Freshman Year

by Annameekee Hesik

  “Mom, that’s totally unfair!”

  “This quarter, I will be tracking your grades with a progress report that Ms. Morvay will be sending to me weekly, so don’t even think about lying to me about whether or not you have tests or projects due.”

  I almost scream I’m not a liar! but then realize that I am. I keep my mouth shut and read the list:

  1. No TV.

  2. No Internet.

  3. No cell phone use at home—you will turn it in to me every day.

  4. You must do your homework at the kitchen table.

  5. No incoming house phone calls past nine.

  6. No staying after to watch varsity games.

  7.You must attend study hall in the Gila library five days a week at lunch.

  These I think I can handle, but the final rule sends me over the edge:

  8. No friends over and no going to friends’ houses.

  I pull my sweatshirt away from my neck to try and get some air but quickly let go so as to not reveal my most recent hickey. No Keeta alone-time for nine weeks? I will surely lose my mind, but I don’t dare argue with that one rule because my mom might figure us out, and I might not ever see Keeta again. Instead, I take my punishment and sign the bottom. Yes, she makes me sign it like a contract. So clever. She knows I take contracts very seriously.

  After I sign it, she posts the new rules on the fridge. They don’t really fit in next to our cheery family pictures. Nevertheless, there they are.

  I start to get up to mope my way to my room, but then my mom says, “I’m not done with you yet, young lady.”

  I sigh and sit down. “What now? Do you need to attach my house-arrest anklet?”

  She ignores my comment and takes another piece of paper out of her pocket, aka The Pocket of Misery. The paper is a copy of my schedule for third quarter. Next to each class, she’s written in the grades she expects me to get: Art/A, Algebra/A, English/A, Social Studies/B, Biology/A+, PE/A.

  I think about arguing the A in Art and the five days of lunch study hall, but I don’t want to piss her off any further. She makes me sign the schedule, too, and then posts it up on the fridge next to my list of rules.

  Finally, after another minute or two of my mom explaining how disappointed she is in me, I’m allowed to take my walk of shame to my bedroom. Where, by the way, I work for a full hour on my English and social studies homework before I start daydreaming about Keeta.

  *

  As soon as I see Jenn this morning, I complain about my mom. “I mean, I’m not a baby. I don’t need those stupid rules. I can handle it on my own. God, she’s being totally unfair. I hate her.”

  Jenn just laughs.

  “It’s not funny. I mean, you and Kate don’t have any stupid rules.”

  “Hey, we have plenty of rules—we just choose not to follow them all the time. But I’m laughing at the part where you said, ‘I can handle it.’ Really? You call a 1.89 GPA ‘handling it’?”

  “Whatever, Jenn,” I say, but she does bring up a good point. Maybe I shouldn’t follow my mom’s dumb rules. I mean, she can’t possibly know my every move. But then, after further deliberation, I finally decide if I’m going to be dishonest to my mom about the whole I-might-be-a-lesbian thing, the least I can do is follow her lame rules.

  “Well,” I say as we speed toward Gila, “how did Kate do on her report card? How did she handle schoolwork and Douchy Derrick and basketball?”

  “How the hell should I know? Ask her yourself.”

  “Yeah, I’d love to, but I wouldn’t want Derrick to worry about me grabbing Kate’s butt or anything.”

  Jenn rolls her eyes. “You guys are going to be so embarrassed when you finally work this out.”

  “Whatever,” I say and pout until we reach Gila.

  Jenn’s car is barely done pulling into our usual parking spot in the back when I swing open the car door and race toward the performance hall. It’s a new semester and I don’t have guitar anymore, but Keeta’s a TA for Advanced Guitar now.

  That means I only have about seven minutes each morning to spend with her before first period. And if I can’t be with Keeta during guitar or sneak off to the library with her during fifth period or lunch, I’m going to have to get in as much kissing time as possible before the damn bell rings.

