The New Guy (and Other Senior Year Distractions)

by Amy Spalding

  “I don’t want to be on camera,” I say. “I don’t do this to get attention; I do this to help dogs and our community.”

  “Good,” Natalie says. “Not ‘good’ about dogs and community, which I don’t care about, but we’d have to adjust the lighting if you were on camera. You would look”—she gestures to my hair and face—“washed out.”

  “I use a strong sunblock,” I say. “It’s never too early to take care of your skin.”

  “Then I guess you’re built for print,” she says.

  I wish I felt like more of a formidable opponent against Natalie today, but she had the element of surprise on her side, as well as a TALON-appropriate wardrobe. Since it’s a Stray Rescue day, I’m casual in jeans and a striped T-shirt, but of course Natalie is in a perfectly crisp blazer over a bright white button-down shirt. I wonder what Alex thinks of her; she did bring him aboard TALON his very first day of school. Natalie must have persuasive skills, on top of a newscaster wardrobe. I worry he can’t resist that, and then I worry that I’m worried.

  But, of course, I’m not here to battle Natalie and the rest of TALON today. So I leash up the closest dog I see—a pit mix named Leonard—and head outside. Footsteps thud up behind me, and Leonard and I spin around to see Alex dashing toward me.

  “Jules,” he says, and stops to catch his breath. Don’t find it adorable, don’t find it adorable. “I want to help dogs and the community too. I thought if I did a piece, people might want to adopt dogs, or at least volunteer here too.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Look,” he says, “I don’t want attention.”

  “You told me all about people who’d only do something like this when the camera’s on them,” I say. “This feels exactly like that.”

  “Jules, don’t think that,” he says. “Even if we aren’t—”

  “I can think whatever I want.” I turn from him and continue walking with Leonard. There’s probably a huge chance I’ll end up in the background of the TALON piece, so I keep distracting myself with positive thoughts—Doughnuts! Hanging out with Sadie! A sale at J.Crew this weekend!—so that when I’m in the background, my face won’t give away any of my other feelings.

  When you hear about war heroes, they don’t emerge victorious from easily won battles. TALON might have all the attention now, but I won’t let my side down. I will hold my face at neutral while cameras are around. And before long, I will win this war.

  I don’t want to think about what will happen if I don’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On Friday I’m ready when the TV screen lowers and Natalie’s face appears. TALON might be making their best effort to end almost everything important at Eagle Vista Academy, but they’re not going to keep surprising me.

  This week it doesn’t feel like they’ve scooped us, because their stories have nothing to do with what we’re working on for next week’s issue. They have an interview with a new science teacher, but we already listed his credentials and welcome message in this week’s issue. Kevin tours the school, which looks fine on camera, but we all walk through it every day, so it’s definitely not a scoop. It’s barely even a story, Kevin. Over at the Crest, we’re actually exploring the historical architecture in depth.

  Alex’s segment is last, again. I’ve silently informed every cell in my body that I’ll have to see his face in a place I love on a screen in front of all my women’s history classmates. I’m still afraid I may have audibly taken a giant breath when the camera pans out and Santiago talks about the history of Highland Park Stray Rescue.

  “Awww!” nearly the entire class choruses as the camera pans to dog after dog. Leonard’s on-screen, and so is Lola, and to be honest I may have been one of the awwwers. I think most people are scientifically programmed to loudly react this way to the unexpected appearance of dogs.

  “Are you surviving?” Sadie faux-whispers, reaching over to my desk and squeezing my hand. “I’m trying to survive twice as hard so you don’t have to.”

  “That makes no sense,” I say, but I don’t let go either.

  In our top-level staff meeting after school, we sign off on Monday’s issue pretty quickly. I can tell from how Mr. Wheeler’s shoving stuff into his messenger bag that he thinks the meeting is about to disperse.

  “I think it’s time to launch our next plan of attack at TALON,” I say, flipping through my red notebook. “If they—”

  “‘Plan of attack’?” Mr. Wheeler stops treating his bag like a garbage receptacle and stares at us. “Hey, guys, I know you all care about the paper. I care about the paper too. But—wait, what was the first plan of attack?”

