by Mary Pagones
Eventually, reluctantly, I have to go. I must study for AP American History. Our first major test is tomorrow. It’s all multiple choice, but based upon the study sheet, it looks like very difficult multiple-choice questions, just like the actual AP test.
I tell Hugh I’m stressed out but he says he’s not worried. Unlike him, I feel that history is a subject I should excel in. At least in math or science, I expect to be mediocre. Thankfully, I’m done with science. I’ve already taken biology, chemistry, and physics. I just need to survive the SATs and pre-calculus this year. Pennington College has no math or science requirement for graduation, yet another reason I want to go there.
Chapter 8
My Feelings in Every Respect Forbid It
The following morning, I wake to find Livy already eating breakfast and working on the computer. She’s eating dry Frosted Flakes and drinking milk from a glass. My father’s looking over his notes to prepare for a lecture he’s probably delivered a million times before. He always has to make sure he’s letter-perfect. Today his classes start later and he can give my sister a ride. He’s drinking an enormous mug of coffee and eating a supermarket bran muffin, his way of balancing the rest of his diet.
“Dad, I think we need a dog,” I say.
My father looks at me quizzically. “You know we had this discussion when you began working at the shelter.”
“How can you not want a poor, elderly, abandoned dachshund named Wentworth?” I recap what happened yesterday, except for the kissing Hugh part.
“Liss, you’re going away to college in August. I have absolutely no time and no consistent schedule. Your sister has no interest.”
Livy looks up, licks the sugar from her fingers, and takes a big gulp of milk. “I am working on a project in one of my classes on Mendelian genetics and the effects of inbreeding on the modern companion dog. I didn’t choose that topic.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” My sister, unfortunately, is not an animal person.
“Dachshunds have a much higher likelihood of developing back problems than other breeds. Intervertebral Disc Disease, otherwise known as IVDD,” says my sister.
The corners of my father’s mouth gain a few extra wrinkles. “That sounds inconveniently expensive.”
“We’re not sure Wentworth is pure dachshund,” I say, glaring at my sister. “And,” I add, turning to my father, “you should be sympathetic. You have back problems yourself.”
“Small dogs usually find a home pretty quickly. Some lonely, little old person will probably take him,” says Livy.
“Yes, a nice, elderly lady,” agrees my father, going back to grading.
“I would prefer giving him a real home versus waiting for a hypothetical adopter,” I say, flouncing from the breakfast table, stopping only to pour hot water and then milk into my travel mug with its two bags of Earl Grey.
Mr. Clarke’s class on The Canterbury Tales makes the early hour bearable. We discuss “The Miller’s Tale,” which is about a young, married woman named Alisoun cheating on her husband. Charlotte Holland asks a ton of questions. She doesn’t understand what’s going on when the guy Alisoun rejected comes to a window in the dark expecting a kiss and gets Alisoun’s “ers” in his mouth instead. When Charlotte finally figures it out, her cheeks burn pink and red and she gasps, “Oh,” very loudly, and we all laugh. “That’s disgusting!” she exclaims.
Mr. Clarke’s not embarrassed. Based on all the theatrical posters in his room, I sense he secretly longs for an excuse to read aloud to us. Even his accent changes slightly, becoming more like the plummy tones of the actors in my favorite BBC drams.
“I love it when Clarke talks dirty to me,” whispers Calvin as we walk out of class together. I can feel his lips brush my ear.
“I was wondering if he was going to have to draw a diagram on his beloved whiteboard for Charlotte, to show her where the guy’s tongue gets inserted. See? I told you English class could be fun.”
“If only he played on my team, I might have a hope of passing,” murmurs Calvin. “According to Charlotte, he was married—to a woman.”
“Neither man nor woman could delight Mr. Clarke as much as a set of new dry-erase markers,” I say, a little bit louder, because I’m sniggering.
“I’ve tried working the ol’ charm. He seems immune, so sadly, I’m guessing he’s straight. His loss.” Calvin’s voice gets louder as he banters with me.
“Of course, how could anyone be immune your irresistible charm?” I ask.
