by Liz Maccie
I found myself imagining Christine showing up today at West Orange. She told me she was going to wear her white skinny jeans and a tight, fluorescent pink tank top that made her boobs look big. She had also just gotten her nose pierced (she and her mom did it together) and was planning on putting in a black crystal stud.
My parents have hated Christine since the day I met her. They blamed her for my “bad attitude.” My mother insisted I stop hanging out with her after I got suspended, but I blatantly didn’t listen.
“I don’t care that Christine’s mother doesn’t care about what her daughter does with her life. She’s not my daughter, you are. And I’ll tell you something: you’re too young for boys,” my mother said, “and you’re gonna get in trouble and find yourself pregnant, and I will be the last person on earth to raise that baby.”
That’s how my summer vacation started. My parents sat me down and told me that they had sent in an admittance application to Meadowbrook because apparently, in their opinion, I was headed toward self-destruction of inconceivable proportion. After the initial application was accepted, I had to take a series of tests at a local testing center to secure a spot in the sophomore class. My mother forced me to go or she swore I would be grounded for six months. It’s true that I had stopped caring about my grades at West Orange, but I’ll admit my ego did want to prove something. So I aced every test and then, at the bottom of each page, signed my name as “Donald Duck.”
Later that night, my dad returned home from a three-day route up to some pharmaceutical company in Canada. He had on grey overalls with his name embroidered in red on the left pocket. Sitting on the edge of my bed, he crossed his legs and just looked at me. His eyes reminded me of the chocolate chips in a chocolate chip cookie. They were always so warm and inviting. His dark brown hair was slicked back, and his face had some smudges of dirt on it.
“What?” I said.
“I was just wondering how Huey, Dewey, and Louie were doing?”
I pulled the covers over my head. My dad told me that he and my mother warned the Head of Admissions I might try something shifty. I knew my gig was up. He also told me that I had received the highest scores on those tests, compared to everyone else in the incoming sophomore class. From under the covers I mumbled, “Like I care.” But in all honesty, I did.
Another burst of cool air hit me in the face. I had managed to make it to the front of the auditorium without tumbling, or falling, or cracking my head wide open.
I quickly scanned the first two rows, taking in all the unsuspecting freshman. The panic written across so many of their faces. I remember feeling this way last year. A surge of rage filled my chest. I was a sophomore now. It wasn’t fair that I had to feel this way all over again.
I turned and saw that there was only one empty seat, directly in the middle of the third row. Now I had to squeeze my way through people’s legs and book bags. This just sucked.
I started to excuse and pardon my way across the aisle to the open seat. I was skillfully trying not to make eye contact with anyone when the most horrible thing that could happen in this moment…happened to me. I twisted my body around, aiming to sit down gracefully, but somehow I lost my balance and fell. I didn’t fall on the floor or my seat. I fell on a person. Head first, directly onto the lap of a sophomore boy. Instantly I heard a ripple of laughter from the kids sitting in the row behind me.
Wedged between the floor and this kid’s knees, I resolved that my young life was over. The headlines would read, “First Girl Ever to Die of Humiliation,” and I was really okay with that. There’d be no need for an elaborate funeral, just something small and functional.
“Are you okay?” I heard the boy say. “Here, let me help you.”
I felt a hand on my back. I grabbed my purple canvas book bag, which had somehow gotten pushed under his seat, as he put his hand under my right shoulder and helped me to stand. I quickly sat down and stared at the floor. I felt the blood pumping in my face, and I heard my pulse pounding in my ears. The jerks sitting directly behind me were laughing.
Jerk-ass boy number one said, “Wow, you give some good head.” This comment, of course, sent his other jerk-ass friend into complete hysterics.
I was trapped in the middle of the third row, with nowhere to run and absolutely nowhere to hide. I wondered for a split second if incredibly important people, like the President of the United States, ever had to put up with crap like this.