  I know Carlos will be the first to break under any pressure—I can just feel it—so I lock eyes with him. Thatcher’s doing the same thing.

  “Guys, let’s head out. The paper will be fine this year. Next year you’ll all be away at college, and you won’t care about it anymore, trust me.”

  “I’m actually planning on staying local,” Carlos says. “UCLA has a really good program in—”

  “Guys, get out of here.”

  The three of us head into the hallway, where Mr. Wheeler rushes by us a moment later. I’ve never seen him in such a hurry; there should be cartoon motion lines blinking from behind him.

  “Maybe he has a date,” Carlos says.

  “Ew,” I say. “I hope not.”

  “Mr. Wheeler lives in her backyard,” Thatcher tells Carlos.

  “Not my backyard, my neighbor’s backyard,” I say. “And in a guesthouse; he’s not out in a tent. But it’s bad enough. Once I thought he was out of town and I went outside in my pajamas, but he’d gotten home early. Your teacher should never see you in your pajamas.”

  “They weren’t, like, sexy pajamas, were they?” Carlos asks with fear in his eyes.

  “Dude, you can’t ask her that,” Thatcher says.

  “I’m gay, I can ask!” he says. “Eh, I guess it’s still a creepy question?”

  “It’s still a creepy question,” I say. “But to clarify, no. They were not. They’re regular pajamas with little bumblebees printed on them.”

  Thatcher raises an eyebrow. “Bumblebees?”

  “They’re whimsical!” I walk down the hallway to my locker. The guys continue to trail me. “I hate that Mr. Wheeler isn’t taking any of this seriously.”

  “He’s right that next year I probably won’t care about this,” Thatcher says. “But I do care now about crushing those pretentious idiots.”

  Thatcher says this while wearing bright orange glasses, a Xeno & Oaklander T-shirt, skinny jeans rolled up just above his ankles, and oxfords without socks.

  I assume we’ll separate, like we did last week after our meeting ended, but instead we walk down the street to Swork. Since I assume we might get loud with our righteous anger, we take a seat with our drinks at an outside table.

  “Wheeler’s a problem,” Carlos says. “If we really want to bring TALON down, we need him out of the picture.”

  “Oh my god,” I say. “Are you going to have him killed?”

  Carlos and Thatcher laugh at me for what feels like twenty minutes while I figure out that of course that wasn’t what Carlos meant.

  “We need meetings somewhere off-campus,” Carlos says.

  “Non-Wheeler meetings,” Thatcher says, sounding very ready to engage in this battle for someone with more of a Zen reputation. I like this side of Thatcher. Or at least I relate to it more. “That means your house is out, Jules.”

  “My house is fine,” Carlos says. “Email everyone this weekend. It’ll be best coming from you, as our leader.”

  to: the-crest-staff@emailgroups.com

  from: julia.b.mcallister-morgan@email.com

  subject: Operation TALON

  Hello team,

  Obviously, our entire staff would like to ensure that the Crest not only remains relevant but thrives, with its future at Eagle Vista Academy assured.

  Mr. Wheeler, while a qualified and involved fa
culty advisor, doesn’t approve of the rivalry with TALON and therefore is now not necessarily invested in best practices for keeping the Crest going beyond our time at E.V.A.

  If your availability allows it, on Tuesdays after our standard staff meeting, we will reconvene at Carlos Esquivel’s house* for planning and strategy to eliminate TALON from E.V.A.**

  Please reply and let me know if you’ll be able to attend secondary meetings.***

  Yours,

  JBM-M

  On Monday, the freshmen should be handing out new issues of the Crest at lunch, but this isn’t time to mess around. It’s no longer acceptable to entrust the distribution of our century-old paper to fourteen-year-olds.

  I haven’t handed out the paper in three years, but I’ve handed out flyers at Stray Rescue’s annual dog fair, and I’ve learned some lessons in optimizing this process. Friendly eye contact is key. It’s important to be confident, but not pushy. And it’s important to make whatever you’re handing out appear to be a benefit, not something you’re trying to dispose of.