“British guys always screw with my gaydar.” I know Calvin was in a mood last night. I’m glad he seems more chipper now. He texted me after I went to bed about how he creeped Mark’s Instagram. Mark is apparently dating another tennis player at Stanford. Now I know how Kim felt when she got left by the helicopter Calvin wrote.
“I still have no idea what’s going on in that class,” says Hugh’s voice behind me. I look over at him and blush.
“If it’s Chaucer and doesn’t seem absolutely filthy, you’re reading it wrong,” I say and flash my fine, slightly sleep-deprived eyes at him.
I know Calvin is surprised that Hugh sort of snuck up on us. He speeds off to his next class, leaving us alone without even nodding good-bye. He’s embarrassed about Hugh perhaps overhearing a joke he only intended for me.
Calvin, I think, even if I haven’t said it, Hugh knows you’re gay. Everyone assumes you’re gay, not because you seem gay in some stereotypical way, but because you’re a hot guy who’s never dated a girl, were joined to Mark’s hip for so long, and you’re in the Gay-Straight Alliance. Why does Calvin seem to change his mind about how out he wants to be every five minutes? It’s like sexual orientation hokey-pokey.
Hugh doesn’t care about Calvin. He puts his arm around my waist. “You look dressed up today. Why?” I ask.
Hugh’s in a black crewneck sweater with brown suede patches, a pair of stonewashed jeans without rips, and some engineer-style Frye boots that look worn but are undoubtedly expensive. His silver belt buckle is in the shape of a human skull. “To celebrate Wentworth’s rescue,” he says.
I’m wearing a nice black dress with an Empire waist, Docs, and fishnets, and I put on an especially dark shade of red lipstick today. “I love your belt,” I say. I hold onto it for a second, give it a playful tug.
“Yeah, it looks cool,” Hugh agrees. “I got it in England when I went with my mom and dad to see the RSC and had to sit through a production of Hamlet. It’s from the gift shop.”
“The Royal Shakespeare Company! I would die to see an RSC production in person.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that, which was why I mentioned it. I nearly did die when I was watching. The play was like, four days long. Or at least four hours.”
“Well, you rock the Prince Hamlet look, except for the not-reading thing.”
I don’t do horribly on my history test. Other than one or two questions, I think I got everything correct. Hugh, much to my surprise, says he found it easy, which actually makes me worried.
When I enter the cafeteria, I see Jacqui is already eating with Noel. They’re so cute together, sitting right near the window. I admit they look like a perfect couple, more than Hugh and I. Both of them are tall, thin, all angles. Noel’s blonde hair is glinting in the sunlight, falling into his face. Jacqui’s face is turned down as she gazes into her big, thick textbook. She’s wearing a deep shade of mustard that looks perfect on her but I could never get away with, given my pasty-pale skin. I send a celebratory text.
You go grrl!!!!!
I head to the lunch line, since I had no time to pack lunch.
We’re studying she fires back.
Studying your fine eyes I write, even though Jacqui can barely look at Noel. Her head’s slumped so far down, all I can see is her perfect ponytail at the nape of her neck.
I purchase the lunch of the day—rectangular pizza, rectangular tater tots, and a tiny, boxy container of green Jell-O with suspended bits of squared pineapple.
I decide to take a walk on the wild side and try the one-percent-fat strawberry-flavored milk.
Last dance class, I had my leg at full extension and Catherine started poking it. “I don’t understand, Liss,” she said, “your leg looks so…muscular. Have you been jogging?”
“Um, no, but I’m on my feet a lot at the shelter walking the dogs.”
“You certainly have the calves of an excellent walker.”
I’m sure Catherine wouldn’t approve of this lunch, which is made up of a series of small squares, kind of like me.
