by Mary Pagones
“Calvin, that’s lovely of you ask me. Once again, you are a true gentleman. Sir Lancelot, always ready to save a damsel in distress. But don’t worry. I’m going by myself this year.”
“Yourself? You mean, stag?”
“I’m not sure if that’s what they call it when girls go alone, but yes. I bought a single bid for myself. I’ve started planning my outfit. I mean, you’ll dance with me a couple of dances so I don’t look like a complete loser, at least not more than usual, right?”
“You don’t have to do that for me…”
“It’s better than being with Hugh. I like hanging out with you and Franklin as a couple. Franklin keeps you on a slightly shorter leash.”
I take Wentworth for a walk. Some potential adopters ask questions. The white on his muzzle seems to warn most people off. Even the people who ask if he’s available just say, “Poor thing,” and then kind of politely slink away when I admit that he’s at least ten years old.
So it’s a depressing day, followed by an unsuccessful attempt to bring my Honda back to life and lots of schoolwork. I’m tired and fall asleep early with the light on, which might be why I’m easily roused when I hear the door shut downstairs.
“Livy!” I blurt when I emerge from my room. Because my sister’s standing at the door in her jacket, with a full face of makeup on. She’s quite obviously back from sneaking out. My father sticks his head out of his bedroom. I should feel guilty about accidentally alerting him, but I haven’t quite forgiven her for Hugh. I know she must have been over at Catherine’s house. Instead, I just pop back into my bedroom.
I try to listen to what’s said downstairs. I hear things like, “What have you been smoking? Are you stoned?” Followed by, “I’m glad you called a cab to get a ride home instead of going home with someone who was drunk or high.” And, “It’s a school night.”
“Oh, I’ve done all my homework,” says Livy. She’s offended my father would suggest otherwise.
I pull the covers over my head.
Overhearing little bits of gossip here and there, I learn Hugh had a party last night. It figures that Livy gets in trouble for going, not Hugh. Catherine was probably at her boyfriend’s, making wedding plans for the happiest day of her life. Well, the happiest day of her life until her older, rich husband kicks the bucket, and she can spend his money in peace.
Charlotte complains at lunch how she’s slaving away with her tutor on her project for Mr. Clarke’s class. I feel like she’s spent more time sitting with her parents in the principal’s office trying to negotiate a higher grade on each and every single major assignment, than she has spent actually writing. She’s pulling a B– now, “which will be balanced out by my grades in my other classes, the classes where teachers actually grade you on things that can be proven right and wrong. And the fact that English is an AP class.”
“Charlotte, if you’d read the books rather than just summaries, and not always rely upon your tutor to tell you what she thinks is important, you might get better grades. Or learn something,” I say. “These are novels, plays, and poetry. Books people read for enjoyment. You’re making it way more painful than you need to.”
“Why don’t you go and marry Mr. Clarke already? You’re always defending him,” she snaps. “My method of studying always earned me high grades in my previous English classes.”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. My car is in the shop and I’m not sure it can be repaired. I haven’t heard from my top-choice school. I’m tired.” My father’s threatening not to let Livy go to MIT this summer as punishment for sneaking out, and she’s not talking to either of us. She spends all of her time in her room, crying, and is on strike from making dinner, so that’s another responsibility on my shoulders. Yesterday we had salami and cheese on bagels and canned tomato soup. Which wasn’t gross, but after a certain point, my father and I will probably die of salt poisoning if we’re left alone to plan all of our meals. With Livy cooking, we eat pretty badly, but without her, we’re even worse influences on one another. Tonight, ramen and potato chips may be the menu.
When we get our grades back on our second major project for Mr. Clarke—my paper on Austen’s Persuasion—in contrast to every other paper I’ve ever gotten back in English in the past, I read through the comments page by page, before looking at the final grade. Clarke writes at the very end:
All of Austen’s works illustrate how the careless—and careful—use of words can have lifelong consequences. Anne and Wentworth’s lives are nearly destroyed by words. Both are saved by Wentworth’s letter, when he writes to Anne he is filled with “half agony, half hope.” The entire plot of Pride and Prejudice is set into motion by Darcy’s casual remark about Elizabeth at a dance: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” The critical turning point of that book is Darcy’s carefully worded letter.