  I’m not worried about my confidence level, especially since I did well at this weekend’s J.Crew sale and am wearing a new striped shirt over new gray pants. Darcy even let me borrow one of her nicest pairs of flats. Em stops me on my way to Mr. Wheeler’s classroom to get the papers and hands me a bottle in a paper bag.

  “Is this alcohol?” I whisper, and Em laughs.

  “Of course not. It’s caffeine. Give out those papers, girl.”

  I chug the Mexican Coke on my way and grab the biggest stack off the table in Mr. Wheeler’s room. The pure cane sugar soda courses through my system, and I feel taller and brighter than usual.

  “Would you like a copy of the Crest?” I ask students as I make my way down the corridor. My eyes are crinkled with my smile, and I offer plenty of reasons people should take the paper. “It has next week’s lunch menu!” “It has next month’s athletic schedule!” “You can learn a lot about the history of the brickwork in the courtyard!”

  A couple of people take copies, but it turns out that if people completely avoid looking at you, making eye contact is impossible. I find myself pushing issues closer and closer to people’s faces, which perhaps isn’t entirely the opposite of pushy. The caffeine felt so good mere minutes ago, and now it’s like my body is humming at the wrong frequency. Eating would help, but I’m not allowing myself the pizza awaiting us in Mr. Wheeler’s room until I’ve handed out every copy.

  Closer to the cafeteria I am desperately staring around, hoping to make someone look at me. It works, but unfortunately the person is Natalie. She smiles and takes a copy of the Crest from my outstretched hand.

  “I thought distribution was freshman work,” she says while flipping through it. “Did you get demoted from editor?”

  “Handing out our hard work shouldn’t be a low-ranking job,” I say. “And, no. Of course I didn’t.”

  “Hmm,” she says, still flipping. “Looks like, literally, last week’s news. Good luck with that.”

  “Good luck with short-form journalism that can’t report beyond superficialities,” I say.

  Natalie tosses the paper into the trash can at the entrance to the cafeteria. I walk in, because it’s where the largest crowd of people are, and because maybe I’ll feel less like this isn’t working if my friends are in my sight line.

  “Oh my god,” says a girl, rushing up to me. “Are those free? Are you giving them out?”

  “They are, and I am!” I hand her one, and she shakes her head.

  “I need a bunch for my table.” She grabs a big chunk of papers and dashes off. My caffeine hum sounds good again, and I think about continuing tradition and—

  The girl walks to her lunch table, which turns out to be incredibly wobbly, to the point where beverages look dangerously close to spilling.

  But once one of the table legs has a stack of the Crest under it, everything’s fine.

  I carry the remaining papers back to Mr. Wheeler’s room and eat the biggest slice of pizza in the box.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  By evening I can think of little else but tomorrow’s first off-campus meeting of the Crest, but I don’t think that’s why suspicion falls over me as I walk into the kitchen before dinner. Darcy’s already home, and she and Mom seem to be preparing a large amount of food for three people.

  “Is someone coming over?” I ask.

  “Just Joe,” Darcy says.

  There is no just Joe! Joe is Mr. Wheeler. Mr. Wheeler should not be in our house less than twenty-four hours before I fully subvert his authority. Mr. Wheeler shouldn’t be in our house anyway!

  “Ugh,” I accidentally say aloud.

  “Jules,” my mothers say together in identical exasperated tones.

  “Why can’t you guys socialize with him on nights I’m not home?” I ask. “Or wait until after I go to college? It’s so awkward.”

  “He’s our neighbor and our friend,” Mom says. “And his family’s so far away.”

  “That doesn’t mean we have to be his family.”

  Mr. Wheeler is here before long. He brings a bottle of wine, and my parents coo over it as if he’s presenting them with his heir. In return, he acts like the salmon, brown rice, and asparagus have all been personally harvested for him.

  The talk is standard for a while: the neighborhood, how everyone’s jobs are going, how our rice cooker makes the best rice. And then, as they always do, things take a turn for the horrifying.