Calvin is already sitting with Charlotte Holland at our usual lunch table. Why does Calvin like Charlotte so much? He says she’s funny. Maybe he just likes hanging out at her house, with her family. He’s been to New York with her on several occasions to see some Broadway musicals. That’s how he ended up seeing Wicked live. While I’m not as into musicals as he is, I admit I am jealous. Plus, a bit annoyed that it’s so easy to buy my friend’s affections. But if I wanted to go see a musical more than anything, my dad would make it happen. Just like when I’ve asked him for a new, fancy edition of a Jane Austen because I like the illustrations or the annotations seem interesting, he’s never said, “No.” Calvin’s family isn’t into the arts. Like, his father tried to convince Calvin to go bear hunting during the season. That’s his father’s idea of fun. Exit, pursued by a New Jersey black bear.
Today, Calvin reeks of cigarettes even worse than usual. “I have some important news,” he says. “I’m done with my college applications.”
I brandish my spork to attack my tater tots while the spuds (or whatever lurks beneath their breaded surface) are still lukewarm. “Usually you procrastinate like it’s your job when it comes to schoolwork,” I say.
“This is real life, not some teacher’s bullshit deadline. I’m applying to Rutgers and a few other state schools that just require a personal statement they probably don’t even read. All are rolling admissions, which means the schools make decisions as soon as they get the applications. I’ll hear in a few weeks. The sooner you get them in, the better, so slots don’t fill up. If I don’t get in anywhere, I’ll go to community college, reapply, and transfer my credits.”
Charlotte takes out two salads from a white paper bag, one loaded with grilled chicken and avocado, the other with shrimp and avocado. She keeps the shrimp for herself and hands the chicken to Calvin.
“Thanks, Charlotte,” he says and flashes her one of his Lancelot-worthy grins. Charlotte shakes out what’s left in the bag—plastic cutlery, bags of dressing, croutons, and other stuff like wonton noodles and little bags of sesame seeds. At least, she doesn’t seem to think less of Calvin because he’s probably going to Rutgers. Or maybe she just thinks it’s natural, given he’s one of the plebs, or something?
“What did you write for your personal statement?” I ask Calvin, after I finish chewing. Strange as it sounds, I kind of like greasy, square school lunch pizza. I’m a pizza snob, as is everyone else from New Jersey, but there’s something unique about the taste of high school cafeteria school pizza that can’t be replicated. It’s the one thing I may be nostalgic for after I graduate.
“I wrote about having three younger sisters,” says Calvin. “Being a role model.”
“Ha! Role model for what?”
“Hey, I drive them to school, feed them dinner when my parents are working late, and they haven’t killed each other, not yet. If that isn’t impressive, I don’t know what is.”
I must admit that Livy, no matter what you might say about her, is very self-sufficient. And we’re close enough in age, I’ve never had to be a surrogate mother. Plus, my dad was home enough to watch her because of his weird teaching schedule. “I’m just kidding. You are a real life Sir Lancelot and deserve to play the part on stage,” I say.
“C’est moi,” he says, gives a little bow, and douses his chicken with Caesar dressing.
“You can have all the croutons for your sad story about growing up, Calvin,” purrs Charlotte.
“Let them eat croutons,” I proclaim. I have French class after lunch.
Charlotte wrinkles her nose at my pizza. “I don’t see how you can stomach that. It’s pure fat. At least blot it.”
“I like the grease. I live dangerously.” But I’m using a spork and knife to protect myself all the same. With school pizza, the rule about eating pizza with your hands does not apply. Odd how oily, unctuous melted cheese has its charms. I can’t say the same for people with the same qualities.
“Aren’t your parents upset you didn’t apply to any reach schools, Calvin?” asks Charlotte. I feel like Ms. Desborough has suddenly manifested herself at the lunch table via Charlotte’s voice.
“Charlotte, my parents didn’t go to college. The application process is totally foreign to them,” says Calvin. “As long as I get in somewhere, anywhere, I’ve performed a miracle and walked on holy water, as far as they’re concerned.”
“Jesus Christ Superstar,” I say.
“I try,” says Calvin. “Well, actually, I was Judas over the summer.”
“But of course.” I start to sing the title song from the musical. Calvin immediately joins in. We harmonize, although I sing more softly, letting Calvin’s voice dominate, since he sounds so much better. I see Charlotte look around uncomfortably, as the nearby tables are staring at the two caroling weirdos with whom she’s eating lunch.
