I wonder who’s running the Southwest Star now. Probably Mia Graham, my features editor, or maybe even Laney. As much as the very thought of her sends a quiver of anger through me, I know she would do a good job.
“The editor in chief of what?” the boy prompts, looking amused. “The Zombie Press?”
My temper flares. “No,” I say indignantly. “I’ll have you know I have plenty of writing experience.”
He goes back to typing. “Writing papers on the Civil War doesn’t count.”
My headache throbs inside my skull. Why is he implying that I’m not a member of the literary magazine? Is he playing some kind of prank on me? Well, whatever. If I’m not a member yet, that doesn’t mean I can’t sign up now. Investment Club can wait.
I plaster on a bright smile. “Fine. If I’m not a member, then I’d like to join.”
He lets out a snort that grates on my nerves and continues typing. When I make no move to leave, he glances up. “Wait, are you serious?”
Now I’m just kind of offended. “Yes. Dead serious.”
He studies me. Like really studies me. His eyes are narrowed, his lips are pressed in a hard line. I start to feel self-conscious and surreptitiously check my teeth with my tongue for pieces of food.
“No,” he says after a long moment, and then goes back to work.
“No?” I spit back, astonished. “What do you mean no?”
“I mean, you can’t join. I’m saying no.”
I gape at him. “Can you do that?”
“I’m the editor in chief. I can do whatever I want.”
“B-b-but,” I stammer, “why?”
He sighs and shoots me a look that says, I really don’t have time to deal with this. “Because I just don’t think you’d be the right fit for this particular publication.” I can hear the hostility in his voice. If he’s been trying to hide it, it’s out of the bag now.
I cross my arms over my chest. “You don’t even know me!”
He laughs at this. A dark, vicious, villain-in-a-lair-stroking-a-cat kind of laugh. “Oh, trust me. I know you.”
“How could you possibly know anything about me,” I argue. “We just met—” But the words halt on my lips. I was going to say we just met yesterday, because that’s when I remember meeting him, but then I remind myself that this me has been a student at Windsor for more than three years. That’s plenty of time to make friends with everyone … or, as it would seem in this boy’s case, enemies.
He gives me a strange look.
“Never mind,” I mutter. “Why don’t you think I would be a good fit? I’m a good writer.”
“Fine,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll let you join the magazine—”
I break into a grin. “Great!”
“If,” he goes on, holding up a finger, “you can tell me what my last name is.”
My jaw drops open. He can’t do that! That’s not fair. I don’t know anyone’s last name. I barely know anyone’s first name. I just started here!
He stares me down like a challenger in a duel, tilting his head with an amused smirk. “Well?”
I swallow. Okay, I’m not sure how to get around this one. But the bigger question is, why does he just assume that I wouldn’t know his last name? I mean obviously I don’t, but he doesn’t know what I’ve been through. He doesn’t know I’m a foreigner from another universe. As far as he’s concerned, I’m Kennedy Rhodes, the girl he’s gone to school with since the ninth grade. She should definitely know his last name. And his first name, for that matter.
“You can’t do it, can you?” He laughs again. This one is even darker. And I swear I hear the faintest trace of sadness underneath. “Un-freaking-believable.”
I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out.
“That’s amazing,” he says bitterly. “You’ve gone here how many years? We’ve been in how many of the same classes—not to mention the other things we’ve done together—and you can never be bothered to remember my last name?”
What?
That can’t be true. He’s lying. He’s tricking me somehow. And what other things is he talking about?
“I-I…” I stammer. “I do remember. I just temporarily forgot. I hit my head yesterday and—”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Oh, that’s a good one.”
“I did! I swear. It was right after I saw you outside of the dean’s office.”
The shift in his body is almost imperceptible. I almost don’t notice the way his jaw tightens and his fingertips dig into his palms.
“I mean,” I correct myself, “it was right after Student Mastery Hour.”
But he doesn’t seem interested in my correction. He doesn’t seem interested in my head injury at all anymore. “How did you know I was in the dean’s office?” he snaps, and I sense the panic in his voice.
“I don’t,” I try to cover for myself.
According to Sequoia I was with her yesterday when I fell.
“You just said…”
“I was mistaken,” I say, rubbing at my temples to fake confusion. Although to be honest, they’re really pounding now. “I was confusing you for someone else. Like I said, I bumped my head. Details are getting mixed up in my brain.”
I watch his lips twist in contemplation, noticing for the first time the dark stubble on his cheeks. Looks like someone forgot to shave this morning.
I think he’s about to say something else but he never gets the chance, because right then the classroom door opens and a group of students—the rest of the literary magazine, I presume—bustles in, talking animatedly about something. They all screech to a halt when they see me.
“Well,” the boy says, rising from his seat. I notice his demeanor instantly shifts at the appearance of the other students. Like he’s an actor preparing to take the stage. “It was nice chatting with you. But I have a meeting to lead.”
“So,” I say, confused, “can I join the magazine?”
He walks to the whiteboard, turning back to me long enough to say “No,” before uncapping a dry-erase marker and scribbling something on the board.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I close my laptop and slide it back into my bag. Trying to blink away the tears of humiliation that are welling up in my eyes, I keep my head down and start for the door as the rest of the students take their seats.