The boy sitting next to me turned around toward the jerk-asses. “Don’t be such douchebags. Will you?”
“Ohhhh, sorry, dude. Didn’t mean to ruin your blow job,” Jerk-Ass One said.
“Whatever, dude.” The boy sitting next to me turned back around and leaned toward me. “Don’t let them bother you. The only blow jobs they know are the ones they give each other.”
I could feel his smile. I felt myself start to smile, too. I mean, his comeback was good, something I might have even said.
I looked up and for the first time, I saw him. There he was, the boy that picked me up off the dirty ground and defended my noble honor. There he was, the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my entire life. He wasn’t physically perfect like one of those male models from J.Crew or Abercrombie & Fitch, but there was just something real about his face. He reminded me of the guy that fed the sea lions at the Turtle Back Zoo, whom I’d had a crush on since I was five.
This boy had dirty blond hair that was messy and sort of flopped over his dark green eyes. His face was really angular, like a piece of art, and he had a big nose, just sort of pointing the way. His lips were full, like two little peachy pillows, but best of all, he was wearing a white, long-sleeved button-down, just like me.
“I’m Thaddeus, or Thad,” he said.
“Roberta. I mean, I’m Roberta…”
Thaddeus tucked his dirty blond hair behind his ear and I was lost. Lost for words, lost for proper sentence structure, and lost for the moisture in my mouth, which seemed to have mysteriously disappeared.
I forced myself to stop staring at him and looked at the stage instead. My heart was racing and thoughts were pinging in my head like a pinball machine. Nobody, absolutely nobody, in this school knew me before.
Maybe this was my chance to start all over.
Maybe this was my chance to be somebody different other than boring, unpopular, disliked…me.
I shifted my backpack on my lap.
Perhaps I had gotten it all wrong.
Perhaps this was the best day of my life.
Go Beavers!
8:22 a.m.
I’ve got to be honest: I’m not entirely sure what “morning meeting” was all about. The Headmaster, Dr. Murphy—who was wearing an ugly green cable-knit sweater under a blazer—made some drawn-out speech about integrity, honor, perseverance, and that we should all support the football team this year.
Dr. Murphy was smaller in stature, but there was something hugely intimidating about him. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly in place, meticulously so, and there was something really controlled about the way he spoke. He felt like a pot of boiling water with its lid on super tight. I wondered if he enjoyed his job. Or his life.
When he finished his speech, Murphy introduced the man who would bring this year’s football team to victory, Coach Andy. Hooray! Coach Andy had on a tight grey-and-maroon velour warm-up suit, and I would swear on my grandmother’s grave that the man had stuffed a sock in his pants.
Coach Andy proudly took the microphone and, to a roar of applause, announced the varsity team’s starting lineup. The team’s captain was a senior named Zach; he was blond, buff, tanned to perfection, and approximately six feet tall. I couldn’t help but feel, even at fifteen, that life was so clichéd. I was willing to bet my left kidney that Zach’s girlfriend was also blonde, skinny, undeniably beautiful, and probably the captain of her own unique organization.
Some kids from the marching band came out and played the school’s “fight song” while a large furry “Mea
dowbrook Beaver” danced down the aisle. Our mascot was a beaver. A furry beaver. Even I could see the irony in this one.
I listened to Thaddeus laugh, and I wondered where he came from. I bet his family lived in ritzy Short Hills and his dad was a politician or something. His mom probably wore lots of diamonds and was very generous to their housekeeper during the holidays. I could see their happy mansion where no one yelled and they all took turns passing the salt.
The beaver ended its interpretive dance while the band swelled to a climax. The kid playing the trombone was turning an unusual shade of red, and I thought it would have been exciting if he passed out, but he didn’t. Some purple and orange balloons were released from a net above the stage, and I thought that the only thing better than being a furry beaver was being a furry beaver whose team colors were purple and orange.
