Pride, Prejudice, and Personal Statements

by Mary Pagones

  I can tell Charlotte’s frustrated that I got a—relatively speaking—much better grade than anyone else in class, even though I’m not considered a top student. “I’m going to have to speak to the principal. First, I’ll have my mother email Mr. Clarke, though. This isn’t over,” Charlotte strategizes. “I’m bringing in reinforcements.”

  I rub the sore, pulsating skin under my strained eyes. I finish my peanut butter sandwich, lay my head on the table, and pull my hoodie over my head.

  Maybe I could ask to do a rewrite. Ask him for an example of what an A paper looks like. I know I should be equally concerned about all of my grades. I mean, I’m getting a B– in pre-calculus as well. But English means more; my pride is at stake. I’m supposed to excel in English. It’s my thing. If I’m not a straight-A student in English, who am I?

  I pull off the hoodie when I sense a new person nearby. A voice says, “If you don’t mind my asking, what grade did you receive on our latest English assignment? As president of the National Honor Society, I need to know.” Noel’s smiling like he’s joking. But he’s not really.

  “Hi, Noel,” I say. I look up. Way up. Noel’s very tall. He’s on the basketball team, all limbs. “I actually got a terrible grade.”

  Jacqui is studiously observing her food. I see her take a quick peep at Noel, then she lovingly gazes back at her pizza. Please, Jacqui, just talk to Noel like he’s a normal person.

  “I received a C, and I haven’t gotten a C in anything since, like, tying my shoes in kindergarten,” says Noel.

  “I might not meet the standards of the National Honor Society, but I guess I did best its president with my B–. Best of the worst.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with the selection for NHS, Liss. That was last year’s board of directors.”

  “I know that my math and science grades are only average, and I don’t have any athletic achievements.” Other than standing on my toes for hours a week.

  Jacqui is an NHS member; she managed (somehow) to juggle freshman field hockey with dance, so she could have at least one sport on her résumé. The requirements for who can join the National Honor Society kind of stink if you do one thing intensively, since for NHS you’re supposed to have a well-rounded résumé of sports, community service, challenging academics, and the arts. Then you’re supposed to have a single, driving passion to improve your chances of admission to college.

  Noel seems like a nice guy in the superficial exchanges I’ve had with him. Like, when he does well he never rubs it in people’s faces. The C, I can see, has shaken him. Still, he obviously resents the fact that I got a better grade in English—like I’m encroaching upon his honorable, presidential status.

  “Who are you using for English?” Charlotte asks Noel. They debate the various qualifications of their respective English and verbal SAT tutors for a bit. It’s odd. I mean, they’re high school kids just like the rest of us. It sounds like they’re discussing the merits of various employees. Which, in a way, they are, I guess.

  Charlotte whips out her phone and shows us all the résumé of her English tutor from the company website. The woman has a PhD from Harvard and studied at Yale for her undergraduate degree.

  “Why isn’t she teaching at a college?” I ask.

  “She says she can make more money tutoring, believe it or not,” says Charlotte. “Still, what a horrible job. I’m never going to read Chaucer again after Clarke’s stupid class. I just want my tutor to tell me what to write so I can get a decent grade. She’s completely nuts. She might as well be speaking in Chaucer-ese for how much I understand her half the time. You have to be crazy, I guess, to like studying Chaucer since it’s a subject no one cares about. Except Clarke. And you.”

  Drunk on my first, ballet-free day of freedom, I stick around after school to hear Calvin audition. Since I’m Hugh’s ride unless he wants to take the bus, he’s stuck watching with me. I seriously get chills listening to Calvin sing as he breaks into the first bars of “C’est Moi.” He’s easily the best singer and certainly the best actor in the school.

  But then comes the part of the song where Lancelot starts going on about how pure he is around women. A few people in the audience start sniggering audibly. They all lose it at his line that Eve would still be in Paradise if he had been Adam.

  “Shut up,” I hiss. It’s not even funny; Calvin’s totally in character as Lancelot. They’re just being idiots. I see Hugh’s sniggering too, and I hit him. Not a fake, cute girlfriend smack, but hard.

