“I’m so glad I caught you in a cheery mood,” I said.
I looked it over. I could tell she had actually put a little effort into it. Remy always reminds me of myself that way, a perfectionist to a fault.
“And how exactly do you want to be remembered?” I asked her. “Or is this whole uptight-bitch image what you’re going for?”
“I’d like to be known as a girl who didn’t waste her time,” Remy said with a really dirty look. “I’ve never understood you, Carson. We’ve always been so much alike. You work just as hard as me, we get the same grades, but what do you do it for?”
“And this was wasting your time?” I said. “Looking inside yourself and creating something original and unique and completely from your imagination was a waste of time for you? Well, then I guess that right there is what sets us apart.”
“Whatever,” she said, and walked to the door. “I’ve got to get back to yearbook. Memories don’t create themselves.”
“Actually, they do,” I said, and looked at her like she was crazy. “But I suppose you want everyone to remember a hypersaturated version of you.”
“Forgive me, but I like keeping track of my achievements, okay?” Remy said. “Someone’s got to.” I think she had shown a tad more desperation than she wanted to. Good thing we aren’t friends, otherwise I might have asked what she meant by that and would have been stuck there for hours listening to her mommy and daddy issues.
“You know, Remy,” I said, “if you overachieve yourself to death, you’ll never know what your real accomplishments are.”
She made a nostril-clearing sound and left the classroom.
I got to thinking about things after Remy left. In ten years … not that I care, but I wonder how people will remember me. Will they remember me as that annoying kid from journalism who busied himself with meaningless tasks to validate his existence? Or will they eventually see me as that driven kid who tried his hardest to accomplish his goals?
Will they look back and remember high school as the greatest years of their lives? Or will they look back and remember all the people they hurt and trampled over for status?
If you put an American history book and a British history book together, I bet their descriptions of the 1770s would be very different. And if you took Remy’s yearbook and a yearbook I would make and put them together, I bet they wouldn’t even seem like they belonged to the same school. I guess there is no such thing as history; it’s all just a bunch of common perception.
Speaking of perception, I showed that poem to Grandma after school. Although she still doesn’t know who I am, she totally agreed that it was about a penis.
10/26
It’s Friday and I had the misfortune of sitting through another student council meeting after school. Don’t be jealous.
“We still need a venue for prom,” Claire said, addressing her court of jesters. “I was thinking Quail Gardens?”
“What about Motel 6 up the highway?” I said. “I mean, everyone heads up there after prom anyway. Am I right?” I laughed at my own joke. Not sure who I was playing that one to—it’s not like I’ve ever had an audience with these people before.
“Any objections to Quail Gardens?” Claire asked, therefore ignoring me. No one had any other ideas.
“Isn’t Quail Gardens right in the middle of the country? And prom is usually at the beginning of summer, so everyone would be eaten alive by bugs,” I pointed out. “I think the Clover dining hall would be cheaper and a lot smarter.”
I wasn’t just trying to be opinionated. When I was a sophomore, the seniors held their prom at Quail Gardens and I heard complaints about the bugs. When all the pictures were developed it looked like a really corny sparkle effect had been added to all the photos, but in fact the “sparkles” were just gigantic gnats Quail Gardens was infested with at the time.
“The Clover dining hall it is,” Claire said with a heavy sigh. “We need a theme.”
“What about a fairy-tale theme?” Remy said, jumping on the chance to pitch it. “We could do a really easy Cinderella setting for the photos.”
“Oh my God, I love Rapunzel!” Scott said.
You know me, I couldn’t resist adding my voice to the topic.
“I’m not sure all the students would appreciate that theme,” I said. “Like the male ones. You should do an era theme, like the Roaring Twenties or something.”
They all looked at each other silently, hiding their objections.
“Twenties is fine,” Claire said.
“Super,” Justin added.
I finally got what they were doing, and it was annoying.
“Why are you guys letting me make all the decisions?” I asked. “It was a lot more fun when I got to argue with you.”
“Are you going to make us write more if we do?” Nicholas asked cuttingly.
“Speaking of which,” I said, “the magazine is coming along nicely. I’m just waiting for a few more submissions.” I eyed Claire, Nicholas, and Scott.
“Agnes Saunders, one of the ladies who works in the kitchen, is retiring next month,” Claire said, changing the subject. “We were given fifty dollars to get her a retirement gift. I was thinking some new mixing bowls or maybe a nice toaster oven?”
“That seems nice,” Remy said.
“Maybe throw in a rack of spices,” Scott suggested.
“You’re giving a woman who has spent the last forty years of her life making school lunches cooking supplies?” I asked in disbelief.
“It’s appropriate,” Nicholas said.
“It’s like giving a dead horse new shoes,” I said bluntly. “Treat her to a spa day or something she’ll enjoy and that won’t remind her of all the worker’s comp forms she’s probably had to fill out over the course of her career.”
“Fine, lunch lady spa day, noted,” Claire said, aggravated.
