Nostalgically yours, J.
october
the ninth
No one at PHS gives a crap about anything even remotely resembling an intellectual after-school activity. Plus, any student interested in writing channels that creativity into home pages full of bad poetry or fanfic. Not to mention that the only issue of the school paper that anyone reads is the one with the Senior Class Last Will and Testament, and that doesn’t come out until May. So no one was shocked when Miss Haviland, our English teacher, announced that not one student showed up for the planning meetings for the September or October issues of the The Seagull’s Voice.
Miss Haviland (who, on account of her unmarried antiquity and love of lacy blouses and long flowing skirts, will be referred to as Havisham here on out) is a former make-love-not-war hippie who has been both the junior honors English teacher and The Seagull’s Voice’s advisor for thirty years. To her, the lack of interest in this fine publication was simply "a travesty." Don’t we realize that "the school paper is a forum for discussing the issues that are important to us? The school paper provides a platform for voicing criticism of school policies and procedures! The school paper is an outlet for creativity! The school paper gives us the opportunity to resuscitate the written word!"
Blah-diddy-blah-blah-blah.
Needless to say, no one was moved by her speech. We figured The Seagull’s Voice had squawked for the last time. Oh, how wrong we were. Havisham announced that starting today, participation on the school paper would be mandatory for all juniors and seniors in honors English. Juniors are responsible for writing and reporting all the stories. Seniors are responsible for editing and laying it out. We were all pretty pissed off.
Our class is known for being particularly apathetic, debunking the media myth that Gen-Y is made up of a bunch of optimistic, wanna-do-gooders. But goddamn, do we galvanize against any oppressive force that wants to better us through academics. The Clueless Crew spoke up first, saying they couldn’t possibly work on the paper because they needed to devote their after-school hours to perfecting their cheerleading routines and planning the homecoming festivities. Scotty and P.J. complained that it would interfere with football practice. Soccer guys, field-hockey girls, and band nerds voiced similar objections.
The class was too busy whining to hear Havisham explain that we’d use class time to work on our stories. When it finally hit them that the paper could be a time-waster extraordinaire, most of the bitch-and-moaners quieted down. Then Havisham revealed that she had most of the stories for the first issue already planned out because of the time crunch. We just needed to decide which ones we wanted to write. So the rest of the period was spent determining which intrepid reporters would write such groundbreaking stories as, "Cheerleaders Work Hard on Homecoming" and "Football Team Gears Up for Winning Season."
I refused to volunteer for any of these sorry-ass stories. Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace gets a six-figure book deal, while I get to write for The Seagull’s Voice? Thanks, but no thanks. As the period wore on and we got down to the less plum assignments ("Cafeteria Gets New Pepsi Machine"), I was happy as hell when I could make my early break for it. I was almost out the door when Havisham said, "Jessica, I’d like to talk to you after class. I’ll give you a pass."
That’s when I knew my luck had run out.
Once we were alone, Havisham sat down at the desk next to me. I could literally hear her bones creaking.
"How important is free speech to you?"
"Uh … free speech?"
"Yes."
"Uh … I don’t really think about free speech."
Havisham’s nose twitched involuntarily, like a rabbit. She often does this when she’s disgusted with today’s youth.
"Well, you should think about it more," she said.
"I’ll take that under advisement," I said, reaching for my crutches.
"I’ve been very impressed with your writing," she said, placing her bumpy, veiny hand on my arm to keep me in my seat. "You put a unique spin on the holistic essay topics. Your essay about how technology has affected society, for example."
She was referring to the latest of the snooze-fest writing assignments designed to prepare us for these proficiency exams that all eleventh-graders are forced to take in the third marking period. Screw the SATs; the majority of PHS students struggle to pass these basic equivalency exams. A humiliating one-third of the Class of ’01 failed the English section last year, so now the administrators are trying to make up for it with relentless essay writing, vocab memorization, and reading comprehension. They’re only about ten years too late.