“Calvin, I thought your father went to college,” says Charlotte, interrupting the two of us before we can get too far into the really jazzy Jesus riffs.
“Auto mechanic school. My mom’s taken some certification courses for her work as an office manager. That’s all.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I’m not sure if Charlotte means she’s sorry she was mistaken or she’s sorry Calvin’s family are who they are.
“If you know of any scholarships for white trash, hook me up, Charlotte,” says Calvin.
“Calvin, you’re not white trash,” says Charlotte. “You’re from suburban New Jersey and so are your parents.”
“We’re South Jersey white trash, where we’re from originally. My uncle has a Confederate bumper sticker on his truck. Peak white trash, if you ask me, not to know what side of the Civil War your state fought on.” Calvin grins and his eyes sparkle. He spins his little silver pentagram ring around his pinkie finger (which I know he wears just to upset his parents, not because he’s a Satanist). He attacks his Charlotte-provided salad. He probably hasn’t eaten yet today.
Calvin makes an earthquake of crunching as he starts chowing down on all the croutons. He pours another envelope of ranch dressing on the lettuce. The green looks almost white.
Charlotte seems disturbed by Calvin’s reference to himself as white trash as well as worried that we might sing more Broadway show tunes. She shifts gears to a more familiar and comforting subject—herself. “I’m sweating to meet the Early Action deadline. Ms. Desborough is going to look over my personal statement as soon as I’ve finished. I can’t control who else applies, but I can control my essay.” I have a feeling Charlotte’s checking in with me, asking how far I’ve gotten with my required writing. But you can’t compete with someone who refuses to compete with you.
“You know more about how to get into Princeton than anyone else, since your mom interviews kids from this area for Princeton, right?” I ask.
“My mother isn’t interviewing for Princeton this fall, because I’m applying. That would be a conflict of interest. But last year, one applicant she met was the son of Somali refugees. How can I compete with that?”
I take a moment to squeeze some ketchup onto my tater tots. They’re particularly crispy this afternoon. Lunch may be the highlight of my entire day.
Charlotte pauses to carefully spike a shrimp before continuing. “Plus, he got a nearly perfect score on his SATs, had all As in his AP classes, ran track, and was president of his student council. He played the viola. Not even the violin. The viola. I mean, honestly, I’m not even sure what a viol
a looks like.”
“Not the oboe? Slacker,” I say.
“I don’t think I flatter myself when I say, if I were a Somali refugee with my current GPA and standardized test scores, I’d be able to get into Princeton very easily,” says Charlotte.
Calvin swallows after loudly masticating his food. “Thank Jesus H. Christ Superstar, extremely poor white trash doesn’t need to lose sleep over viola-playing, Somali refugee, SAT-taking prodigies.”
“That’s why I’m writing my personal statement about India,” says Charlotte.
“India…in general? Sounds kind of random,” I say.
“I went there over the summer.”
I’m not sure I heard her correctly. I steel myself for what is to come by taking a sip of my nearly-but-not-quite fat-free strawberry milk.
“I do a lot of volunteer work as part of the school Key Club and National Honor Society, so going to India to do a service trip seemed like the right thing to do, to take my volunteerism to the next level.”
“You mean, take your…personal brand…to the next level?”
Charlotte laughs, kind of uncomfortably. “You know Ms. Desborough too well.”
“Why India?”
“Um, because there’s a need?”
“There’s need all over the world.”
“Yes, but there’s like, a tremendous need in India.”
Pause.
“First, we thought about China, but Ms. Desborough was afraid some people on the admissions committees might not like that, because of the government’s human rights violations. So my mom helped me collect stuff they need over in India for this orphanage—toys, toothbrushes, soap, everything. We went over there to make the donation personally, to meet with the children.”
“So what was it like in an Indian orphanage? That sounds…”
“Intense. It was awful. Truthfully, I’m not sure how to write about it or, like Ms. Desborough says, ‘frame the experience in a positive way.’ It was just, um, sad. I mean, I guess I could say it made me appreciate what I have, but that’s kind of obvious. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live like that on a daily basis, even after seeing it myself.”