Austen is very much a writer’s writer. All of her books explore how words transform human beings (in books, letters, and in conversations) in the context of different social relationships.
So words matter. Writing matters.
I’m almost tempted not to go to the lunchroom to eat because I know I’m going to get an earful.
“Charlotte, you’re not going to schedule another meeting with the principal because of your English grade,” I say, after listening to her freak out for the first ten minutes of lunch about her grade and Mr. Clarke’s comments. “Seriously, chill out. You got into Princeton.”
I’ll need an intervention from on high—some kind of Darcy ex Machina—to get money from Pennington, if I do get in. Charlotte’s still worried about a school from which she’s already received an acceptance and doesn’t need any financial aid. I’m not sympathetic.
“Well, I’d like to keep my acceptance,” she says. “What grade did you get?”
An A–, but I’m not telling her that.
It’s funny…I looked back at the first major paper I turned in for English class, about the Wife of Bath, and I have to admit, it was pretty disorganized. My paper on Pride and Prejudice was so much better, but I’m proudest of the latest Persuasion one. Even if it’s not my favorite book.
I shrug. “I don’t feel like comparing grades with you, Charlotte.”
“I was thinking if maybe we all went to the principal’s office together to complain this time…I know Hugh failed,” says Charlotte.
“As in an F? Failed?” I ask. I don’t even bother to conceal my smile.
When I arrive home after dance class, I see my sister has cracked and is making a harvest salad for our dinner. She’s slicing cooked chicken breasts to put in a big bowl filled with bitter greens.
“Thank you for making something healthy,” I say, even though it’s long been her turn to cook.
“I was worried about getting scurvy. It has nothing to do with either of you,” she says. “So unfortunate how human beings, along with guinea pigs, are one of the few species who can’t manufacture their own vitamin C.”
We chat in uncomfortable short bursts of sound, signifying nothing, as she cuts and tosses. Until I casually mention Hugh’s English grade.
“Hugh failed?” asks my sister. “I wrote that paper for him.”
I laugh. “Mr. Clarke has pretty high standards.”
My sister’s face is red as the crasins she’s tossing with the kale, chicken, pecans, blue cheese, and tomatoes. “I can’t believe I failed an English paper.”
“Well, you didn’t fail, Hugh failed.”
“I failed by proxy,” she says, glumly.
I think about it. Livy doesn’t study much literature in her English classes. She mostly reads and writes short scientific essays. Literature is just not a priority at her science magnet school. This was a fifteen-page research paper. I haven’t seen Livy read fifteen pages of fiction willingly, ever, unless it was a graphic novel.
My father said I shouldn’t bother to major in English because I already know everything about the books I love and how to write about them. While he m
eant well, I know now that isn’t true.
Chapter 25
Neither Genius Nor Taste
“Liss, I need to talk to you.” Hugh’s stubble is dangerously close to a beard. He’s in red-and-black rumpled flannel today, his skull belt, and distressed black jeans. A few months ago, he would have looked sexy, vulnerable, and romantic to me. Now he just looks disheveled and dirty. What was I thinking? Times like this, I have no respect for my past self.
He gives me a sad, hopeful little smile, cocks his head a bit, and sticks his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. I can tell he’s trying to be appealing.
I’m sitting at my usual lunch table. This morning I was organized enough to pack a nice lunch (leftover chicken from Livy’s salad on a cinnamon-raisin bagel slathered with mayo, coupled with pineapple juice and two miniature peanut butter cups), so not only is Hugh an unpleasant surprise, he’s also ruining my ability to savor my food. Calvin would say I’m trying to raise my standards for what I put into my mouth.
I glare at him. “This isn’t your lunch period,” I say. I bare my teeth at him as I sip from can’s tiny plastic straw.
“I’ll go to class late. Mr. Clarke failed me on our last paper. You know it’s a major part of our class grade.”
