Authors: Emily Franklin
“To eat?” Sarah wrinkles her forehead.
“Yeah, like mac and cheese, or egg salad …”
“I hate anything egg-related,” she informs me.
“I’ll remember that in case we ever have brunch, okay? But my point is—you love candy necklaces.” I point to the one currently around her neck. Since eighth grade she’s been crunching away on her special sweet treat at least once a week. Just the smell of those necklaces makes me feel academic pressure.
Sarah’s hand flies to her neck and she touches her beloved candy couture. “I do.”
“But do you love them because you really really love them, or are you just used to eating them?”
Sarah thinks a minute. “So, because you always planned on Columbia University as your goal, your quest, you’re now doubting the validity of that desire?”
In the doorway, I spot a familiar shade of green that can only mean one thing: Eddie Roxanninoff and his incredibly well-faded Dartmouth T-shirt—a hand-me-down from his older brother, who graduated Weston three years ago. I love seeing Eddie in this shirt because it reflects who he is. It’s comfy, soft (I felt it once when I smushed a mosquito on his back; he was grateful), brings out the moss hue in his eyes, and—most importantly—is that article of clothing that will one day be loaned to a girlfriend and never given back. Many a night I have piled my floor cushions up and wondered if I could ever be the one who’d get that T-shirt.
“Sarah, look, all I mean is that—for me—I realized that I want a choice. I want to imagine who I could be at Columbia or Amherst or Stanford or Harvard …” I watch Sarah make a mental note that I’ll be competing for what she sees as her spot at Harvard. “Best-case scenario is that I get into two places and pick what feels right at the time.”
Sarah nods, still a little sad, and immediately goes back to taking notes for her essay. I watch her nibble from the candy necklace and then, before I talk more with her, before I scribble my own notes (Columbia or elsewhere, I have got to get going on those essays), before I even have time to try not to stare at Eddie, he’s in front of me. Even though his soccer buddies and his best friend, Louie Goldman, are all on the other side of the room, Eddie comes over to me first.
“Hey,” he says and crouches down next to me, whispering so Mrs. Talbot doesn’t tap him on the shoulder and tell him to leave. “How’s it going?”
“Good. I’m in the process of not writing my application essays.” I point to the blank paper in front of me and am really glad I never doodle Eddie’s initials. As I watch his face and catch myself grinning just because he’s near me, I decide that “crush” is a bad word. Or, it’s not apt. In the love thesaurus, crush is not the best description of my feelings. More like “inflammation,” if that didn’t conjure up athlete’s foot. Or “passion,” if that didn’t call to mind soap operas. Maybe “granulate”—I feel like dissolving into a million pieces near him, and at the same time there’s an ease to our conversations that I haven’t found with anyone else … ever.
“I’m sure you’ll have a unique and stunningly written essay,” Eddie says without the slightest trace of irony—he actually believes this. He gives a head nod to Louie, who coughs “Rox” under his breath. Then Eddie leans even closer to me and says, “Want to walk to Drama together later?”
All aspiring graduates at Weston High must take Harold Connaught’s theatrical components class, given that Drama is a now a senior requirement. The academic committee feels that the improvs and random one-acts we have to perform will help us prepare for college interviews, job interviews, and life as we know it. It’s not bad, though; Harold’s the only teacher we get to call by his first name.
“Sure,” I say, still smiling, and aware that the angle Eddie’s crouching at does nothing to help minimize my schnoz. I try not to cover it—not only because I can’t, but because it would just draw more attention to it. “But you’re not in my drama class.”
Eddie stands up, about to go over to Louie (who has
The Mayor of Casterbridge
on his head like it’s a hat). Jennie Karn and Minnie Lester, twin hotties (who aren’t so much biological twins as attractive seniors who dress, sound, and act disturbingly alike), are trying not to giggle as they fawn over him.
“Correction. Up until
today
I wasn’t in your drama class.” Eddie sweeps his hand through his hair and scratches his cheek.
“Why’d you switch?” I ask. Eddie blushes. Or maybe it’s just the sunlight coming in the big windows. No … definitely a blush.
He shrugs. “Let’s just say it fits my schedule better.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Your schedule?” With our ever-shifting block A and block B schedules, no one really knows what meets when. But hey, this feels like flirting. As soon as I think this, my heart starts to pound. Maybe Leyla won’t be the only one with a secret at Night of Knights. If I go, maybe I’ll have a little uncommon knowledge that I can choose to share with her. Or not.
