“No, but that class never cold calls, so it’s fine. Besides, Cassidy, Zeke, and Sophie wanted to get drinks yesterday.”
“How’s that going?”
“Fine. They’re cool. Cassidy is cool. She’s like Kyle—you remember her? Except I’m actually friends with Cassidy and her crew.”
“Oh.”
“What?” Ryley asked reluctantly, knowing she’d likely regret prompting her mother for more information.
“Nothing. Just be careful and don’t let yourself get so swept up in socializing that you end up sacrificing your studies.”
“I’m not letting myself get swept up in anything. I’m still doing most of the readings, and if you’re worried about Cassidy, I made another new friend. Also, I matched with some cute boys on Hinge today.” She pushed the pride into her voice. They’d just agreed things were going well for Ryley; her mom couldn’t take it back.
Thankfully, her mom retreated. “Okay, okay. If you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”
Ryley tried to read into the tone but couldn’t figure it out. She decided to move them along for the sake of both their sanities. “I don’t know what that means, but I do know that my college friends are saying I’m killing it.”
Her mom stuttered slightly before ultimately saying, “You are killing it.” And then, because she couldn’t seem to help herself, her mom added, “Just take it slow. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
CHAPTER 4
SEPTEMBER 2008
Ryley hopped out of her brother’s black BMW with a little skip in her step, giving her brother a smooth, casual nod of farewell. She was feeling good today. Harrison had let her choose the radio station this morning, and she liked the sense of power it had given her. Usually, she pretended she didn’t care what music was playing, but she did. No one could possibly enjoy hearing heavy metal blast in their ears at seven a.m. She knew he did it to mess with her. At night, when she’d press her ear up against his door to better hear the strains of music softly drifting out into the hallway, it was always classical jazz.
As she strolled down the familiar tree-lined concrete path, breezing past the squat high school science building, she was determined to keep her good mood going. She was in her third week of her sophomore year and finally getting into the swing of things, no longer needing an extra ten minutes to get to class. She also no longer darted her eyes away nervously whenever she’d make eye contact with a senior or one of the Legitimate Athletes. She had tried to disguise herself as a Legitimate Athlete last week by carting around her softball bag, but no one cared about softball. Also, she wasn’t even very good—she played it foremost to show some level of wholesomeness for college applications and because her parents thought that being part of a sports team was a crucial ingredient in establishing her all-Americanness. But all the Legitimate Athletes could tell she was a Non-Athletic Regular Person (NARP).
The pathway eventually merged into the giant rectangular quad, and she paused for a minute to just stare at the set-up, taking in the boring, beige cafeteria tables and muted dark green umbrellas. The school had done well in cultivating its aura of conformity and professionalism. Given that it was a nice seventy degrees outside, almost all the tables were populated that morning with groups of students lounging and catching up with each other before classes started for the day. The handful of Black students at the school were gathered together on one table, laughing at a joke that would no doubt go over her head; the nerdy Asians, with a couple of mixed in white kids, were gathered on another, also laughing together loudly. Two more tables over, the exclusive crew of attractive rich kids were huddled around a laptop screen.
Ryley would have liked to leave the attractive rich crew with that label and move on for simplicity’s sake, but over the last two weeks, she’d unfailingly noticed that even though most of them were white, there was an attractive Indian and an attractive half-Black girl not quite hidden within their midst. Interestingly, these two girls were dressed the same way the white girls were and had the same unblemished skin, curves, and cell phone cover. Also, the same sense of humor if the way they laughed in unison was any indication. They were different but pulled off being the same, and Ryley would’ve appreciated the chance to observe them more, but sadly, her history class beckoned.
Ryley bounded up the winding staircase that led to the history building, dragging her hand along the tall concrete wall against which the stairs were set sideways to stabilize herself as she climbed. She avoided touching the railing that would most definitely give her the plague, having seen too many a boy pick his nose and then put his hand on it. Ryley knew she had plenty of time, but she always took the stairs quickly to justify the way she’d be gassed at the top; at least sprinting made her distinct lack of physical fitness excusable.
