It was weird, the whole “Most Likely to Succeed” thing. I remember being thrilled about it last fall, when Travis and I posed for the camera. He clutched a massive wad of Monopoly money, and I held up a piece of paper that said NEXT STOP, OVAL OFFICE. But recently I’ve been rethinking my notions of success. Like, just because I know how to write an A paper and I’m good at standardized testing, does that make me successful? What about James? According to the unspoken-but-obvious criteria of “Most Likely to Succeed,” he’s a big failure because he stayed in Brockport and never went to college. But, on the other hand, he owns a profitable business and he’s happy, so shouldn’t he be considered successful, too?
These questions had been on my mind a lot, which is probably why I was struggling so much with my valedictory address. Every time I sat down at my computer to write an opening line, I could only muster up the cheesiest of clichés like “We’ve known each other for so long, it’s hard to believe we’re about to say goodbye…” and “As I stand in front of you today, I can see how bright our futures are going to be…” When I complained about this to James, he laughed and said, “I only have three words of advice: No Robert Frost.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t say that two roads diverged in a wood and you took the one less traveled…”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You will be in the high-school gym, not a yellow wood, and besides, it’ll make people resent you.”
“Okay,” I said. “So do you have any suggestions?”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
Mr. B wasn’t much help either. Whenever I saw him in the hall, he’d wave me over and shake my hand and tell me how graduation is his favorite day of the year. Then he’d make me copy down some slogan that he thought would be perfect for my speech, such as “Keep your feet on the ground and reach for the stars” or “A mind is like a parachute; it only works when it’s open.” I actually liked the parachute quote, though I couldn’t figure out how to tie jumping out of a plane into a valedictory address.
My parents were definitely more hyped about graduation than I was. It was scheduled for a Friday morning, the third week in June, and they’d both taken off that entire day from work. They’d ordered graduation announcements. And my mom took me shopping at Marketplace Mall for a dress to wear to graduation. We had a fun time together, identifying the various species of mall rats, like preteens on the make and fat guys eating their way through the food court. Things only got awkward when we walked by the Gap and she offered to buy me some clothes for Johns Hopkins. Since I still hadn’t told my parents about dropping out, I quickly mumbled, “Maybe another time.”
I still hadn’t told them about James either. Sometimes, like when my mom and I were driving home from the mall, I had this impulse to blurt it out. I almost felt like she’d understand, maybe even be happy for me. But then there was the problem of my dad. She’d obviously have to tell him and, truthfully, I had no idea how he’d react.
V had sworn to keep my secret about James. Every once in a while, she’d ask me how it was going and I’d tell her fine and she’d say great and that would be that. She actually hadn’t been around the house a lot recently. She’d auditioned for a summer community production of Angels in America and got cast as Harper, the Valium-addicted young wife, which I thought was ironic, given the fact that she was trying to cut back on her own recreational drug habits. So most evenings, she was at rehearsal. And when she wasn’t there, she was begging my dad to take her driving.
Over Memorial Day weekend, my parents had taken her to the DMV to get a learner’s permit. She and my dad were constantly cruising around town, practicing three-point turns. Whenever V pulled into the driveway, she’d honk triumphantly and flash the headlights on and off. One evening at dinner, my parents reminisced about how when Aimee was learning to drive, she’d squirt a stream of windshield-wiper fluid whenever she accomplished a parallel park.
That night, my mom pulled out the photo albums from Aimee’s high-school days. V and I sat with her on the couch. V asked my mom about Aimee’s road test and Aimee’s first summer job and Aimee’s senior prom. She didn’t even sound bitter, like she usually does when the subject of her mom comes up.
Three days later, V got suspended for the rest of the school year.
It all started with a phone call from Aimee. My parents and I were at a National Honor Society banquet when she called. I won awards for service to the school and top grades in government and top grades in physics and top overall GPA. Every time I sat down after receiving another award, one of them would lean over and whisper, “We’re so proud of you!”
When we got home, the TV was blaring at full volume and V was slumped on the couch. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she’d been crying, and she was aggressively chewing her fingernails.
“What’s wrong?” my dad asked.
V bit her bottom lip and muted the volume with the remote control.
“What is it, sweetie?” my mom asked.
“Aimee called,” V finally said. “She’s moving to Florida. She wants to learn about the orange-juice business, and she knows someone who can get her a job working at a grove.”
“Florida?” my dad asked.
“The orange-juice business?” my mom asked.
“The fucking orange-juice business,” V said. “She said I should finish the school year in Brockport and she’ll get me a ticket to fly down to Florida as soon as finals are over.”
“Did you tell her about Angels in America?” my mom asked.
“Yeah … she said I can stay through that.”
“Well, that’s good news,” my dad said.
“I don’t want to live on a fucking orange grove. And, besides, Ms. Green told me that the drama club is going to put on Chicago next year and I’m a shoo-in for Roxie.”
My parents exchanged a quick glance. No one had said it out loud, but I know they wanted V to stay on with them next year, through the college-application process. It was almost like they’d been crossing their fingers that things would work out for Aimee in Costa Rica and it wouldn’t even become an issue.