I don’t know why they’re always so annoyed with me. They should be thankful I’m here to tell them how stupid their ideas are.
“Monday, November fifth, we have a meeting with the principal and the superintendents after school,” Claire said, concluding her checklist. “They usually have these meetings when they’re about to enforce new campus rules.”
“My brother had one of those meetings when he was in the student council,” Justin said. “It was when they put a ban on see-through backpacks.”
“It should be painless if we all agree to just smile and listen,” Claire said.
Everyone turned and scowled at me.
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I said. Jeez, tough crowd.
10/29
So, I was sitting at my computer in the journalism classroom after school (I got a head start on typing up the magazine submissions) when Dwayne walked in. Instantly the classroom smelled like a Bob Marley concert.
The fumes coming off that boy made me want to take him in for a human smog test.
“Duuude,” Dwayne said, taking way too long to pronounce a one-syllable word.
“Yeeesss?” I said, matching his timing.
“I wrote, man,” he said. “I wrote for you!” His eyes were so squinty he looked like he was sleepwalking. He handed me some kind of pot-influenced essay.
“Thanks, Dwayne,” I said. Even the paper smelled like weed.
“You’re welcome, dude. Thanks for busting my balls, man,” he said. “I really enjoyed it.”
“Come again?” I asked. I don’t know why I was trying to make sense out of someone senseless.
“You really opened my eyes, man,” Dwayne said with his eyes closed. “You know, this whole writing thing, it’s kind of nice. I mean, when do we really get a chance to write in school, you know what I mean?”
I did a double take. Was he serious?
“What about in journalism?” I asked. “I’ve been trying to get you to write something all year.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I guess I never considered that writing. I guess I always considered that wronging.” He then burst out l
aughing hysterically. “Get it, man? Just like your homecoming float said! Anyway, dude, it was a trip. A total escape.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, if you thought writing was a trip, you should try reading, Dwayne.”
“Reading, huh?” Dwayne said. “I’ve never really been much of a reader.”
“I understand,” I said. “But did you know there’s a difference between reading and reading?”
“Whoa, there is?” Dwayne asked, and his eyes half opened.
“Oooh, yeah,” I said, completely messing with him. “You should try it. Anyone can read a book, but very few can read a book. Authors may write these words, but really mean those words. You know what I mean?”
“Dude, I’m tripping out right now. I never thought about that,” Dwayne said, and rubbed his face so hard I worried it would come off. “I’m gonna go to the library and rent some books! They’ve got one here, right?”
“They do,” I said. “And just to let you know, there are all kinds of ways to escape out there if that’s what you’re looking for. Healthy ways. And most of them don’t cost any brain cells.”
Dwayne looked off into space for a second, which I think means he was thinking about what I said, or maybe the mother ship was sending him a departure signal.
“Cool, man, I’ll see you later,” Dwayne said, and left the classroom. Well, he ran into a wall first and then left the classroom. Dumb-ass. Why do I feel like he’ll be running for president someday?
It still smells like Cheech and Chong’s house in here. I think it’s starting to give me a headache. And why am I starving all of a sudden? I would kill for an ice-cream sandwich right now.
10/30
I’ve been really trying to work with Malerie this week. She wants to be published in the literary magazine so bad, but she’s having trouble turning in a story that’s, well, written by her. So every day after school, she and I have sat in the journalism classroom and gone over options.
“All right, what about this one?” she said to me, pulling out a few pieces of paper from her Hello Kitty binder. “It’s about a creepy pedophile living in a candy factory with dwarf slaves.”
“This is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” I said, after reading the first five words.
“Oh…” she said, disheartened. “Okay, I’ve got another one. It’s completely original. There’s this orphan who doesn’t know he’s magic until a giant hairy man brings him to a magical place called—”
“Hogwarts?” I asked.
“How did you know?!” she said with eyes so wide they almost fell out of her head. “You must have already read it!”
“Me and three billion other people. That’s Harry Potter, Mal.” I broke the bad news to her.
Malerie shook her head; I’ve never seen her so frustrated. She looked up at me with a very serious expression.
“Carson, can I show you something I’ve never shown anyone before?” she asked.
“You’re gonna stay clothed, right?” I said, a bit afraid.
Malerie looked around to make sure no one was watching. She even turned off her camcorder (which I wasn’t aware was on). She reached into her backpack and dug around for something.
“This is something I wrote a long time ago,” Malerie said. She finally found what she was looking for and handed me a copy of The Hunger Games. Yeah, you heard me correctly.
“This is a published copy of The Hunger Games, Malerie,” I said. “You didn’t write this, Suzanne Collins did. It says so right on the cover.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” Malerie said. “During the 2004 Summer Olympics I went onto the website and wrote a comment. I said, ‘These games would be so much cooler if the athletes didn’t want to be here and were killing each other.’”
“Okay …” I said. It was a little concerning for many reasons.
“And then later, someone left a comment agreeing with me,” Malerie went on. “They said, ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ and that person was S. Collins.”