  As the laughter gets louder Calvin’s face gets redder and redder, but it looks like it’s more from effort than humiliation. There’s no strain to his singing, it just takes on a kind of resonance I’ve never heard before. I can feel the notes reverberating up through my feet and into my bones.

  I hope the director, the drama teacher Ms. Palumbo, isn’t influenced by all of the giggling kids in the audience to think he can’t play a romantic lead. I can’t see her face clearly, only the bright orange of her hair in the dimness of the back of the theater, and the glint of her metal clipboard. Calvin can be anyone on stage; it’s just because kids hear the rumors about him off stage that they’re laughing. I applaud after he’s finished. Hugh’s stopped sniggering and is now looking at his phone.

  Calvin gives a bow, looking smug, cool, and in character, and strides off of the stage. He’s bright pink, yet the expression on his face reveals nothing of how I suspect he feels.

  I say, “It’s a crime if Calvin doesn’t get to be Lance.”

  “If you say so. I hate musicals, it’s hard for me to tell,” says Hugh.

  “You’re a monster. Is there nothing you don’t hate?”

  “You’re okay,” he says, and grins at me. I melt and forgive him.

  “I have an idea for your film. I’ve already talked to Calvin about it, and he’s agreed.” Hugh’s clean-shaven today, no stubble, so he almost looks young and vulnerable as he gazes at me. “It’s about a guy coming out to his high school friend. Only she’s had a crush on him for a long time. She comes to visit him at college. The whole build-up is to her finally seizing the day, announcing to him that she’s loved him for years—and then when he tells her he’s gay before she can declare her love, she has to realize in an instant that she has to be supportive of him in a different way.”

  “Will people think I’m gay if I write a film about a gay guy?”

  “Do you want me to write a letter affirming your heterosexuality to attach to the application? You’re not writing the film. I’m writing it. Blame your girlfriend.” I kiss him. “Besides, who cares if the admissions committee thinks you’re gay?” I ask.

  Hugh grins. “I do.”

  “So your plan is only to make films about yourself for your entire career? It’s the classic Pride and Prejudice-style story of a woman mistaking feelings for reality.”

  Hugh cleans his glasses on his t-shirt. “Mmm…’kay.”

  “I’m envisioning a set-up with her driving to his college, preparing to tell the guy that she loves him, rehearsing what she’s going to say alone in the car. Then he comes out to her. The situation is totally different from how she thought it would be. But she overcomes her surprise, doesn’t reveal her love, and supports him as a friend. They part better friends than before, because now they have a relationship without illusions.”

  “Is this based on actual feelings you have for Calvin?” He kisses my neck, I feel his lips against my spine.

  “Hugh, surely you understand that if I felt that way about Calvin, there would be no way I could write this? I need some distance from what I write about. Otherwise I get too emotional.”

  “Too emotional? You? Hard to believe. Okay, well, thanks for writing something. I’m just not good at that stuff. I mean, once I have the story, I have great ideas for visuals, but I’m not good at thinking up dialogue that sounds like how people talk.”

  “I’m thinking that Pennington College will be the perfect setting,” I say. “I’m going to
its prospective student day, soon, so I can scope out locations.”

  “The truth comes out. It is based upon unrequired love,” says Hugh. “Not for a human being, but for a college.”

  Calvin walks over to us. For once, he doesn’t have a sarcastic grin on his face. There’s rage and hurt in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry people are such jerks. You were incredible,” I say.

  “Fuck ’em, I don’t care,” he says, coldly. His voice is cracking, though. As convincing as he is on stage, he can’t will his normal speaking voice to conceal what he feels. “It’s what I expected of the assholes.” He changes the subject, quickly. “Liss, they were wondering if you could help with some of the choreography again this year? ‘The Lusty Month of May’ is a pretty complicated number.”

  “Wow, I’m so in demand,” I say. “Noel was asking me for advice about boosting his grades in Clarke’s class, I’m writing a script for Hugh, and I get to choreograph the dancing in the school play.” But especially since it’s a musical based on English literature, I’m game to help out with Camelot.

  “That is, if I don’t completely fail out of school by then, thanks to my C+ in Clarke’s class,” says Calvin. Uncomfortably, I note that Calvin’s grade is pretty close to mine (and also better than most of the National Honor Society kids, by a slim margin).