"You noted how no advance in technology can be a substitute for real interpersonal interaction. I was particularly touched by your admission that being able to get in touch with your long-distance friend twenty-four hours a day is sometimes more of a burden than a blessing because it just makes you wish she were here."
"Thanks." I squirmed in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. Whenever I turned in an essay, I generally forgot about it until I got the paper back with an A on it, then I promptly forgot about it again. Hearing Havisham talk about Hope reminded me that someone actually read what I wrote. I had shared something personal, and the very idea of it made me kind of queasy.
"Not many students can imagine a world without E-mail and the Internet," she said. "Let alone see the advantages to the way things used to be."
I started wondering what Marcus had said in his essay. I know how he feels about technology, yet Havisham hadn’t called him after class to talk about it.
Havisham waved a wrinkled finger at my cast, snapping me out of my reverie. "The Seagull’s Voice needs your voice, Jessica."
"My voice? What voice?"
"I think you would make an outstanding op-ed columnist …"
Oh, Christ. I really, really didn’t want to do this. Why waste my time writing for a paper that no one reads? And besides, I’m not a writer. I don’t go to coffeehouses and smoke, wear black, and analyze Sylvia Plath to the point of depression. Okay. I do get depressed. But not for amusement’s sake.
"And I assume that you won’t be up and running any time soon."
"Well, uh, yeah," I said, grasping for any excuse to get me out of this, "But I’m still really overloaded.…"
"It will look very impressive on your college transcript."
She was a shrewd woman, this Havisham. She knew this would suck me in. I had the athletic stuff, the service stuff, and the leadership stuff, but I didn’t have any creative stuff on my transcript to make me the type of well-rounded person that Ivy League schools love.
So that’s how I ended up the op-ed columnist for The Seagull’s Voice. I have to come up with a topic for my piece by the end of the week. Havisham already ruled out my first idea, "Why Forced Participation in School Activities Sucks." Free speech, my ass.
Finally, an interesting little P.S. To help me brainstorm, Havisham gave me a list of all the stories in the issue and who was writing them. As I scanned it, I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t volunteered for a story. Yet I was the only one Havisham noticed, or cared about. Marcus Flutie’s name was missing. I thought, Good for him, too bad for us. The Seagull’s Voice needs his voice, too. Or at the very least, I do.
the sixteenth
Indulge me, as I document the transcript of this evening’s telephone glory:
Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace: Hi, Jess.
Me: This isn’t Hope! My dad said Hope was on the phone!
MHAW: I lied to get you to take the call.
Me: Lying is what you do best, isn’t it? Bye-b—
MHAW: Don’t hang up! Let me explain.…
Me: Why should I?
MHAW: Because you’re the only one I feel guilty about …
Me: You have ten seconds …
MHAW: I genuinely like you. Why do you think I stopped rollin’ with you?
Me: Five seconds …
MHAW: Manda and Sara gave me much better material.
…
Me: Time’s up.
MHAW: I wanna talk to you.…
Me: Why? So I can provide the plot of your TV-movie-in-the-making?
MHAW: Girl, I …
Me: I’m not your girl. Don’t ever call or E-mail me again.
Click.
After everything she’s done, Hy had the audacity to impersonate my best friend in the universe. What makes this even dirtier is that Hope is someone who has never intentionally backstabbed anyone in her life. (And do I even have to point out how sad it is that my dad fell for it? He’s so out of touch with me that he doesn’t even know the sound of my best friend’s voice on the phone. Pathetic!)
I don’t know why I was so surprised. Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace is just living the footloose, fucked-up, and fancy-free lifestyle of a NYC trustafarian. Her suburban experiment was just an extreme example of her feeling entitled to whatever she damn well wants. Only, in this case, she couldn’t use her parents’ names or bank accounts to get it. No, she needed us to get the one thing that eludes pampered, privileged girls with famous parents: Credibility.