“And for the millionth time,” the boy calls out just before I leave, “it’s Dylan Parker. Let’s see if your zombie brain can remember that tomorrow.”
If I Boycott Boys
What on earth is that guy’s problem? Why does he hate me so much? Why did he have to embarrass me in front of the whole literary magazine? He called me a zombie! I’m not a zombie! He’s just mad that I don’t remember his last name. But I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for that. I’m sure Other Me had good reason not to remember him. Maybe she’s been so busy cramming all sorts of useful knowledge and information into her brain, she doesn’t have any room for names. Maybe she was mad at him and only pretended to forget his name. Maybe he did something horrible to Sequoia and they got in a huge fight and now Other Me is siding with her best friend. As best friends should do.
“So what’s with that Dylan Parker guy?” I ask Sequoia casually as we walk through the parking lot toward her car at the end of the day. Despite being what feels like decades behind in my homework, I somehow managed to survive six class periods and two more club meetings relatively intact, thanks to my excellent improvising skills and a few extensions from teachers.
As it turned out, I was supposed to be in the Investment Club during Activity Hour today. And I’m the president. Apparently, in my haste to get there, I barged into the wrong room. A mistake I certainly won’t make again.
Sequoia is barely listening to me. She’s scrolling through her SnipPic app, reading the countless comments she received on our selfie this morning. “Good call on that tree.” She looks up long enough to point to a black sedan parked in our original spac
e that’s now covered in leaves and dirt.
I flash a perfunctory smile and return to the matter at hand. “So what’s his deal anyway?”
“Whose deal?” she asks, as though she didn’t even hear my first question.
“Dylan Parker,” I repeat. I looked him up on the Windsor Achiever app during my second Student Mastery Hour. I was surprised, actually, to see that he’s ranked in the top twenty of the class. I assumed, judging by the way he dresses and his general opinion of the school, that he’d be at the bottom.
Sequoia unlocks the car. “I don’t know anyone named Dylan Parker. Is he a freshman?”
I open the passenger-side door. “No, he’s a senior.”
Sequoia drops into the driver’s seat. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
So Sequoia doesn’t know him either? Well, now I don’t feel as bad. But seriously, what is with this guy? Is he a ghost?
“He runs the literary magazine.” I make one last effort to prompt her as I buckle my seat belt.
“We have a literary magazine?”
I laugh. “Yes. It’s called Writer’s Block.”
She pushes the start engine button. “Oh, right. The weird-looking guy?”
“Is he weird-looking?” I ask. “I don’t think he’s that bad.”
She shrugs. “I guess he’d be all right, you know, if he actually gave a crap about his appearance or his education.”
“He’s ranked number 19,” I put in, even though I have no idea why I’m defending him. He was horrible to me.
“I don’t know how,” Sequoia says. “He never participates in class.”
I suddenly remember what he said to me outside the dean’s office yesterday. About how he thought this school sucked out your soul and turned you into a lifeless zombie. I instantly feel myself getting flustered again. He’s probably some spoiled rich kid who’s been given everything he’s ever wanted in life and has never had to work for anything. He probably doesn’t even have to try. He probably already has acceptance letters to every single Ivy League college in the country.
He has no idea how lucky he is to go here. There are so many people who would kill to be here. If he hates it so much, why doesn’t he just leave?
“Wasn’t that the guy you went on a date with?” Sequoia asks suddenly, like the memory just popped into her head.
“A date?” I screech.
With that guy?
“Yeah.” She backs out of the parking spot and maneuvers through the lot. “In ninth grade. It was right before we became friends. Remember?”
My mind is spinning. Other Me went out with him in the ninth grade? Is that why he was so nasty to me? Did Other Me break his heart or something?
And isn’t it kind of weird—and a little insensitive—that she wouldn’t remember his last name after they went on a date?
It must not have been that memorable an experience.
“Uh,” I falter. “Vaguely. Remind me?”
Sequoia pulls up to the Windsor Academy gates and waits for them to open. She scrunches up her face like the effort of trying to heave this memory out of her brain is almost painful. “I remember you going on one date with someone—I think it was that Dylan guy—then you met me and I showed you the error of your ways.” She turns and flashes me a beaming smile.
I force a laugh. “The error of my ways. Right. You mean, because he’s so…” I search for the right word.
Reprehensible?
Obnoxious?
Rude?
“Undatable?” I finish.
She flips on her signal and turns left onto the main road. “No,” she says, flashing me a strange look. “Because dating is a huge waste of time.”
“Oh,” I say lamely. “Right.”
“That’s why we made the Boycott Pact. No boys until college.”
My mouth falls open. Is she being serious? Has Other Me really never dated anyone since ninth grade? No wonder she has so much time for all of those clubs.
“You know, you owe that first place ranking to me,” Sequoia brags. “Imagine if you’d continued dating that loser. You’d never have been able to accomplish everything that you have. You’d be too busy worrying about your stupid relationship.”
“Yeah,” I agree. Even though, in reality, I don’t have to imagine it. I already know what that choice looks like. I’ve lived it.