“Maybe I can talk to Aimee,” my dad said. “I’m sure she’ll understand if—”
“Understand, my ass,” V said. “Aimee doesn’t even like orange juice. She drinks grapefruit juice. This is fucking insane.”
Then V blasted the volume on the TV again.
The next day, Ash found me after fourth period. I was at my locker, dropping off my books and getting my car keys and thinking how I’d call James on the way to the student parking lot and see if he wanted to drive to Northampton Park. We’d been back to that meadow several times in the past few weeks and no one else is ever there.
“Hey, Mara.”
As soon as I saw Ash, I knew it must be sizzling-hot gossip because she’d been avoiding me since she kissed Travis at the prom.
“Did you hear?” Ash asked.
“Hear what?”
“How V got kicked out of school.”
“What?”
Ash’s lips flickered ever so slightly into a smile. “She and Brandon Parker were smoking pot on the baseball field. This is the sixth time Brandon has been caught on school grounds, so he’s expelled for good. V just got suspended for the rest of the year.”
“Holy shit,” I said, slamming my locker shut. “How’d they get caught?”
“Rosemary.”
“Rosemary? From the main office?”
“She was taking a coffee break when she saw them through a window. She snuck out the basement door and caught them red-handed.”
Rosemary? Of the constant smile?
“Are you sure about this?” I asked.
Ash nodded. “Sure I’m sure. Your dad picked her up between third and fourth period. I saw him with my own two—”
I took off down the stairs and marched into the main office.
“Hi, Mara!” Rosemary sang out, her sausage bangs quivering excitedly. “How
can we help you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. B.”
“Well, I’m afraid he’s busy right now.”
I walked past her, toward Mr. B’s office. As I did, her eyes narrowed, but the smile was still etched onto her cheeks, making her look like an evil clown. I opened Mr. B’s door without knocking, stepped inside, and closed it behind me.
Mr. B was on the phone. He glanced at me, a look of confusion on his face. Then he said some brief parting words and hung up.
“Well, this is a surprise. Would you like to sit down?”
I shook my head. “Why did you do it?”
“Why did I do what?”
“Suspend V.”
Mr. B frowned. “I’m afraid that’s not your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. V is my niece. I care what happens to her.”
Mr. B swept some loose strands over his bald spot. “V broke one of our most stringent school rules.”
“It’s not like she was snorting cocaine,” I said.
“The last time I checked,” Mr. B said, “marijuana was an illegal substance. Any student who uses an illegal substance on school premises will be subjected to the appropriate disciplinary action. It’s in the school handbook.”
“Who wrote the handbook?”
“I did,” Mr. B said. “Along with the principal and the superintendent.”
“If you wrote it, why can’t you change it?”
Mr. B shifted in his chair. “I’m surprised at you, Mara. You’ve been involved with Chemical-Free Fun Nights for years, so I would have thought—”
“I’m just saying that you have no idea what’s going on in V’s life right now. Maybe you should have looked into that before giving her some blind sentence.”
“That’s not a fair—”
“What about that parachute quote you told me, about how a mind only works when it’s open? Why can’t you have an open mind about—”
“Would you like a circus peanut?”
“What?”
Mr. B reached into the bowl on his desk and took out a few chalky orange candies, always the drudge of the Halloween bag. Popping one into his mouth, he said, “Why don’t you take a seat, have a circus peanut, and calm down a little bit?”
I don’t want to calm down! I thought. Without another word, I opened his door, stormed past Rosemary, and sprinted all the way out to my car.
As I was driving home, I thought about how everything feels like such a sham. Mr. B and all his comments about open minds and second chances. Rosemary’s overly friendly veneer but eagerness to bust kids the first chance she gets. How I still got straight A’s even when I handed in crappy work. How the only thing seniors have been talking about is whether they can smuggle alcohol into Chemical-Free Grad Night. And circus peanuts? How could I have ever trusted someone who eats circus peanuts?
My mom’s car was in the driveway, but only halfway, like she sped back from Rochester and slammed into park as soon as she neared our house.
I pulled up behind her and headed in the side door. My parents were sitting on either end of the couch. V was sandwiched between them, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth.
They all looked up when I walked in.
“We’re having an emergency Family Meeting,” my dad said, frowning. “I’m not sure if you—”
“I know what happened,” I said.
V stared down at her bare feet.
“We’re talking to V about enrolling her in the Park Ridge Chemical Dependency teen program,” my mom said.
“But I’m not a drug addict!” V cried.
“V,” my dad said, “you admitted to us that this wasn’t the first time…”
“But everyone in high school smokes pot,” V said. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It was a big enough deal for you to get suspended,” my dad said. “And Mara doesn’t use marijuana, so it couldn’t be everyone.”
V looked like she’d been slapped. She closed her eyes and buried her face between her knees. Her shoulders began shaking, like she was crying, but she wasn’t making any sound.