Boo-hoo! What a burden being born into a high-class caste. Everything comes too easy for me! Sex. Drugs. Manolos. Boo-hoo! I’m such a cliché! No one takes me seriously. If only I were … middle class. Then my life would be simple and rosy! So you know what I’ll do? I’ll slum in (ick!) New Jersey and pretend to befriend some poor mallrats who have no idea what it’s like to live on the right side of the VIP velvet ropes. I’ll win their confidence, learn their secrets, then exploit the hell out of them. While the rest of the Park Avenue Posse fucks and snorts and shops, I’ll write a novel about how my suburban nightmare was far worse than anything I saw after-hours in the meat-packing district. The world will be so impressed by my transformation from addict to author that no one will accuse me of getting into Harvard because of my parents.…
The upside of the conversation is that I now know the subject for my essay. "Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace: Park Avenue Poseur."
the seventeenth
Are we ready for a World War?
In homeroom this morning, I told Sara all about how I’d dissed Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace on the phone. She’s the perfect person to share these types of triumphs with, if only because she asks for so many details that the retelling lasts a bizillion times longer than the actual event.
Omigod! She said what? Omigod! You said what? Omigod! What did you do then? Omigod! Didn’t you want to strangle her? Omigod! You’re really gonna write an editorial about her? Omigod!
And so on.
With five minutes left, I put on my backpack and picked up my crutches to get a head start on the PHS student body. That’s when I saw his hand go up in the air.
"Mr. Flutie?" said Rico Suave with the condescending, mock-polite tone teachers use to mask their dislike of certain trouble students.
"I have to tell Jessica Darling something before she leaves," Marcus said.
"Okay. But be quick about it," said Rico Suave.
Marcus got up from his seat and walked right up to me. Then he deliberately turned to look at Sara, whose eyes were springing out of her head like a pair of novelty googly-glasses. He looked at me again and said, "Ask yourself this: Who’s the real poseur?"
Then he walked back to his seat.
He had no idea how long I had waited to hear those seven words. Well, not those specifically, but just words in general.
Needless to say, I tried hobbling out of there before Sara had a chance to pick her chin up off the floor. But I couldn’t limp fast enough.
"Omigod! What was that all about?" asked Sara, who had snuck up behind me.
"Jesus Christ!" I yelled, twitching with shock. "What are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me."
"I told Suave you forgot your Chem book," she said. "What is up with you and Krispy Kreme?"
"I have no idea, Sara."
"Really?" she said, her tongue dripping with venom. "If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you actually understood what he was talking about."
"Well, I don’t."
"If you don’t ask Krispy what the hell his problem is, I will," she said with a steely determination I knew she would make good on.
It didn’t take too long. Six minutes later, before the start of History class, Sara was already on her way to getting to the bottom of it.
"Why are you always messing with my friend Jess?" she demanded, flapping her arms in his face before he had a chance to take two steps inside the classroom. But Marcus didn’t even break his stride. He walked over to his assigned seat and sat down.
"Don’t ignore me!" she said, following right behind him. "I want to know why you’re messing with my friend."
Marcus laughed. Actually, it was more of an idea of a laugh. His shoulders shook and his eyes crinkled and bursts of air came out of his mouth. But there was no noise that resembled anything close to a laughing sound. Sara got the point anyway.
"What’s so funny?" Sara asked, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.
Marcus kept right on laughing his silent laugh.
"WHAT’S SO FUCKING FUNNY?!"
The whole honors class held their breath. Everyone had been waiting for something like this to happen since school started. But to their disappointment, Marcus had defied his controversial, provocative rep and had basically kept to himself. Until now.
"You’re not Jessica’s friend," Marcus said. "She can barely tolerate any of you."
For the first time since I’ve known her, Sara was at a loss for words. She huffed and puffed in the aisle for a few seconds. Then came the mother of all hissy fits.
"OMIGOD! WHERE DO YOU GET OFF SLAMMING ME AND MY FRIENDS?! I DON’T CARE THAT YOUR IQ TESTS SAY YOU’RE A QUOTE GENIUS UNQUOTE . YOU’RE A FUCKING DREG WHO IS GONNA WIND UP PUMPING GAS IN PINEVILLE FOR THE REST OF YOUR FUCKING LIFE!"