Although, for some reason, I find myself wondering what that one date with Dylan Parker was like. Did we have fun? Was he sweet and romantic? Did we kiss?
The thought sends a tremor of disgust through me.
Eew. I can’t imagine kissing that guy. His lips are probably all chapped and gross and he probably smells from his obvious aversion to bathing.
Well, whatever happened on that one date, Other Me was smart to listen to Sequoia and steer clear of boy-related drama. I made that mistake when I chose Austin and look how well that turned out. She’s right. Boys are a huge waste of time.
“How crazy was that Civil War debate in history today?” Sequoia asks, changing subjects and lanes at the same time. It’s like she’s already forgotten about our previous conversation. As though she’s barely given Dylan Parker a second thought.
And that’s exactly what I intend to do.
Not give him a second thought.
If I Feed My Addiction
My phone rings as soon as Sequoia turns onto the highway. The call is from the home line, which means it’s my brother. Both my parents always call from their cells.
“Hi, Frankie,” I say into the phone.
“I eat oatmeal for breakfast every morning!” he announces like he’s kicking off a newscast.
I scrunch up my face. “Huh?”
“That’s got to be different, right? In this universe?”
I rub my forehead. My headache is the size of Texas now. “No, Frankie. That’s the same, too.”
“Hmm,” he says, sounding discouraged. Then, a second later, he blurts out, “I refuse to use hand dryers in public bathrooms!”
“Because two years ago you read an article that they suck dirt up from the floor and then blow it on your hands.”
“I don’t have a cell phone!” he practically shouts, his voice cracking.
I chuckle. “How do you think I knew it was you when you called just now? You’re the only one in the house who uses the landline.”
Silence.
Then he mumbles, “I’ll get back to you,” and hangs up.
“What was that about?” Sequoia asks as I lock my phone.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“Frankie being Frankie?” she asks with a playful smile.
I laugh, grateful for one thing I don’t have to explain today. “Exactly.”
I glance out the window and it’s only now I notice that Sequoia has completely missed the turnoff for my street.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To my house,” she says as though it’s obvious. “So we can get ready together.”
Get ready? For what?
Sequoia darts a suspicious glance at me, as if she can read my bewildered thoughts. “The school fund-raiser,” she prompts, sounding a little perturbed.
I sit up straighter in my seat. A what?
“You can’t possibly have forgotten. You practically organized the whole thing.”
I organized a school fund-raiser? On top of everything else?
Next I’m going to find out I’m swimming in the summer Olympics!
“Uh,” I say lamely, “of course I didn’t forget.” I grapple to unlock my phone and click the calendar app. Lo and behold, there it is. Right in my schedule.
7:00 p.m.—Windsor Academy Fund-Raising Gala
“What is with you today?” Sequoia asks. She’s exited the highway and is stopped at a red light, staring at me like I’m an alien invader disguised in a Kennedy Rhodes bodysuit, which coincidentally is kind of how I feel.
“Sorry,” I say, massaging my temples. “I’ve had this massive headache all day and it w
on’t go away.”
Sequoia studies me for a long moment, evidently trying to decide whether or not this is a good enough explanation.
“I think it’s from the fall yesterday,” I add, hoping this will persuade her.
She squints at me. “How much coffee have you had today?”
Coffee? What does that have to do with anything?
“None,” I say.
“NONE?!” she screeches. “Well, no wonder! It’s nearly five o’clock! It probably feels like a herd of rhinoceroses have been playing rugby inside your brain!”
Actually, that’s exactly how it feels.
The light turns green. “Crusher,” Sequoia admonishes, stepping on the gas. “Today is not the day to go cold turkey. This event is way too important.”
Then I’m suddenly slammed into the door as Sequoia makes a split decision and yanks hard on the steering wheel, maneuvering her BMW across three lanes of traffic and into a parking lot.
“Well, that certainly didn’t help my headache,” I say, rubbing the spot where the window crashed into my skull.
“What do you want?” she asks, and I glance up to see that we’re in line at a Starbucks drive-through. “And no tea this time. That’s how you got into this mess.”
Is she right? Am I simply having caffeine withdrawals? How much coffee do I normally drink every day?
I lean over her to study the menu, searching for the least coffee-sounding coffee drink. “A Pumpkin Spice Latte, I guess.”
Sequoia conveys my order to the little speaker and I have to work extra hard to conceal the shock when she tacks on a triple espresso shot for herself.
Triple espresso? I can’t even begin to count how many milligrams of caffeine this girl has consumed today. And she’s not that big a person. I’m surprised she hasn’t rocketed into orbit by now.
Sequoia pays the cashier and hands me my drink before shooting hers straight up and tossing the empty cup into the backseat. I take a tentative sip, fully expecting to hate it, but it’s actually not half bad. I mean, I can still taste the coffee, but with all that milk, syrup, and whipped cream it’s pretty buried.
“Better?” Sequoia asks, navigating through the parking lot.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, surprised. It’s not like my headache is instantly gone, but there’s something far less urgent about it. As if this was what my body was craving all along.
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 12