  “So how’s dating, Joe?” Mom leans forward in her chair, as if this is a moment just between them. “Anyone new these days?”

  One would think her English-teacher-slash-newspaper-advisor would think about his student in the room and elect to answer the question once she’s been excused to her room to complete homework. But, no, never Mr. Wheeler.

  “Ha! You guys see me leaving and coming home! Wouldn’t you notice if I was somewhere else or someone was here?”

  Oh, of course, Mr. Wheeler, we’re watching for evidence of your sex life. Gross.

  “We have someone new at the firm,” Darcy says. “I’m going to do some reconnaissance.”

  “Don’t make me any promises, Darcy,” Mr. Wheeler says with a chuckle. “So, Jules, are you feeling better about the Crest?”

  “What’s wrong with the Crest?” Darcy asks.

  “If this is about how you were chosen as editor, honey, you have nothing to feel ashamed about,” Mom says. “I know you’ve put in so much work.”

  “It’s not that big of a deal,” I say. “There’s now a weekly news series, on the classroom TVs and online.”

  “That sounds cool,” Mom says.

  “It is!” Mr. Wheeler says, and I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t mean to; they just do it of their own free will. “Jules, you have to admit it’s a great program. Natalie came up with the idea and pitched it to Ms. Baugher, who cleared it with administration. It’s great seeing a student with so much drive.”

  Natalie has more drive than I do?

  I guess if Natalie invented TALON, convinced a teacher to let her produce it as well as be the host, she has a lot of drive. She potentially out-drives me.

  “Like you, Jules,” he says, though I’m afraid he’s just overcompensating because of my expression. “It’s why Jules is one of the best in the class,” he tells my parents, and they fall in love with him again. Back to the topic of how such a great guy could be single, but luckily it now feels late enough to excuse myself from the table.

  I’m mostly through my homework when Darcy, Mom, and the dogs burst into my room. “What? Is he gone?”

  “Be polite, kiddo,” Darcy says.

  Mom sits down on the bed, between the two dogs. “Do you want to talk about the paper?”

  “What’s to talk about? The Crest was founded the same year the school was, and now on my watch it’s going to die.”

  “Jules…” Darcy crowds in next to me and hugs her arms around me. “This isn’t about you. Print media’s
dying all over.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “It should. It’s not because you’re doing anything wrong.” She picks up the latest issue that’s resting on my nightstand. “Look how great this looks.”

  “The layout’s all Carlos, and the cover photos are always by Thatcher.”

  “You know what she means,” Mom says. “We’re so proud of you, and if your school news changes, it won’t be because of anything you’ve done wrong.”

  I pretend to agree with them, but as soon as they leave my room, I get out my red notebook to write down more ideas for our after-after-school meeting.

  The entire staff behaves for our official staff meeting Tuesday afternoon. No one utters the words TALON, destruction, the enemy, or wartime.

  I only say dying tradition once.

  We drive over to Carlos’s afterward. Anyone with a car chauffeurs anyone without, which means my car is full of freshmen. High school is a crazy time to age us so much. I guess I can believe I once looked so young and tiny, though I don’t think I would have asked a senior, the editor of the school paper I’d just joined, if she could change the radio from NPR to KIIS FM.

  (I do, though. After all, until I was at least fifteen I still occasionally listened to the pop station and therefore heard “Want 2 B Ur Boy” constantly.)

  Carlos hasn’t let us down on the provided snacks. There are bowls of fruit and a box of pastries from Porto’s. I select a bright red apple and eat calmly while everyone crowds around the snacks selection. I want to seem like a true leader, and not someone clawing through a crowd for guava and goat cheese pastries.

  “I know we all care about the Crest,” I say, and even though I thought this was going to be my time, Thatcher stands up next to me. I’m not about to squash his newly revealed competitive streak.

  “We all care about killing TALON, at least,” he says.

  “And it’s not worth involving Wheeler,” Carlos adds.

  “For someone who doesn’t seem very with-it,” I say, “he’s been really fast to shut down important conversations.”