From What I Remember (3 page)

Will and I have decided to make our own party. A John Woo movie marathon preceded by an In-N-Out Burger run. It’s an end-of-the-year tradition for us. I get teary at the thought of it. The end of an era. I am so going to miss Will next year. Could there be another Will for me at NYU? Probably not. I don’t make friends that easily.

“Seriously, no Lady Gaga. I’m so over her. I’m all about the Gorillaz and the Dirty Projectors,” Lily insists, fiddling with her gold door-knocker earring that has no business on her moneyed, white ear. The fact that these rich kids like to slum it by dressing faux ghetto bruises me to the core. The ghetto is not particularly cool. I know. I’ve been there most of my life.

“You are just so ahead of the curve, Lil. No one can keep up,” Charlie jokes.

“I know. It’s sick. I’m, like, setting trends all over the place,” Lily says.

I’m standing right next to them, but they’ve yet to acknowledge me. So typical. I don’t want to deal with them as much as they don’t want to deal with me, but what choice do I have?

“Just make sure you get some old-school mash-up in there. Like Prince and Parliament,” Max adds.

“Prince? Seriously?” Lily whines. “Maxie, c’mon, your music taste reminds me of my dad.”

“We can’t all be as hip as you,” Max says with a smile, though I think I sense a hint of annoyance in his voice, which surprises me. Max and Lily are so sickeningly enamored with each other all the time. I’m probably just projecting.

“No, baby, we can’t,” Lily snaps back, with bite. And then she takes Max’s face in her hands and kisses him, long and hard. Charlie just stands by, the lonely job of the loyal third wheel. I guess this is part of Max and Lily’s very public game of romance. I have to look away. I’m afraid I might gag.

I clear my throat. I need to say my piece and get the hell out of here.

Max, Charlie, and Lily turn to me, bemused.

“Let me guess: you want to talk about Murphy’s assignment,” Max says, laughing in my face.

“Uh, yeah. I do,” I say, holding my ground.

“Dude, you called it,” Max tells Charlie.

“Give it up, Kylie. Grades don’t matter anymore,” Charlie tells me.

“They do to me. I don’t want an F in English. I’m doing the assignment, and since it requires a partner,” I say, turning to Max, “you’re going to have to do it with me.”

What I don’t say is that because I’m not sporty or arty or a theater geek, the one thing that distinguishes me at Freiburg is my valedictorian position, and I’m not about to lose it. I happen to know that Sheldon Roth is a mere .02 points behind me, nipping at my heels, and Patrick Bains is on Sheldon, and Lily is right behind Patrick. (As much as I’d like to write her off as an idiot, I can’t. She hit the jackpot: rich, beautiful, and smart.) My name may be printed on the graduation ceremony program as valedictorian speaker, but the numbers can change at any time. With one bad paper in English, Sheldon could pull ahead. This is a war and I intend to win it.

“You’re kidding, right?” Max says. “Murphy can go to hell.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve got an academic scholarship to NYU and I really need to keep my grades up.…” I wish I didn’t feel the need to apologize. I wish I could drum up a genius comeback that would shut them up. Tragically, I’ve got nothing. My wit goes into hiding with these people. It’s not like I care about their approval; it’s more like we’re different species and I’m not sure how to communicate with them. Popular people are from Mars. The rest of us are from a distant galaxy that no one has ever heard of.

The great irony here is that I can
write
a brilliant character. I just can’t play one in real life. In the world of my screenplay, the one that earned me a full scholarship to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, I created the most kick-ass female protagonist ever, one who nails the perfect line every time. One who never finds herself in situations like this, flush with humiliation, begging Max Langston to find a shred of decency somewhere inside the cavernous, empty space that is his soul. You’d think I would have picked up a few tips from her. Sadly, that’s not the case.

Lily rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. You are such a geek, Kylie. Just blow it off. One stupid paper from Murphy doesn’t matter in the scheme of things. She’s just trying to freak us out because she knows it’s her last chance to mess with us.”

Lily’s right. Mistress Murphy’s threat is empty and baseless. My scholarship won’t be affected; I’ll still be valedictorian. But I can’t ignore an assignment. I didn’t achieve an Ivy trifecta (Brown, U Penn, and Princeton, all of which I rejected for NYU and their star-making film department, much to my parents’ chagrin) by blowing anything off. Ever. I’m not going to start now.

“Seriously, Kylie. No one’s doing it,” Max adds, flashing his pearly whites. I stare at the floor, afraid I’ll lose my courage if I have to look at him for a second longer. He’s too hot. It hurts the eyes.

“I have time after sixth period. We can meet then. It shouldn’t take long. I, uh…can write yours, if you want.” I am getting this done. No matter how low I have to go. And frankly, with the offer to do Max’s assignment, I’ve hit the floor. Hopefully, NYU will be more of a meritocracy. “Ten minutes. That’s all I need and I can write both papers at home tonight,” I say.

“Okay. Cool. Write my paper,” Max says.

Whatever. I’m never going to be friends with these people. I’m here to graduate first in my class and get the hell out of Dodge.

“Later,” Max says. And then he throws his arm around Lily, pulls her close, and they kiss again. This time with tongue. Thanks so much. Once just wasn’t enough.