“Schedule … or something.”
Eddie gives some guy-sign to Louie that I don’t understand and then says, “See you in a few.”
I watch him walk off, and I have just the tiniest bit of hope that I might be that “something.”
T
HE WESTON HIGH SNACK
bar is run by parents, and a portion of the profits go to the Weston High scholarship fund. So I feel compelled, not just by hunger but by good will, to purchase a pack of Mini Oreos. These nickel-sized cookies are highly underrated in the world of snack foods. Sure, the big ones are good, great with cold milk and the subject of a song that’s just way too easy to get stuck in your head. But the little cookies are perfect: sweet and crunchy, and the individual packets are small enough that you don’t feel grotesque afterwards.
I drop my money onto the snack bar and Mrs. Von Schmedler, Wendy’s mother and today’s cashier, gives me a look of complete and utter pity—just like her daughter’s gaze.
“Thank you,” I say and collect my change.
Mrs. Von Schmedler is one of those mothers who tries everything to defy her age. She works out incessantly, dresses in fashions meant for
Teen Vogue,
and uses words and phrases she picks up from Wendy, all while looking eerily statue-like and every bit her age. I doubt she knows how cruel her daughter can be, but I’m sure she’s aware of Wendy’s queen-like social position. Probably, if you delved into Wendy’s psyche, you’d find a lot of pressure from her mom and learn how picked-upon Wendy herself feels—which in turn could be the cause of Wendy’s gossipy, mean habits. I think this as I watch Mrs. Von Schmedler stare at me, and wonder if I should switch my future major from journalism to psychology.
“I hear great things about your upcoming auction. You’re such an involved student, Cyrie.” Mrs. Von Schmedler gives me her widest bleached smile. She sounds so nice, so complimenting, that I want to believe her—but I know better.
“Well, it’s not really
my
auction, but it’s great to help organize it.” Then I gesture to the snack bar like it’s a game show prize, and draw on another of my mother’s fundraising tactics: sweeten each sentence just enough to boost the ego of the person, but not enough so they call you on it. “You do wonderful fundraising things yourself …”
I hope that the compliment will distract her from the path she’s going down, which will inevitably contort the meaning of “involved” to “loserly.” She’ll probably mention a party I didn’t go to or some big event Wendy has planned, in which I am not included.
“I do try to do my part,” Mrs. V says, checking her hair in the reflection of the glass refrigerator door. In the years I’ve known Wendy, her mother’s hair has gone from that shade of brown that’s just before black, to lighter brown, to ashy brown, to its current state of blonde. She’s actually a really pretty woman, but her frown lines give away her inner murkiness. “Charity is so important, don’t you think?”
What
do
I think? Mom lesson #3—don’t ever miss a moment. So I say, “Longfellow once said, ‘the life of a man consists not in seeing visions and in dreaming dreams, but in active charity and in willing service.’”
I watch Mrs. V nod, her brow furrowed, until she remembers that this is likely to cause wrinkles. She pats her fingers on her suspiciously unwrinkled face. I’ve positioned myself rather well, considering she was out to attack me at first—or at least that’s how I felt. Now I’m able to reach for what I want. “And speaking of charity … how would you feel about donating something really fantastic for the auction?”
Mrs. Von Schmedler hands someone a cheese stick, counts their change, and turns back to me. “Maybe …”
I snap to attention. “You’ll get full credit on the programs, of course.” It’s easy to appeal to her vanity.
“I might be able to swing something—just how big were you thinking?” She narrows her gaze, not wanting to be played.
Now comes the tricky part: trying, but not too hard. If I’m too needy, she’ll do her speed-walk away. “Ideally? A two-week free rental at your lakeside cabin,” I say.
The Von Schmedlers’ cabin is the stuff of legend. When Wendy’s older sister Gretchen was a senior, she threw parties that were rumored to have made Sunday Styles headlines in the
New York Times.
The cabin itself has been photographed for
Architectural Digest
and
InStyle,
and the lake and land have been used in countless movies. The pictures are so beautiful, and the location so ideal, I’ve always wanted to go there. Not that I’d be able to afford the rental (and even if I did, I don’t know who I’d bring). But if it were in the auction, at least someone like me would benefit from the place.