I rubbed my ears and blinked my eyes as hard as I could, making sure I was actually hearing and seeing this.
“Malerie, are you telling me Suzanne Collins created an entire book trilogy based on a twenty-word Internet comment left by a ten-year-old?” I asked, trying my best to translate what she was telling me. (I’ve become somewhat fluent in Malerian.)
Malerie closed her eyes and nodded her head. “It’s been happening to me my entire life. When I was thirteen I used to send poems to my MySpace pen pal in England. She stole the poems from me and released an album with my words set to music.”
“Really …” I said.
“Yes,” Malerie said, and sighed. “And now that person goes by the name Adele.”
She looked at me with the most convincing eyes I’ve ever seen. Good thing Malerie isn’t sensitive to facial expressions, because the way I was staring at her was just rude.
“But what about all those authors you copy who died before you were born?” I asked.
“I’m still trying to figure that out,” she said. “Don’t you see? You always thought I was the one copying people, but in reality, I’ve always been the victim. Please don’t tell anyone my secret; I’ve been through enough.”
“I can imagine,” I said, and scratched my head. She flipped her camcorder back on.
“I’m glad that’s all out in the open now,” Malerie said. “I felt like it was the one thing holding our friendship back, and I didn’t know how much longer I could keep it from you. I feel so relieved.”
My head was spinning for a few minutes after that. I have to admit, the idea that Roald Dahl, J. K. Rowling, Suzanne Collins, and Adele were all stealing from a ten-year-old Malerie Baggs in Clover was the most interesting thing I had heard in weeks.
“Malerie,” I said, “I want you to go home, pick your favorite story that you or whoever wrote, and just change every other word. Change the genders of the characters, change the names of the cities, change the time period even.”
“Why would I do that to all my masterpieces?” Malerie asked.
“Because if you do that I can publish it in the literary magazine,” I said, and her face lit up. “When you do that, it becomes a satire of sorts, and those are perfectly legal. Usually some kind of social commentary and humor is involved, but these are desperate times, so I’ll take your best shot at it.”
Malerie jumped up with excitement. “That’s amazing!” she said. “I’ve got to get home and get started!” She collected all of her things and headed to the door. “Thanks, Carson, you’ve given me back what has previously been taken from me.” She paused dramatically for almost a full minute before proceeding out the door.
God, I hope the state supplies her with a good attorney one day and pray I’m never called in as a character witness. That trial is inevitable.
Later, on my way to my car, I saw Vicki sitting by herself in the quad, listening to her iPod. I could hear the screaming vocalist from yards away. I hate to sound like a senior citizen, but you call that music?!
“Hey, Vicki,” I said to her. “Do you have something for me? Something that could possibly be submitted to a literary magazine?”
She looked up at me with her trademark evil stare.
“Relax, before blood drips out of your ass,” she said to me, and reached into her bag, which was sitting next to her. One of her fingerless gloves was pushed down a bit and I saw several marks on her wrist: Vicki cuts herself.
I couldn’t help but gasp quietly to myself. “Vicki…” I said.
She immediately became super self-conscious and pulled up her glove.
“Here’s my submission,” she said, and shoved a paper into my hands. She got up and started to briskly walk away from me.
It was one of those moments when you want to help, but don’t know how. You think of a million things to say but are afraid you aren’t the correct person to say them. I knew I was the last person on Earth who should say something to her, but screw ethics, I did
anyway.
“Vicki, wait!” I said, and walked after her. “Do you need to talk to someone?”
“Fuck off,” Vicki said, and walked faster from me.
“Look, I may not be an expert on whatever it is that you’re going through, but there have to be better ways of coping than harming yourself!” I said.
Vicki stopped and turned around to look at me. Her eyes were watery. I couldn’t tell if she was more embarrassed or ashamed.
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve telling me how to live my life, Carson,” she said. “It’s my life—how I deal with my problems is my business, got it?!”
“Okay … I’m sorry …” was all I could say. She walked off, but I stayed standing.
I felt so sad for her (and I hadn’t thought I was capable of sympathy). I also couldn’t help feeling thankful I had never turned to something like that. No matter how hard things got for me, I don’t think I’d ever see a solution in doing that to myself.
But who knows what she was really going through? Who knows what was really going on? You’d think after thousands of years on this planet the human race would have released some kind of handbook for teenagers, telling them how to get through teenagehood and get help for their issues. Yet here we are, struggling through it in our own ways.
It reminds me of something Grandma used to say whenever she would see a homeless person on the street: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.”
10/31
I spent the majority of my Halloween bitching with the gays. (I’ve always wanted to say that.) I’ll walk you through it. …
Once again, I wasn’t invited to any of the Halloween parties after school. Not that I’ve ever wanted to go. After homecoming, dressing up isn’t very appealing to me. I had way too much stuff to get done with the magazine anyway. I’ve got less than a week left and I’ve been hauling ass to get this shit done.
Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal Page 10