  By the time I enter the performance hall, I’m winded and have to rest a second before parting the curtains and kissing Keeta hello. I lean against the wall to catch my breath and that’s when I notice a backpack and guitar case sitting on the floor near the stage. I also notice that I don’t hear the usual clicking sounds of Keeta writing on the chalkboard. Instead, I hear her tuning a guitar and talking to someone who is behind the curtain with her.

  “How long have you had her?” Keeta asks someone.

  “Oh, like two years,” says a girl, who I hope is butt-ugly. “I’ve never had a string break like that before. I guess I was whaling on her pretty hard.”

  “I guess,” Keeta says and laughs her flirty-sexy laugh.

  On the other side of the curtain, I cross my arms and hug Keeta’s U of A sweatshirt close to me. Keeta’s just doing her job, I tell myself.

  “So,” the girl says, “How long have you been playing? You really seem to know what you’re doing. You’re like a professional.”

  Oh my God. What a kiss ass.

  “Anyone can learn to tune a guitar,” Keeta says, “but you’re right. Not everyone can do this.”

  Then Keeta plays like Santana for a bit, which I’m still okay with. I mean, she is good and she likes to show off her talent. Then, after stupid better-be-ugly girl applauds, Keeta says, “Yeah, I taught myself how to play when I was ten. It just came to me. You know, like I was meant to do it. Some things just come naturally like that, I guess.”

  I had no idea she taught herself how to play. I should have known that.

  “I totally know what you mean,” says Stupid Girl. “The first time I picked up a guitar I was six, and it was like I knew it was for me. I’ve been at it ever since. It’s like, some things are meant to be, and you just have to go for it.”

  After a few seconds of mysterious silence, Keeta finally speaks, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  I’m getting to know what she means, too, so I clear my throat and make my entrance. “Oh, sorry to interrupt.”

  “Oh hey, Abbey. I was just fixing Osiris’s string.”

  I bet you were, I think but say, “That’s nice of you.”

  “Hi,” Osiris says to me. She’s a small, peppy, punk-looking girl wearing lots of eyeliner, with eyebrow piercings, and she has giant boobs stretching out a hipster-band shirt with a studded belt around her waist. Her appearance makes me feel relieved. She’s totally not Keeta’s type. At least, I hope she isn’t.

  “So,” I say and stare bug-eyed at Keeta. Time is slipping away. We only have three minutes left before the first bell.

  “Well, there you go. You’re all set,” Keeta says and hands the guitar back to the girl. Then Keeta stands up, stretches her arms up, and casually says, “Hey, Abbey, can you help me with something in the instrument room?”

  I smile. “Of course.”

  Once the door is locked, I find my way to Keeta’s lips and kiss her desperately. There’s no way I can make it through the day without seeing her.

  After a minute, she pushes me away to come up for air. “Whoa, Amara. Qué te pasa? You’re kissing me like you’re never going to see me again.” Then she traces my lips with her finger. “What’s wrong, chula?”

  I lean back against the door and try not to cry. “My mom got my report card.”

  “Chale.”

  “Exactly. Now she has this list of rules, and one of them is no more going to friends’ houses for the entire quarter. Can you believe that?”

  She brushes my hair away from my face. “Amara, remember when I told you I would wait forever to be with you?”

  I nod.

  “I mean it, mi Amara. No te preocupes.” Then she whispe
rs in my ear, “It will only make me want you more.”

  I blush and feel stupid for being jealous of that insignificant girl. Even though she’s never said it to me directly, it’s obvious Keeta loves me. And even though I’m not sure if we are officially girlfriends, I know she’ll be loyal to me despite Garrett’s and Stef’s warnings. They don’t know Keeta like I do.

  In the remaining minute, I tell Keeta about all my other rules, but she doesn’t seem worried. She reminds me of our last two away games, which mean long bus rides home in the dark. The thought of snuggling up with her in the back of the bus makes me smile again.

  The faint sound of the bell rings in the other room, and we kiss one more time. Then she presses her lips in my palm and closes my fingers into a fist. “Keep it for later when you miss me.”

  “Thanks, Keeta,” I say and leave feeling more confident than ever.