“Not a chance,” Mrs. V says in response, and makes a face like she’s just tasted whole milk in her non-fat cappuccino. Then she studies my face, which I have carefully frozen in expectation. Mom says that if you let people see your disappointment right away, they are less inclined to give anything since they feel that there’s no way to please you. If you stay frozen, they will give you a counter-offer, which is what you wanted all along.
This is, of course, if you don’t speak. Whoever speaks first loses. Which is all fine; I’m not one who needs to ramble, needs to check in and break an uncomfortable silence. If I’m feared for my verbal eviscerations, then my silence is all the more effective because no one expects it.
Mrs. Von Schmedler stares at me, unblinking. I stare back. The call bell rings. We have a paper meeting scheduled for after lunch today, then comes the drama class I’ve been waiting for. Or rather, the walk to drama class that I’ve been longing for.
Even though the rush of students heading to class has come and gone, I don’t budge. Finally, as the second, shorter, bell rings, Mrs. Von Schmedler breaks. “I meant it about the two weeks—that’s just not going to happen. What I will do is this.” She gets her purse and writes something down on a personalized notecard. “Run along now, Cyrie. And good luck with your event.”
Play it right, and ye shall receive.
I wait until I’m inside the
Word
office to look at what she’s written.
“We got our first big item,” I announce to everyone who happens to be near (in this case, Mr. Reynolds, Linus, Jocky Josh, and Leslie—Eddie has a half hour of personal rowing training today). “The Von Schmedler’s cabin for all of New Year’s weekend!”
“Nice!” Josh pats my back. “That’ll go for a lot.”
“Awesome—I’m so bidding on that,” Leslie says to one of her fashion-maven friends. The whole clique will probably chip in together and bid on the place, and all they’ll do is make revolting drink concoctions. But hey, at least it’s for a good cause.
Linus, dressed in a blue oxford button-down and cords, takes off his glasses and comes over to me. He signs
well done
and then adds, “That’s such a good snag on the cabin.”
“Thanks. Oh—you have a little lettuce on your shirt.” I pluck a piece of salad off.
Linus watches me remove the vegetable fragment and bites his lip like he does when he’s getting ready to pitch a story to me and Mr. Reynolds. “Can I talk to you about something?” he asks.
“Sure. But if you’re trying to get out of that article on standardized testing, you can forget it.” I check the story board while Linus taps his pen into his palm. “We’ve already factored in the space, and Leyla did the layout.” Leyla, while still not comfortable writing anything, turns out to have great spatial ability—she can do the layout of the whole paper in her head.
“No, I’m down with the story. This isn’t …” he trails off, adjusts his glasses, looks over his shoulder, and coughs. “Um, you know how you always say not to bury your lead?”
Burying the lead is the kiss of death in good journalism. If you don’t start off strong, you’ve lost your reader before they even know what’s at stake. “Yeah, I do say that,” I nod.
“Well, I want a good lead, so to speak. So I want your advice.”
I turn to him. His face looks serious—not his usual sarcastic glances and shy smiles. “I’m guessing this is not paper-related,” I say.
“Correct,” says Linus. “Are you free later?”
I check my watch for no good reason except that whenever someone asks me what I’m doing later—this minute, today, next year—I feel compelled to check my watch. “I’m actually not,” I tell him, remembering I have a double dose of Eddie—first en route to drama, and then potentially at my house tonight for, um, auction stuff. “But we could go to Any Time Now right after class tomorrow?”
Linus shakes his head. “I’m covering Night of Knights, remember?” Night of Knights—while the event holds zero appeal for me, Leyla is going and maybe she has a point: I’m a senior, and I should go to things this year just so I don’t regret it. And aren’t you supposed to regret the things you haven’t done more than the things you actually do?
I open my mouth to say of course I remember that Linus is writing the Night of Knights feature. He’s one of the only writers we have who can reliably handle the pressure of writing, editing, and proofing an article by Monday publication. Plus, I assigned the piece. “Linus, I …” But I’m interrupted by Eddie.
He appears at the doorway, his hair wet from showering. He waves to me, and I notice his cheeks are flushed. I tell myself the blush is from his workout, but maybe a tiny bit is due to seeing me? It’s a slim chance—but not as impossible as I used to think.