  “I got a D from Clarke,” says my boyfriend. “Given that I didn’t understand anything, unlike her,” he gestures to me, “that’s almost a gift.”

  “Hugh went to a progressive high school in the city and is used to reading whatever he pleases,” I say. “Or nothing at all. No Chaucer allowed.”

  I finish the day at the shelter. As soon as I enter the room where the small dogs’ cages are, Wentworth presses his wet, cold nose against the cage and starts wagging his tail furiously. “Poor little Wentworth.” He looks so morose. I see he hasn’t touched any of the treats the morning staff left for him. He didn’t eat breakfast, either.

  I feed him in a quiet room before taking him on his walk. Without the barking around him, he manages to settle and relax. It’s going to be tough finding him a home when his personality doesn’t shine unless he’s alone, I think.

  On National Coming Out Day, the members of the Gay-Straight Alliance sell bagels in the morning, at lunch, and during games to raise money for the Trevor Project and other organizations that support LGBTQ+ rights.

  “Mr. Clarke! Want to buy a bagel?” I shout at him. I’m handling the morning shift, since I’d rather get up extra-early than suffer through a football game (and that’s saying a lot, because I was up nearly all night writing my novel after finishing my homework). Mr. Clarke smiles at me and stops.

  “These are…bagels?” he asks.

  “Special bagels for National Coming Out Day and all the profits go to LGBT+ charities like the Trevor Project. Don’t be afraid, it’s just food coloring,” I explain. The bagels and toppings are being donated to us by a local bakery. They come in rainbow colors and there are all sorts of fancy spreads you can order them with, like cream cheese in Funfetti, chocolate, birthday cake, and cookie dough varieties.

  Mr. Clarke gives me a $20, tells me to keep the change, and says he’ll take one with plain cream cheese.

  “Mr. Clarke,” I say, hesitating. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if I could redo the Chaucer essay. I’m still not sure if I understand what an A paper should look like.”

  “I’ve only given a handful of As in all of my years a teacher,” he says.

  Principal Gardner, who is lurking over Clarke’s shoulder, hands me $3, which is what we’re charging for a bagel with a spread. “And that’s been many years, Tom,” she says, grinning. She’s a tall, athletic, older woman with short, sensibly cut grey hair, and she towers over my English teacher.

  “Too many, Abigail,” he says.

  “Oh, stop, Tom. You, of all people, are a born teacher. What would you do with yourself if you didn’t teach?”

  “Whenever people say, ‘you’re a born teacher,’ I’m slightly suspicious they mean, ‘thank God I wasn’t born one myself,’” says Mr. Clarke. Our principal laughs and says to put cookie dough-flavored cream cheese on her bagel.

  “What have your A students written papers about, Mr. Clarke?” I’m staying focused, even though I have to be careful as I slice, spackle, and wrap.

  “One of my most dedicated students wrote a paper on Jane Eyre she later revised and published in an academic journal whilst she was at university.”

  I can feel my face tighten. “Don’t you think a publishable academic paper is a bit of an unreasonable standard for a high school student?”

  “An A is supposed to mean something, Ms. Tennant. My point is you should take a long-term view of your development as a writer.”

  “But what about an A–? I’m not expecting an A+.”

  “While I do occasionally allow students to redo assignments, I’d prefer you focus on your next paper.” I try to make it seem as if my frown is due to the fact I’m concentrating on slicing. “With that sharp knife, perhaps I should be wary of you,” he says.

  “The duller the knife, the more dangerous the blade,” I respond. I’ve never had to go to the hospital, but one year Calvin impaled his palm slicing a rubbery cafeteria bagel with a plastic knife. It was kind of embarrassing as well as bloody, what with all the rapier-wielding characters he’s played on stage over the years.

  “That is true of students as well.” I notice Charlotte just walked by, but Mr. Clarke’s eyes follow her for only a split second. “Incidentally, I think it’s wonderful that you’re doing this. Not so long ago, parents sent me nasty notes because I include the works of Oscar Wilde on my syllabus. Things are changing. Now I just receive nasty emails from parents about their children’s grades. They don’t care what I teach as long as I give their child As.”