Forty-eight hours and counting…

ylie doesn’t even see me as she rushes down the hall, staring at the ground. She’s wearing her daily uniform of gray jeans, white T-shirt, and that lame-ass ratty knit scarf her grandmother made her, like, a million years ago. Girlfriend needs a makeover. I’m so the guy for the job, if Kylie would just give fashion a chance. But all the beautiful clothes I’ve given her over the years are marooned in her closet, tags on, waiting to get off the island and back into civilization. At least she’s not wearing those Uggs anymore, which look like huge suede foot tumors, as far as I’m concerned. I tossed them in the garbage last time I was at her house. Saving Kylie from herself is a full-time occupation, let me tell you. I was born for the job. Too bad I can’t do it professionally.

“‘Hey, girl,’” I call out. “‘If you’re from Africa, why are you white?’”

Kylie looks up at me. “‘Oh my God, Karen, you can’t just ask people why they’re white,’” she says.

Mean Girls.
We know the script by heart. That movie and about a million others. The number of hours we’ve logged together watching films is appalling. There have been times when we’ve watched the same film four times in a row. There have been lost weekends when we’ve barely come up for air. I would say this is because we are ardent film lovers, but I know it’s more than that. Both of us, for our own reasons, would prefer to live embedded in the silver screen than in the real world of high school. At least, that’s what my therapist says. Kylie is going to be a screenwriter and I’m going to be a…who knows? I’ve got time and money, so I’m not particularly concerned, unlike Kylie.

Kylie keeps walking. I rush to catch up with her. A few stray curls poke out from her signature ponytail. Girlfriend wears her gorgeous fro so tightly slicked back it looks like a helmet. She needs to embrace those kinky Latina curls. With her bronze skin, her golden eyes, and those massively long black lashes, she could look like a movie star. Sister is hot even in an outfit that could make Marilyn Monroe look neutered. Sadly, she doesn’t have a clue. She thinks she’s ugly. It kills me.

“You’ve totally outdone yourself today,” Kylie tells me, giving my ensemble the once-over. “Are you trying to push Alvarez over the edge?”

“You know he secretly lives for it.”

I’m driving the headmaster crazy. Freiburg is a straight-ass school in a straight-ass town, and my dresses and skirts do not please Headmaster Alvarez. He talked to my parents last year, but he’s kind of given up at this point. Just like my parents.

“Hot or not?” I ask Kylie as I spin around in my vintage platform black patent heels (purchased on eBay). I am wearing lime-green skinny jeans with a gorgeously tailored Marc Jacobs black dress, borrowed, without permission, from my sister. I know. It’s so out there. I was kind of born out of the closet. Way out. Every year I’ve taken things a little further in my insatiable need to push this conservative crowd to their limit. And this year I went all out. Full-frontal fashion. I’m about to blow out of town; might as well do it in style.

I’m not an idiot; I’m aware of what people say about me. I know they think I’m a screaming queen, which, oddly enough, I’m not. I’m just a regular gay boy. I’m not insatiably drawn to women’s clothes or anything, but this is one way to distinguish myself at Freiburg. I don’t have many other marketable skills. I mean, I tried the volleyball team, at my dad’s insistence, and it was…a freaking nightmare. Large, hard balls coming at me from every direction at high velocity.

But this cross-dressing thing has been kind of a boon for me, a solid extracurricular, with all the Internet shopping, studying of fashion blogs, and even learning to sew. It’s been a good distraction and a résumé builder. People still tease me about my voice and my boy crushes, but it’s died down as I’ve amped up the fabulousity quotient. My outrageous outfits allow me to take center stage in character, which is far better than being the lone gay guy in the corner.

“Yeah. You’re rocking it. Even in this hideous fluorescent light,” Kylie says. Kylie is the one person who has always accepted me just as I am.

“I have a gift. Speaking of which, I’ve got a little something for Charlie Peters. A graduation present. I just need you to help me get him into the boys’ room.”

Kylie and I always call Charlie Peters, Charlie Peters. We could just call him Charlie, but it’s another one of those things that stitches our friendship together.

“Shut up. You are all talk. Besides, Charlie Peters is so not gay,” Kylie says. “You think everyone’s gay.”

“Most people are. They just don’t know it yet.”

“Okay. Whatever. Listen, Will, I’m kinda in a hurry. I’ve got to get to the library.”

She’s not in the mood to play.

“The library? We’re done, baby. Stick a fork in us.”

Kylie is such a grind, it worries me. Who’s going to make her kick back and watch
Modern Family
and
Fringe
at NYU? I may have to fly in from Berkeley and physically force her to chillax.

“Mistress Murphy gave us one last assignment.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to do it. It will build character
not
to do it. I promise.”

“I am going to do it. And I’m doing Max Langston’s as well. We’re partners.”

“Kylie, Kylie, Kylie.”

“He won’t do it if I don’t do it for him. I can’t not do it. I can’t. I’ll be better at NYU. I promise,” Kylie offers.

“Doubt it.” Maybe New York City has the answers for her. God knows San Diego only had questions.

“Yeah. You’re probably right. I need to get to the library. I’m meeting Max there.”