“You don’t know everything about me,” I said after a moment. “You don’t know that I dropped out of the Johns Hopkins summer program three weeks ago. And you don’t know that I’m in love with James. We’ve been together since March.”
Silence.
V glanced up, wiping her cheeks with her hands. And then, at the exact same time, my mom said, “You dropped out of Johns Hopkins?” and my dad said, “James? Who’s James?”
“James McCloskey, from Common Grounds. He’s twenty-two. And, yes, I’m going to stay in Brockport this summer.”
My parents both looked at me like I was this uninvited stranger posing as their daughter. I could tell their brains were working a mile a minute, loading their mental rifles. All I wanted to do was bolt out to my car or lock myself in my room.
But I wasn’t going to run away from this. I was going to face it, whatever the consequences. So I stood up straight and took a deep breath and waited for the firing squad to begin.
Chapter Twenty-one
My parents went over to the high school and had an hour-long meeting with Mr. B. In the end, it was decided that since there was only a week left of classes, I would collect V’s assignments and she would do her work from home. She would be allowed to go into school and take her final exams, but Mr. B would meet her at the front door, escort her in, and then walk her out when she was done. But other than that, V was banned from school premises until September, and he wouldn’t even make an exception for my graduation.
I still thought that was excessive, but V said she was okay with the arrangement. She even agreed to do the substance-abuse counseling program. She confided to me that Brandon told her it’s a total joke, basically a chance for potheads to meet and greet and make new drug connections. When I asked whether she was going to take it seriously, she said she thought so, but everything felt pretty up in the air these days.
My parents had several phone conversations with Aimee, who had already left Costa Rica and was living on the orange grove. They finally decided that Aimee would fly up to Brockport in late July to see Angels in America and, at that point, the four of them would sit down and talk about where V should live next year. Everyone agreed that ultimately it would be V’s choice.
There was minor chaos in the Valentine household after I dropped the double bomb about James and Johns Hopkins. Actually, it wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated. I’d sat down in the comfy chair across from my parents and V and explained my reasoning about the summer program, like not rushing over my first year of college and wanting to slow down and smell the roses. They sort of seemed to get it. Even so, my mom asked me three times whether backing out of Yale was next on my agenda, and I assured her every time that it wasn’t.
On the James front, my mom said, “I have to admit, I’m surprised. A guy like Travis Hart just seemed so much more … right.”
“Travis was a jerk to me.”
“A jerk?” my mom asked. “Really?”
“Are you sure James McCloskey isn’t…” My dad trailed off. “Are you sure he isn’t trying to … take advantage of you?”
I had to laugh. “That would be more Travis’s department.”
My parents both flushed. Even the vaguest sexual reference did the trick of shutting them up.
But the next morning, as my mom and I were loading the dishwasher, she said, “Now that I’ve had some time to think, it doesn’t seem so surprising. You’ve always been so mature. It makes sense that you’d get along with someone older.”
My dad wasn’t evolving quite so quickly. On Sunday afternoon, James drove over to pick me up. He knew that my parents knew, and my parents knew that he knew, so when he pulled into the driveway, my dad walked over and they shook hands and exchanged a few polite words.
Later, when I got home, I said to my dad, “See … James isn’t so scary, after all?”
All my dad
said was, “Hmmph.”
“You have to admit he’s nice.”
“He has nice teeth.”
I cracked up. “Nice teeth? Like a horse?”
“Mara, this isn’t cute. I’m worried about you. I’m worried about what will happen if—”
“If you let go of your grasp on me and allow me to become my own person?”
My dad stared unblinkingly at me. I decided that now was not the right time to tell him that James and I were planning to go camping in late July, maybe over my birthday weekend.
Graduation was looming around my head like a swarm of mosquitoes. I’d finally written my speech, a two-page, double-spaced piece of crap filled with clichés. I just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to do anything better. But it was so pathetic that I made James tear up the graduation ticket I’d given him and swear he wouldn’t set foot in the gym on Friday morning.
The Brockport Post sent a reporter over to the house to interview me about being valedictorian. We sat on Adirondack chairs in the backyard. Me, the reporter, my mom, and my dad. V was at the picnic table on the other side of the yard, hunched over a textbook. She’d been studying obsessively for finals. I’d barely even cracked a notebook.
“How does it feel to be graduating first in your class?” the reporter asked me. He had a gap between his front teeth and an Adam’s apple that journeyed up and down like an elevator.
I looked over at the neighbor’s cat, pressed low against the grass, inching toward his invisible prey at a painstakingly slow pace.
“It feels exhilarating,” my dad said after a moment.
“All her hard work has really paid off,” my mom added.
“Can I quote you on that?” the reporter asked.
“Oh, yes, of course,” my mom said.
As my dad gave him the spelling of both of their names, I watched the cat take off at full speed, only to halt, baffled and empty-mouthed a few feet away.
On Wednesday afternoon, as I was walking out of my last final, Travis caught up with me. “Was that first essay a cakewalk or what? It was so obvious, I couldn’t believe it. How do you think you did?”
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