“You mean the one my sister wrote for you?”
“Helped me with. Look, Liss, you don’t want me to fail.” I take a bite of my bagel sandwich, which is, of course, delicately cut into quarters. “C’mon, everyone knows that you’re the only person pulling an A in the fucker’s class.”
“I have a feeling he might prefer arsehole,” I say. “Anglo-Saxon, rather than the Germanic. Since we are focusing on the British canon.”
I have an A– average in English right now, to be exact. How do people know? Grr, Charlotte must have found out. It’s impossible to have secrets in this high school with her around.
“Hugh, if you think I have any sympathy with you, you’re seriously on crack,” I say. Or snorting Adderall, the preferred drug of the Rosewood South student body.
“Do you want me to not get into any college at all?” he asks. “Because that’s what will happen. I’m not asking you to rewrite it, just make it better.”
The late bell rings. Calvin sits down with his lunch tray. “What’s he doing here?” he asks. Jacqui flanks my other side. I’m surrounded by an army. Powerful. Strong.
As Hugh slumps out the door, I feel a flicker of desire when I see him from behind. Maybe some people would say I should try to help him with his paper. Say I should to move on, emotionally. I’m not being very Elizabeth Bennet. I’m embracing my inner, unforgiving Mr. Darcy instead.
Tomorrow the Gay-Straight Alliance is doing its spring fundraiser for LGBT+ charities, selling large cookies with rainbow M&Ms in different flavors. Chocolate chip cookies with M&Ms, peanut butter cookies with peanut butter M&Ms, mocha chocolate chip cookies with rice crispy M&Ms…the cookies are totally unhealthy and are therefore extremely popular. The same bakery that donated the rainbow bagels is donating the cookies. I guess it’s partially for the publicity, but the bakery is run by two married guys. I know they’re also doing it to show support.
I write up a little announcement to be read in the morning and drop it off at the school office. Even the school secretary, who always acts like the most jaded person in the world thanks to a lifetime of hearing bad excuses for being absent and late (I think she’s worked here even longer than Mr. Clarke), gets excited when I give her the flyer. “I look forward to those cookies.”
“Everyone does,” I say. You’d be surprised how giving a people an excuse to eat cookies the size of a small baby’s head generates positive feelings about LGBT+ rights. I’ve never had anyone refuse to buy one, when I’ve asked. I’ll be handling the morning shift again. Calvin will sell them during the afternoon.
I’m about to leave when I hear Professor Dennis Fitzgerald’s voice resounding from Principal Gardner’s office. At first, I think I’m hallucinating. I thought Hugh’s father gone back to England to finish his sabbatical. Of course, I should just keep walking on by. Instead, I stand by the corkboard near the guidance counselor’s office, just out of view.
“I’m back in the States for only a few days,” I hear Professor Fitzgerald say, as if in answer to my question. “Regardless, I must speak with you personally about the outrageous grades my son has received in Mr. Clarke’s English class.”
“If so many parents are complaining, have you thought it might be the teacher who is the problem, not the students?” Now it’s Dr. Holland’s voice. “Charlotte’s at a complete loss.”
Actually reading Mr. Clarke’s comments rather than just complaining about the grade might help. Or, in the case of Hugh, not using a sixteen-year-old to write your paper who isn’t even in your class (and who hates writing).
Unfortunately, a janitor walks by dragging a bucket, so I miss some crucial parts of the conversation, thanks to his squeaking wheels. I can only make out Professor Fitzgerald spouting, “I teach at Columbia University and…”
Yes, but you don’t teach English. Plus, Hugh’s never been to a real high school before. Hugh is your son; it’s not like you’re totally objective.
Dr. Holland chimes in, saying how her professor friends looked over her daughter’s paper. Again, not the most objective source, I think, and if Dr. Holland asked me my opinion of Charlotte’s work, I might not be completely honest either, to get out of an awkward situation.