As she pushed open the heavy wooden door of the classroom, she was greeted by a soft hum of conversation. No one in the class was particularly rowdy and an eight a.m. class was too early for most students to put much effort into anything. Ryley plopped herself down next to Josh at her “desk.” Instead of individual desks, the teacher, Mr. Weber, had had the maintenance staff push long, brown wooden tables together to form a U-shape so the students were looking inward as he paced back and forth in the middle of the room. Ryley looked over at Josh to see if he was in a talking mood. They’d been semi-friends for a while now, sharing classes since they’d both started at Harvard-Westlake in the seventh grade; he was on the baseball team, but he cared a lot about academics and showed it, not infrequently participating in class. Everyone knew he had his heart set on Yale; he wore the sweater almost every other day. His care for academics never pushed him too far out of the baseball team’s protective hands though. He was too good at baseball, seen as too much of an overall nice guy, and too attractive to fall out of favor. He had a little pug nose and a wide, generous mouth, complemented by a mess of shaggy brunette hair. The sloppy bangs that covered his pale, slightly acne-prone forehead and fell into his light brown gingerbread eyes gave him a charming, innocent air. Ryley had seen him shamelessly use his puppy dog look one too many times on Ms. Fisher in math when he’d “forgotten” his homework at home.
Josh turned to her now, feeling her eyes on him. “How was your weekend?”
“Good. Didn’t get up to much.” She refrained from discussing the blow-out pre-mall fight she’d had with her mom on Saturday and the subsequent day-long Summit on Sunday during which they’d analyzed and dissected their feelings.
“The wedding is coming up, yeah?” Josh pulled her back to the present.
“Yep, I’m taking a week and a half off school for it. So not worth it.”
“Hm, I can’t imagine you in one of those Indian dresses. Maybe you’ll come back engaged though, right? Get one of your aunts to set you up with a nice sugar daddy?”
“Ha ha,” she said drily. She leaned back into her chair.
“Well, it’s been quite the drought for you over here, hasn’t it? Have you even kissed someone yet?”
“Yeah, of course, I have,” she responded in a tone loud enough to match his, her cheeks flushed. A boy two seats over smirked at them, and she aggressively whispered, “Lower your voice.”
He continued unfazed, lowering his voice by maybe one decibel level. “When? You’ve never dated anyone here and it’s not like you’re going to any of the parties where shit happens.”
“Okay, one, I could have dated someone here without you knowing it—it’s not like we’re BFFs. Two, it’s none of your business, but I have kissed someone. Not at a Harvard-Westlake party but at a party outside.” She prayed he wouldn’t ask for a name.
“Okay, Ryley, what parties are you going to?” he asked with an exaggerated chuckle. She could have punched him.
“Why are you interrogating me?” she snapped. She didn’t know what had gotten into him. They weren’t the sort of friends to ask personal questions; sometimes, they compared test answers, and occasionally, they talked about their weekend
plans.
“I’m not interrogating you. One of the guys on the baseball team was talking about girls the other day, and no one said your name, and I just realized I’d never seen you with someone. I was curious.”
Ryley was not shocked that her name wasn’t one of the names being tossed around, but it would have been nice. Really nice to get an ego boost instead of feeling like a deflated balloon.
“Well. Curiosity killed the cat.” Even she could hear the way her voice slightly went up in pitch as her throat tightened.
“Come on, Ryley. You’re going to have to do better than that.” He sighed. “Anyway, just put yourself out there more; it’s weird that you don’t even really try to flirt with guys.”
She stared at him for a prolonged moment. Was he trying to tell her something? First the sudden interest in her personal life, now this? He’d look good on paper, make her seem normal. Her parents never much asked her about romantic relationships, but dating in high school seemed pretty high up on the all-American experience they so wanted for her.
Ryley decided to bench any dramatic gestures as the teacher came into the room, but she resolved to focus on Josh going forward and see if he ever looked at her or gave her any special attention. She turned to face Mr. Weber; he was distinguished-looking, with perfect posture, a swimmer’s body, and a thick head of silver hair.
