s notes, Kaylee,” Brian said. “She has sent me several over the years. I am well aware of your condition and if it proves to be a problem, you let us know and we will pull over at a rest stop.”

  “Good,” Kaylee said. “Because I have a note. From a doctor. Who is my mother.”

  Brian nodded wearily and dropped into his seat. Alicia sat across the aisle from him, nervously wringing her hands together. The bus lurched into action, and as they turned out of the parking lot, Alicia wondered if she should bother apologizing, and if she did apologize, what she’d say, exactly, and if she’d be apologizing just for stepping on his authority today or if she could work in an apology about the thing after Chili’s.

  Oh, God. The thing after Chili’s.

  Alicia was a first-year teacher at Flemington High School, and she’d been really nervous at the introductory faculty mixer back in August. It was held at Chili’s, which Alicia thought was kind of ridiculous when you considered there were some actual great independently owned and operated establishments in the area, but whatever. And everyone wore these stupid name tags, and Alicia drew a heart and a smiley face on hers but didn’t write her name, because she thought that might be a fun and unusual way to start a conversation. (It had worked at her RA training her senior year at Hampshire. Of course, there were only 10 RAs at Hampshire, and there were 40 faculty and staff members at this mixer.) Anyway, nobody see
med to respond to her eager smile and abundant use of eye contact, so she gave up and nursed a gigantic margarita in the corner at a table by herself. She was fairly certain it was made with high fructose corn syrup, but she needed something in a pinch, and the margarita jumped out at her on the menu. She was staring down into its electric blue depths, wondering exactly what kinds of terrible chemicals she was ingesting, when she heard someone clear their throat.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said. “Is this seat taken?”

  Alicia looked up, confused, and her eyes widened. For standing there, his head framed in the glow of a big-screen bar TV, was the most handsome man Alicia had seen in—well, maybe ever. At least since she had met her college boyfriend, Pendragon, whose real name was Arthur and had blond dreadlocks. He’d dropped out midway through junior year in order to manage an organic lavender farm in Vermont. This guy, with his dark hair and perfect cheekbones and glasses, was even more gorgeous than Pendragon/Arthur. He looked like Clark Kent. He was holding a glass of water.

  “Well, is it?” the man asked solemnly. He seemed nervous.

  “Is what?” Alicia asked dreamily.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asked.

  “Oh!” Alicia said. “Oh, no, it’s—it’s not taken.” As he sank into the chair, she zeroed in on his name tag. In neat capital letters, he had written MR. KENNER.

  “Mr. Kenner,” she said aloud. “Do you have a first name, like the rest of us?”

  “Said the woman with the smiley face and the heart on her name tag,” he observed dryly. Alicia looked down and laughed.

  “I’m Alicia,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Brian,” he said, shaking her hand. He looked around the restaurant and sighed.

  “Don’t you hate these things?” Brian said. “They’re so boring.”

  “This is my first one,” Alicia said. “I’m new.”

  “Oh,” Brian said. “I never know who’s new and who isn’t.”