Dr. Murphy ended morning meeting early so that all the “new” kids could have twenty minutes to acquaint themselves with the school. We were given our locker assignments by a jubilant, curly-haired science teacher named Teri.
“And remember,” Teri sparkled like the tinfoil my mom used to cover up leftover ziti, “no Meadowbrook question is ever a stupid question, but not having the courage to ask is stupid.” She flashed a million-dollar smile. I wondered if her pearly white teeth were actually real or the product of good dental insurance.
Kids started to get up and move out of the rows to the aisle. This was my last opportunity to say something undeniably witty and poetic to Thaddeus so that he wouldn’t just remember me as the girl who fell on his crotch.
“Hey, Thaddeus,” I said.
He turned around. “Yeah?”
“Furry beaver…that’s pretty funny.”
Silence.
Oh God, I am nothing but a complete and total loser—
“Yeah, you’re right, it is,” he laughed.
I had made him laugh. This was good. From what I’ve gathered about the girls Anthony has dated, humor is a major asset when deciding whether or not you are adequate dating material.
“Hey, Roberta…”
“Yes?” I practically jumped, hopeful he wanted to talk to me some more.
“You have something red on your upper lip; maybe it’s juice or something. Just thought you’d want to know.”
And he walked away.
Algebra
8:40 a.m.
After cursing Anthony in my head for not telling me the truth about my blotchy, red upper lip and spending fifteen minutes tucked away in the corner of the auditorium, using my compact to try and cover it up, I gave into the fact that it was either red marks or a moustache. I decided the red marks were definitely more socially acceptable, and I promised myself that I would work all next summer at The Cone Zone to afford electrolysis. I blended in one more gob of concealer, threw it in my backpack, and rushed out into the hallway.
Walking quickly down the corridor, I made a right at the corner toward the sophomore lockers. Kids were rushing around, trying to find their first period classes. A certain chaotic energy filled the air. The hallways had that ultraclean smell, like a Windex bottle had exploded. All the floors were covered in this thick, beautiful grey carpet. Seriously, it was nicer than my house. Much nicer.
I saw kids running inside classrooms and closing the doors. Afraid that I was going to be late and have yet another reason to bring unwanted attention to myself, I started to run. My locker was at the corner across from the computer lab. As I quickly turned the numbers on my locker, I fumbled for my combination and found a moist piece of paper instead. I was so nervous earlier that the sweat from my hand had made the ink run, and I couldn’t figure out the last number.
Frustrated, I decided to just lug my book bag around all day when out of nowhere, a multicolored scarf fell over my face and onto the ground in front of me. Utterly confused, I turned to see a boy with thick, brown-rimmed glasses wearing a turquoise blue sweater with black leather elbow patches. Two black straps from a big, overstuffed, green backpack came down across his shoulders. I was a good few inches taller than him, and he kind of reminded me of an elf.
“You’re new here.” He smiled, revealing a mouth full of metal.
I just looked at him like a deer stuck in a megawatt headlight.
“I’m Mervin Kestler. Thank you for the opportunity to introduce myself,” he said as he bowed.
“Umm…hi. I’m Roberta.” I threw my book bag over my shoulder.
Mervin bent down to pick his scarf up. “I noticed you struggling with your locker; please allow me.”
I stepped aside and Mervin put his ear down to my lock, jiggled it a few times, hit the bottom with his foot, and it opened just as the one-minute bell rang.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “How did you do that?”
“I’m a magician by trade, and magicians never reveal their secrets.” He winked, which was magnified by his glasses, and then took off down the hallway.
Utterly baffled by what just happened, I grabbed a few sheets of paper, a pen, and my schedule. Then I threw my book bag into the locker, but realized if I closed the door, I wouldn’t be able to open it again unless I figured out that last number or hunted down Mervin, the elf magician. At this point, I truly didn’t care, so I slammed the door shut.