Mr. Weber liked her. She’d raised her hand a couple of times during the first week of school—history was her favorite subject, and they were doing the Roman Empire. She liked the story-tale aspect, the intrigue and drama of it all, and had blitzed through the reading, devouring it much like she would any unassigned book she found interesting.
Mr. Weber asked a question now, and when the rest of the class stayed silent, he called on Ryley, offering her a kind smile and repeating the question. “Ryley, what form of government did Augustus establish?”
“A Principate.” Unprompted, she said, “Although it superficially had elements of a republic, it was more a monarchy.”
His eyes twinkling, he said, “Yes, very good, Ryley—that’s what I was going to ask next. What do you think were the advantages of establishing this form of government?”
She opened her mouth to respond but then she saw a boy mocking her out of the corner of her eye, pulling on his ear as she tended to do when nervous. She turned to look at him fully, and he just grinned at her, as if they were in a weird sort of cahoots together. He was a clown, didn’t mean any ill will as far as she could gather, but she found herself closing her mouth, nonetheless, shrugging at the teacher instead of saying anything.
Confused, Mr. Weber asked, “No guesses?”
“No.”
“Hm, okay. Anyone else?”
Three hands shot up, but Ryley tuned out, not bothering to hear their answers. She wasn’t exactly hurt; the boy, Cole, had been too shameless for it to feel like an attack. He poked fun at his friends the same way, shooting them that same goofy, open-mouthed grin after he shouted a Yo Mama joke, but she couldn’t imagine Cole behaving like that with any of the other girls. Maybe all the boys here really did just see her as one of the guys. Or maybe Cole just thought she in particular a dork and wasn’t worried about any blow-back. Although the school had an extensive support system consisting of deans and counselors, she wasn’t the type to tattle.
Deciding she would spin in more mental circles later that day when she was bored during softball, she spent the rest of the class tracking Josh out of the corner of her eye. When she saw him glance over at her twice and accidentally “brush” against her when he was throwing his backpack over his shoulder, she regretted being so oblivious.
Fidgeting with her hands and biting her lip—she’d read that the latter action was attractive—she managed to get out, “Hey, want to get lunch together fifth period? You have it free too, right?”
He looked at her in shock before hesitantly saying, “Um. I do have it free, but Ryley, we’re like class friends. I’m not trying to be mean, but I don’t think you’d get along with my friends. You’re a bit… I don’t know.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Ryley said, careful to infuse her voice with nonchalance, as she avoided eye contact.
“It’s not anything personal. I like you. You just don’t get it.”
She was a sucker for punishment, so she asked, “Don’t get what?”
“Jokes, stupid references,” he said semi-sadly, regretting he was the one to have to break the news that she was not with it. Her brand-new skinny jeans couldn’t undo a reputation built up over too many years, but at least she was taking steps, finally conceding to the clothing choices offered up by her mom.
“Okay, so what if I don’t get the occasional reference?”
“If one of my friends made a joke about going down on someone, would you even know what that meant?” Once again, his attempt at a whisper could do with some work.
“Yes, of course, I would,” Ryley snapped, even as she internally cringed, waiting for the inevitable follow-up.
He took a step back at her vehemence, and then in an offensively appeasing tone, said, “Right, of course. So, what does it mean?”
“It’s something sexual. I don’t feel comfortable saying it.” Ryley hoped he would leave her with just a shred of dignity.
“Okay, assuming that wasn’t just a cop-out answer, that’s my point! You can’t even say the words; you’ve clearly never done it. You wouldn’t enjoy yourself around my friends, so why would you even want to come?”
Faced with the undeniable observation that he thought her as out of place as she felt, she finally said, “Whatever. It was just a suggestion. Geez.”
“Yeah, okay. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe we can study together or something.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he walked out.
“Yeah, sure,” Ryley said, unsurprised. Of course he wanted to study with her. He wasn’t going to get into Yale on his own. That thought was mean; she mentally took it back.