I wait until they’ve gone and then creep into Principal Gardner’s office. I debate how to begin, then decide when all else fails, tell the truth. “I was stopping by to drop off the Gay-Straight Alliances’ announcement for our annual cookie sale…”
“Thanks for warning me, Liss. I’ll have an extra-light dinner and not eat breakfast tomorrow,” she says. “Remember to save me a chocolate chip mint-flavored cookie. Or two.”
I nod. “…and I couldn’t help overhearing what was being said about Mr. Clarke, my English teacher. He’s a fair teacher. I mean, he is a very hard grader, but if you read what he says about your writing and you pay attention in class, it’s not impossible. I’m not a top student and I’ve been able to pull up my grades to an A– average. He just expects more than most teachers do in regards to writing.”
Principal Gardner sighs, rubs her eyes. She looks away from me for a moment, opens her mouth as if to say something, then looks away.
The silence is uncomfortable. “Truthfully, many students—including myself—were kind of used to phoning it in, I mean, not trying very hard in English class,” I say, guiltily.
Principal Gardner cocks her head at me quizzically. “I understand. I appreciate your input, Liss,” she says.
I leave school feeling somewhat lighter, even though it takes two very vigorous turns of the key to bring my car back to life. The repair shop says it’s enjoying its last days of life, but at least it’s running again.
I see Charlotte Holland and Hugh getting into her Lexus. I smile as I sputter off, knowing what she’s thinking about my car. Well, maybe that’s all I can aspire to, in terms of future luxuries—a nicer Honda—if I continue on my current path. I don’t care.
Chapter 26
So Little Expense Or Inconvenience To Her Family
When I arrive home, there’s an envelope from Pennington College in the mailbox. Thank goodness my father’s teaching and Livy’s at Robotics Club. I need to be alone for this moment.
It’s neither thick nor thin. Just to mess with my mind.
Some schools send emails. Some send texts. But Pennington’s still stubbornly beholden to paper. I take a minute, sitting at the table to look at the thick, creamy stationary, the dark brown lettering. Pennington’s unusual school colors are burnt sienna and ivory.
My hands are trembling. My fingers feel like they belong to another person. I start to cry. “We are pleased to inform you…” I see words but can’t quite take them in at first. Then I calm down and force myself to fully process th
e information. I’ve heard of students getting conditional admission to some schools, so I want to make sure that this isn’t the case. It isn’t. I’m admitted. Full stop.
I’m crying and shaking. I’ve read about heroines weeping with joy. This is the first time it’s happened to me in real life.
Compose yourself, Liss.
I look at the other three, delicate enclosed sheets, the first of which is a summary of my financial aid package. My lips tighten.
By the time my father has come home, I’ve shifted back into practical Elizabeth Bennet mode. Maybe a bit of Charlotte Lucas sprinkled on top. “They haven’t offered me much in the way of a scholarship.”
“How much?”
I hand him the letter. “Book money, I guess you’d call it.” Or cigarette money, in Calvin’s eyes.
My father is still in over-the-moon-with-joy mode because I have an acceptance letter that’s not from Rutgers. I’m his first child. This is what he’s been planning for since I was born. I leave a message with Amy Lesser to discuss my financial aid package. “I’m sure she can work something out. She likes you,” he says.
“She does,” I agree, “but I’m not sure she likes me tens of thousands of dollars in tuition enough.”
“Did you hear? Noel is going to Davisson College,” says Charlotte, as soon as she sits down at our lunch table. She’s back in her Burberry, this time in a shirtwaist dress in the brand’s signature plaid, and the weather is nice enough for elegant strappy sandals. She’s still sporting her Princeton backpack and puts it on an empty chair beside her, so we can all stare at the word Princeton as we eat.
“That sounds like a fortuitous match,” I say. “It’s super-preppy and so is Noel.”
Charlotte wrinkles up her nose. “It’s beneath him, academically.” She doesn’t seem too broken up about it, though. While a bunch of kids got into the University of Pennsylvania and Cornell, no one else got into Princeton, Harvard, or Yale this year. This may mean that despite her mediocre English grades, Charlotte has pulled off the biggest admissions coup. The only vindication is that since Noel had to take so many tests over for reduced grades, Jacqui is going to be valedictorian.