Just then, Bee Gee entered the room, oblivious to the sweeps-week-level drama that was going on in Room 201.
"Okay, people. Are we ready for a World War?"
Sara was ready, that’s for damn sure.
"I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL YOU FUCK UP AND GET KICKED OUT OF HERE FOR GOOD. BETTER YET, WHY DON’T YOU DO US ALL A FAVOR AND JUST OD AND GET IT OVER WITH, YOU FUCKING LOSER?"
And Bee Gee, in a rare moment of PHS jurisprudence, sent Sara to the principal’s office, which was just for show since Masters is tight with Sara’s dad.
As Sara stormed out of the classroom, Marcus leaned across his desk, pushed back my hair, and whispered in my ear.
"I’m trying to repay the favor, Cuz."
WHAT?! This is the thanks I get for The Dannon Incident? Since when does repaying the favor mean not talking to me for two months, then trying to make sure that no one else at Pineville High School talks to me either?
Of course, I didn’t say any of this.
Sara was sprung from the office by lunch, which was spent drilling me about Marcus.
"What the hell is going on with you and Krispy Kreme?"
"I have no idea," I said, keeping it simple.
"You’re the only one he makes these smart-ass remarks about."
"You must be working his nerves in some way," Manda chimed in. "Maybe he’s threatened because you’re an intelligent female, since he’s supposed to be the genius."
"I have no idea," I repeated, making my point and sticking to it.
"No, that’s not it," said Sara, matter-of-factly. "This started last year, before that Dreg was declared a quote genius unquote. There was that time he went off outside the principal’s office, then that other time in homeroom before spring break, remember?"
Sara never forgets anything.
"What do you want me to say? I have no idea why Marcus started doing any of this. I have no clue why he singled me out for his mind games."
This was all true. So far.
"Why would he say quote she can’t stand any of you unquote?"
"I have no idea."
Okay. That w
as a lie. The first of many I told throughout the remainder of lunch.
I don’t hate you guys. I haven’t done anything to provoke Marcus. I’m totally innocent in this.
Then just like that—BAM!—I had an epiphany. Marcus was right. My lies made me a bigger poseur than Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace.
At that moment, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I was snapped out of my revelation by Sara’s nasal noise.
"Jess! What’s up? You have this totally bizarre look on your face right now."
I touched my teeth with my fingers. I was smiling. A goofy, toothy, genuine smile. One Sara couldn’t recognize. No wonder I looked so bizarre.
the twentieth
I had no trouble convincing Havisham to let me tweak my essay, as long as I turned it in by 9 A.M.this morning so it could be sent to the printer.
"What a perfect idea!" she said. "It’s still topical, but will affect readers on a personal level. It might even inspire some changes around here."
"I doubt it," I said. "No one even reads the paper."
She twitched her nose. "Then why do it at all?" she asked, with great gravity.
I wasn’t sure of the answer. Maybe I assumed Havisham would shoot me down and I wouldn’t have to go through with my idea. As soon as I got her approval for the eleventh-hour change, I had no clue how to say what I wanted to say without sounding trite. I’d had no problem dissing Hy in my first draft. But now that I wanted to lay a school-wide guilt-trip, 400 words might as well have been four bizillion.
The annoying thing is, I have no trouble going on and on in here whenever I can’t fall asleep. Of course, the difference is, none of this stuff really matters. This is just stupid stuff that I can’t burden Hope with because she’s got heavy issues of her own to deal with or because she wouldn’t approve or understand. This is the stuff I shouldn’t give a damn about, but keeps me awake anyway. The editorial is different. It’s important, even if no one reads it but me.
Anyway, after two sleepless nights at my computer, too much cutting and pasting and deleting to keep track of, and the final spell check, which almost killed me, I turned it in. Now excuse me while I go into a weekend-long catch-up-on-sleep coma.
Sloppy Firsts Page 17