I walked into my algebra class just as the last bell rang. And sitting in the first row was Mervin. I quickly grabbed a seat in the back. The desk was this beautiful, smooth, dark, almost cherry-colored wood. I hesitated putting my arms across it because I didn’t want to smudge its pristine surface. I decided it best to just keep my hands folded on my lap.
I looked around and counted only ten kids in the entire class. At my old high school, classes never had fewer than thirty kids in them. It was an ideal situation for goofing off. The teachers couldn’t possibly keep an eye on every kid, so you could get away with pretty much anything.
The algebra teacher introduced himself and told us his name was Mr. Wizard. A few kids chuckled. He swore up and down that “Wizard” was his real name. He sort of reminded me of a walrus; Mr. Wizard the walrus. Every three or four words, a big wad of spit would spray out of his mouth, generously showering a kid in the first row. I saw Mervin discreetly duck down a few times.
A girl was sitting in the second row behind Mervin. She was unusually pretty with bright red hair, fair skin, and a ton of freckles. She reminded me of Annie from the musical, Annie. She had on this funky, peach-colored matching top and skirt. Her outfit was perfectly accessorized with awesome red bracelets and a long, silvery necklace. A turquoise blue sash dangled off her waist, and cute silver ballerina flats hugged her small feet. I discreetly looked down at my ugly outfit.
Mr. Wizard explained, with a lot of excess saliva, the Algebra II syllabus. Then he put a problem up on the board. I had always been super good at math; it just came naturally to me. I loved math because there was simply one correct answer. You were either right or wrong, with no in-betweens.
I knew the solution to the problem right away. Mr. Wizard asked for a volunteer, and ten blank faces stared back at him.
I wanted to scream out, “The answer is x=10!” But instead, I didn’t say anything. I’ve learned that it’s easier to stay quiet. That way, you’re less of a target. Mr. Wizard explained that the problem was difficult, but not to worry; in a few weeks, our brains would know exactly what to do. I liked Mr. Wizard. I never really had a teacher who cared. And he seemed to do just that. Care.
Class ended eight minutes early because Mr. Wizard didn’t want to “overwhelm” us on our first day. I debated whether or not I should wait for Mervin. He was gathering his stuff and talking to “Annie.” It would be nice to have at least one person to commiserate with. I lingered, pretending I had dropped something on the floor.
“Hey, Roberta!” I heard Mervin say.
I stood up and acted surprised to see him. “Oh, hey, Mervin. I didn’t know you were in this class.” Right as I said this, I realized how idiotic I must have sounded. I mean, th
ere were only ten kids in the entire class.
Somehow, my comment seemed to pass right over him as he adjusted his huge green backpack across his shoulders. “Math, it’s such a horrible requirement. I hate it.”
“Me too.” I felt a tingle in my stomach because I knew I was lying.
He gestured toward the red-headed girl, “This is Annie.”
You’re kidding me!
“She’s my next-door neighbor. We’ve known each other for, like, ever.”
Annie smiled and gave a little wave. I glanced down at the perfect pink notebook she was carrying. All I had was a few sheets of loose-leaf paper.
There was an awkward silence as the three of us walked out into the fairly empty hallway. I could feel Annie staring at me, checking me out. It made me horribly uncomfortable. All my senses became hyperaware, and with each step, I could hear my ugly brown (fake) leather lace-ups scraping against the carpet.
“Are you wearing a man’s shirt?” Annie finally said, breaking the silence. “The buttons are on the wrong side.”
A wave of dizziness passed over me. I was mortified. I mean, absolutely mortified. I wanted to stick my ballpoint pen in Annie’s eye and call my mother to tell her that she had managed to ruin my life yet again, but instead I just said, “I don’t know…”
“Because I’m like totally into fashion and I just think that’s completely alternative and way cool of you to make such a statement with your clothing.” She smiled.
My overriding desire to stab her eye went away. I couldn’t believe I had just been accepted, even praised, for wearing Kmart men’s clothing. “Well, I do like trying new things.” I hoped she couldn’t tell I was lying.