  “I’m not asking for an A just for existing,” I say. “I want to improve my writing.”

  “Not you, Ms. Tennant. I appreciate you came to me to discuss my expectations by yourself and in person.”

  Yes, things are changing. Everything except my crappy grade in your class, I think as he heads in the direction of his room, wrapped bagel in one hand, briefcase in the other.

  Jacqui and I have lunch alone. Charlotte’s chowing down on salads with the rest of the Key Club a few tables away. She’s treasurer of that organization as well.

  “I understand why you’re frustrated about the way I act around Noel,” says Jacqui taking a small bite of the rainbow bagel she bought. She’s eating hers plain because she’s one of those freaky people who doesn’t like cream cheese. “But there’s something you don’t understand.”

  I wait. There’s a long silence.

  “These actually taste like regular bagels,” she blurts out.

  “The rainbow is just food dye coloring. Why does no one believe me? What don’t I understand?”

  “I mean, I’m sorry if you’re bored that I’m talking about him all of the time.”

  She’s caught me there. I am, a little bit. I’m careful not to talk too much about Hugh. I’m getting to the point where I can just enjoy being around him and not obsess over his every action. Even before that, when I had crushes on other guys, I was always more apt to keep my thoughts to myself. I don’t want a lot of romantic advice from other people, even my best friends.

  Jacqui is forcing me to be blunter than I’d like. “I’m not bored. I’m just saying if you tried relaxing around Noel and talked about stuff you’re both interested in, not just homework, it might be easier. Guys are just regular people. Like Hugh.”

  “Liss, it’s different between me and Noel than it is with you and Hugh.”

  “How?”

  My bagel is spread with cookie-dough-flavored cream cheese and I’m already getting a sugar high. I make a face. “This actually tastes kind of gross.” I throw it out. I text Calvin to bring me a leftover bagel with plain cream cheese when he finishes his shift.

  “I don�
��t mean to alarm you, Liss, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m Black, and Noel’s white.”

  “Jacqui, that shouldn’t make any difference at all. It doesn’t between us as friends.”

  “I can talk about this subject with you and you won’t get mad or defensive. Plus, your family is weird and doesn’t care, either. When I’m over Noel’s house, I can tell that that they notice.”

  “Oh my God! Have they said stuff to you?” I’m ready to be outraged and break out the dueling pistols. Or at least the big bagel knife.

  “No, no, no. Absolutely not. I’m just saying that they see me differently. I’m getting this vibe. Plus, you see how Noel dresses, what car he drives.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Jacqui. A vibe?”

  “Noel does crazy-white-person stuff like going to Aspen for vacation. I’d impale myself if I tried skiing.”

  “You’re not going to date Noel because you don’t want to go on a ski vacation with him?”

  “We were discussing paying for college and he said, ‘Yes, it would be nice to get a merit scholarship from The Adams Morgan, but I’m definitely not going to get need-based financial aid. My parents are going to put my tuition on their American Express Card, though, so they can at least get the rewards points.’”

  “Wow…that’s…I didn’t know you could put all your tuition on a credit card. Still, I know he doesn’t look it, but Hugh’s parents are even wealthier than Noel’s. His college tuition is already all taken care of, too.”

  “Hugh’s family sounds incredibly weird, at least the way Catherine treats him, from what you’ve told me. I mean, she stores him in the basement.” She is kind of right. Catherine’s a single person living in a normal-sized house; she could allot Hugh a decent spare bedroom. Hugh’s not gay, but he is very literally living in a closet and has to keep his clothes in his desk.

  Yet that’s irrelevant. “The important thing is that Hugh and I have a great relationship, even though we come from very different backgrounds. I can tell Noel likes you. He’s just having trouble reading your signals.”

  “You’ve never seen him with his parents,” says Jacqui. “He’s different with them. He’s like a different person, depending on who’s around. There are just some things you don’t understand.” I open my mouth, then shut it. I know not to press her. There’s a reason Jacqui’s gotten all As in the sciences; she’s an acute observer, except of her own merit. It’s the only area where her objectivity fails her.