  *

  Since I have Algebra 2 first period and not Guitar/Making Out 101, I get to PE early this morning. And because I’m early to PE, I almost slam right into Kate as she’s rushing by on her way to the bathroom stalls. I’m caught off guard and politely apologize before I register that it’s her.

  She opens her mouth like she wants to say something to me, but I don’t give her the chance. I just keep on walking and head out to the field because, now that it’s freezing cold outside, Mrs. Schwartz is making us play soccer. Luckily, Kate and I are put on different teams, and we’re both made to play goalie because of our long arms and legs. So our chances of having any interaction during PE in the next month are slim to none, and that’s fine by me.

  After art and English, I run to the cafeteria, scarf down a suspiciously crunchy bean burrito, and report to the library for my first day of study hall.

  Mrs. Guzman knows me by name and doesn’t look surprised that I’m there for mandatory study hall. “No one spends as much time as you and Miss Moreno in this library. I should have known it could only mean trouble,” she says, as she stamps a card, my proof that I showed up and am on time.

  I’m embarrassed and surprised that she caught on to our little rendezvous. I guess teachers pay more attention than I gave them credit for. “Well, you won’t be seeing me during fifth period ever again,” I say and sign my name on the special attendance sheet, meant to collect even more proof that I was there.

  “Parents get your grades?”

  “Yeah, my mom wasn’t too happy. I’m surprised I’m allowed out of the house at all,” I joke, but it appears Mrs. Guzman is done with small talk.

  “Okay, Abbey, the rules are simple: no talking, no eating, no fun, and—this is a special rule for you—no poetry. Now go sit down and get to work.”

  The long wooden table she directs me to is placed in the center of the library, next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. When I was a free girl, I used to sit with my friends in the quad and laugh at the losers in the library. Now I’m on the inside, and everyone at lunch has a perfect view of me and the rest of Mrs. Guzman’s inmates. How quickly things change.

  Since my mom expects an A+ in Biology, I decide to focus my time studying for my chapter test on Friday. It’s stuff I pretty much already know, so my studying mostly consists of writing down vocabulary words and definitions. But sooner than I expect, I lose track of my important task and begin to fantasize about my future adventures with Keeta.

  “Abbey Brooks!” Mrs. Guzman shouts from her post by the front door. I jump a mile out of my skin. “I can revoke your stamped card and give you a blank one. Is that what you want?”

  I flip through my book to look busy. “No, Mrs. Guzman.”

  “Then I suggest you get back to planet earth and start studying.”

  A few of my prison mates disguise their laughter with coughs and cover their smirks with the hoods of their sweatshirts. “Yes, Mrs. Guzman,” I say, letting out a defeated sigh. And as I sit, writing the definition of homeostasis, my mind is decided: there’s no way my life can get any worse.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  My mom asks for my proof of study hall attendance the second I walk into the kitchen, which I guess is going to be her new way of saying hello until the quarter is over.

  It’s like coming home to the Big House these days, so I say, “Here you go, Warden,” and give it to her.

  She immediately posts it on the fridge.

  “Seriously, you should consider giving up art to become a prison guard.”

  “Get out your homework,” she says, pretending like I’m not hilarious.

  “Come on, Mom,” I whine, “it’s a pain in my butt to work out here, literally. Can’t I just sit in my room on my bed? I’ll leave the door open.”

  This is when she leaves the room. Seconds later she comes back with a throw pillow from the couch and puts it on the hard dining-room chair. “There you go. Problem solved. Now get to work.”

  I try really hard to hate my mom, but of course, I’m a complete failure at that, too. But I have to wonder how someone who claims to love me can torture me so much. I know, she’s doing it for my own good, but if she only knew how much it hurts to be away from Keeta, she might be a little less Cruella de Vil about the whole thing.

  At least I still get to see Keeta before practice and on our away games, but the season’s coming to an end, which means every part of my life is going to officially stink worse than the instant-tan lotion Kate made me try this past summer.