Unfortunately, their conversation had delayed the hasty exit she planned and it was just her and Mr. Weber in the room as she packed up her bag and he wiped down the chalkboard. In her rush to close the pencil case the first three times, the zip kept getting caught on the fabric, so finally, she paused, took a deep breath, gathered herself, and gently pulled the zip closed. She threw her bag over her shoulder and began walking out of the classroom, careful to avoid eye contact with Mr. Weber.
As she passed near him on her way to the door, he cleared his throat. She couldn’t even pretend to act startled and instead just reluctantly lifted her eyes to meet his. They were a pale, faded blue, magnified underneath the wiry glasses he had on.
“What happened today?” As he spoke, he let his hand drop down to rest halfway across the table between them, as if he would have liked to reach out to her.
“Nothing. I feel like I have a reputation I don’t particularly like. I decided not answering your question suited me better.” They both knew he wouldn’t believe her if she said she didn’t know the answer.
He took his hand off the table to fold his arms across his chest. His spine seemed to elongate as he took a deep breath in and then actually looked down his nose at her. “Okay. So, you’re going to let what other people think affect how you live your life?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
He just looked at her without saying anything more. After a minute of silence passed in this fashion, she walked out.
CHAPTER 5
SEPTEMBER 2018
Ryley looked down at the eight different outfits she’d arranged on her sky-blue duvet, each matched to a corresponding pair of shoes lying on the floor next to the bed. Even though she’d drawn her heavy maroon blackout curtains back to see the outfits in the quickly fading natural light, it hadn’t helped.
She and Mark were going over to Cassidy’s to pregame before Ali’s party that evening. It was a simple celebration of getting through the first week of classes. When Cassidy had texted her tha
t morning inviting her over, she’d naturally extended the invite to Mark, eager to bring him into the fold. Eager to be someone capable of bringing him into the fold. He’d texted her ten minutes ago saying he was going to be over in twenty. Ryley had originally planned on inviting him up, but she would just have to meet him outside. Ten minutes would not be nearly enough time to finish getting ready, let alone clean up her (light) mess.
Although she wasn’t ashamed of the state of her apartment, a neat freak would be, and Mark could very well fall into that category of people. In the living room, the hardwood floors were covered with some stray hairs—she wished she could blame the shedding problem on a dog—and there were some miscellaneous food crumbs on the steel-framed wooden coffee table and the couch standing behind it. Her bedroom was little better with the outfits and shoes out and the makeup scattered along her dresser. She was lucky to have found a one-bedroom apartment cheap enough that she could pay a year’s rent with money she’d saved from her business consulting days, but that meant she had no roommate to keep her natural state of slight disarray in check.
Realizing her ten minutes were fast expiring, she forced herself to just pick an outfit, defaulting to simple as her guiding criteria. She threw on a black cotton romper and stacked a couple of bracelets, squeezing her feet into a white pair of Toms to complete the look. Muttering, “I am a hoot and a delight,” she hurriedly rubbed the dollop of toner she had squeezed onto her hand all over her face. She then started gliding liquid eyeliner over her eyes, trying to do subtle wings at the corners, only for Mark to buzz into her apartment at that moment, startling her into stabbing one eye with the wand. Of course she’d look like she had pink eye right before the party.
She ran over to the kitchen, took out the six-pack she’d shoved into the fridge earlier that day, and texted him saying she’d be down in a minute. Standing in front of the white-yellow linoleum counter, in a kitchen at most one body-length long—she really didn’t use it enough to justify complaining—she took a couple of deep breaths before reaching up and into her liquor cabinet. Her liquor cabinet, so grandly named, consisted quite simply of one handle of gin. She dragged down a shot glass alongside the bottle and quickly poured out a couple of fluid ounces, knocking the shot back in one swift motion. Grimacing still from the aftertaste, from the way her stomach heaved, she did one more and then was running out the door and down the stairs. She felt better already, her energy level high enough that the idea of being packed into a room with eighty loud, drunk people no longer made her want to crawl out of her skin.
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