  *

  A month of Suckfest-a-palooza finally passes, and I actually have something to look forward to. Valentine’s Day is coming up, which is why I’ve been spending every spare second of my evenings, after my mom is in a deep sleep, working on Keeta’s card. It’s a masterpiece, thanks to my art teacher, Ms. Chafouleas. Once I finally dismounted my high horse (my mom’s a real-life artist, after all) and started to pay attention in class, I noticed Ms. C actually has some mad skills, especially in the art of paper pop-ups.

  My card is a large paper heart with the usual doilies and glitter on the outside, but when Keeta opens it, a picture of me will cartwheel across the middle. The caption underneath reads: “I’m head over heels for you!” Finally, I’m going to tell Keeta I love her, sort of.

  *

  I get up early on Valentine’s Day morning to curl my hair, apply eye makeup, and to dress up in a previously Kate-approved boobage-and-booty-boosting outfit: tight low-rise jeans and a low-cut, light-colored T-shirt with dark push-up bra combo. Then I carefully pack Keeta’s card and the cookies I made in my backpack, the cookies I told my mom I was making for my teachers. Pshyeah. Whatever.

  This morning, I practically skip to the performance hall. This is, by far, going to be the best Valentine’s Day ever because, for the first time ever, I actually have a Valentine who isn’t related to me.

  I’m just about to burst into the room and say Keeta’s name when I hear her sexy voice singing “Hey Jude,” which is one of my favorite Beatles songs, while being accompanied by mediocre guitar strumming.

  Then I hear, “Así no. Not like that, like this. Ay, let me show you.”

  My smile deflates like a two-day-old birthday balloon, and flashes of Stef’s warning appear in my mind. Keeta said those exact words to me a million times in class. Her showing me how to play a chord or strum the strings gave her the excuse to wrap her arms around me and touch my hands.

  Then more horrible strumming starts up again and Keeta says, “That’s it. You’ve got it now. Muy bien, chula.”

  Cutie? Who the hell is she calling cutie? That’s when I storm into the room like I’m the FBI. Keeta and her little chula part quickly but remain calm like they aren’t doing anything wrong.

  “Hey, Abbey. Qué onda?” Keeta asks.

  “What’s going on? I’d like to know the same.” I’m sure my face is quickly turning the color of an angry Valentine.

  “Pues aquí trabajando with Osiris. You know, doing my job,” Keeta says and walks toward the stage. “Nada más. Help me in the instrument room?”

  I sho
uld turn around and get out of there, but I worked damn hard on my Valentine and I’m not leaving until I give it to her, so I follow her into the tiny room in the back.

  She shuts the door behind us. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Amara,” she whispers, as her lips near mine.

  I turn my head to avoid her poisonous kiss and push her away from me to get a better view of her lying face. “What are you doing with her? And don’t tell me you’re just helping her because I know that’s bull, Keeta.”

  She takes my hands in hers and laughs. “Amara, are you getting jealous? You’re so adorable.” Then she leans in to try and kiss me again.

  I turn away again so her kiss lands on my cheek. “Just tell me the truth, Keeta.” Sure, I ask her for the truth, but in my head I’m praying that the truth is she loves me, and only me.

  She steps away from me finally and leans against the metal shelves that hold the violins and clarinets. “The truth about what?”

  “You and Osiris.”

  “Me and Osiris?” It’s obvious to me she’s stalling. My heart starts to break. Then she almost seems annoyed at my question. “Yeah, we flirt a little. So what?”

  “Well, uh,” I select my words carefully, “because we’re going out and you supposedly care about me.”

  “I do care about you, Amara, but I mean, you and I are not exactly girlfriends.”

  The truth finally comes out and I can hardly stand how much it hurts. “What…what are we, then?” I ask, my voice shaking from pain and embarrassment while Stef’s distant voice mocks me. Don’t think you’re that special, Amara. A tear escapes from my eye.

  “Well, it’s not like we ever talked about not seeing other people.” She runs her fingers through her silky black hair. “I mean, I really like you, sweet Amara. You’re a beautiful girl.”