I’ve known Danny since I was eight. They always say that the best relationships come out of being friends with someone first. I sort of feel like deep down, Danny and I have been best friends ever since we first knew each other. We just didn’t realize it until this year.
I told him that when we were talking tonight. I said, “Danny, you’re my best friend.” He got that little confused look he gets sometimes and he said, “Wait, I thought we were something more?” So cute how he’s always trying to DTR. I was like, “Well obviously we’re girlfriend-boyfriend too, but, you know, saying we’re best friends too makes it more special. It just does.” Then Danny said, “Okay, but if you’re my girlfriend, how come I’m not allowed to tell anyone?”
Danny, Danny, Danny.
That’s really been the only mini-hiccup in our relationship so far. I’m very happy with the way things are, but Danny wants to, I don’t know, be the talk of the school.
Who wants to be in a high-profile relationship? Imagine being one of those superstars who’s always dating someone famous: Jessica, Angelina, Jennifer, Jessica, Britney, Jessica. It would be the most miserable life. Your every date, every handhold, every kiss would be watched and analyzed and criticized. Me, I’ll take Julia Roberts’s life. You still get all the money and glory, but instead of a big famous ego for a bf, you’ve got your low-profile-but-still-cute cameraman hubby who no one knows about and no one cares about and no one bothers.
I don’t want the San Paulo paparazzi all over Danny and me. I don’t even want to think about the commotion we would cause if we went public.
My “friends” would freak out because they can’t possibly imagine someone of my eighth grade stature dating, let alone sniffing, a lowly sevvy. On the bathroom wall, Hannah Schwartz would go from SLUT to PREDATOR.
My parents would go ballistic because there happens to be an itsy-bitsy no boyfriend rule that they happen to believe I’m upholding. Oh, and in their mind, Uribes are just supposed to garden and clean their mansion, not mouth-freak their daughter.
Jake would cry so hard, and it would probably actually be sort of hilarious, but still, it’s not like I want him to cry. I mean, it’s funny when he does cry, but I can’t hope for it.
And, well, there is that one other aspect to it. It’s the kind of thing you’re not supposed to talk about or even think about. But it matters.
It was so scary when I saw all those texts from Chicle and Luz on Danny’s phone. And over the next few days, the more Danny tried to comfort me, the scarier it got.
“It’s okay, Gordo’s only a first-time offender. He’ll be out soon.”
“No one got hurt. The brawl wasn’t legit. The shot callers just set it up to distract the cops while the big drug deal went down on the other side of town.”
“Gordo will be fine.”
“Everything is fine.”
I mean, okay, it’s not like I think Danny is going to turn into a gangbanger or anything—he wouldn’t do that. But everything is not effing fine.
I’ve seen the cop cars outside our school like, every day ever since the raid happened. I know about the massively increased security they’re getting for the Sweethearts Dance in two weeks. I’ve overheard my parents talking about sending me and Jake to “a safer school.”
Translation: a whiter school.
Tonight Danny said not to worry, the gangsters never go after anyone who’s “outside the system,” so I “shouldn’t think about them.” Nothing bad will happen to me, he said. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.
But that’s not the point. The point is I don’t want anything bad to happen to Danny. He needs to stay the hell away from that whole mess.
And, obviously, so do I. I understand that Danny is going to be drawn to his friends and family, I know he loves that world, and I get that it’s “home” to him or whatever, but me? Honestly, the Eastside scares me. I have to keep as far away from there as possible. That means that random people can’t associate me with Danny.
And that’s why we can’t go public.
Danny and I really have been doing an amazing job of keeping up appearances, though. Ever since whoever-that-was-almost-maybe-walking-in-on-us-in-Jake’s-room on the night of the Hanukkah party, we haven’t come close to being detected. Danny chills with his crew. I hang out with my fake friends, all of whom still think I want Chad. Everyone’s happy.
Danny and I can keep this up for a long, looong time if we want to. I mean, the only time we’ve even planned to publicly be within a hundred feet of each other is at the Sweethearts Dance. But even there we can easily keep up appearances. We’re going in different groups and we’re not going to dance together or anything.
I don’t know if I’m excited for the dance. Having a secret date sucks since I won’t get to have, you know, a real date. I mean, yeah, it’ll be a fun time I guess, getting dressed up and taking pictures and everything. I really do love my dress. I got it at Femstyle, this super-cute, super-pricey L.A. boutique. The dress is strapless and taffeta, with a ruffled but totally tasteful hemline, the most stunning shade of violet.… I sort of can’t wait to see how it dances.
All right, I’m excited for Sweethearts. Impossibly excited. I’m excited to decorate the gym, I’m excited to see everyone in my group dressed up, I’m excited to see who gets voted on to the royal court—
And okay, I haven’t told anyone this, because it sounds dumb when I say it and because I don’t want to jinx it, but I want to be the Queen of Hearts. I want it bad. I don’t just want to be nominated. I don’t want to barely lose like I did in the Princess election last year. I want to win, dammit. After all that’s happened to me this year, what with the bathroom wall and everything, and considering the way I’ve been able to come back from that…well, I kind of feel like I deserve this. And I mean, I will be wearing purple the night of the dance, and that is the color of royalty, so I’m just hoping the student body takes the hint.
Whenever a celebrity needs to rehab her image, she’s got to do something big, bold, and badass. That’s the only way to get the public back on your side. Some celebs write tell-all autobiographies. Some go on comeback tours. Some adopt Cambodian orphans. There’s only one way I can make everyone at school forget that I’m a “slut,” and that’s if I become San Paulo Junior High’s Queen of Hearts.
And on Saturday, February 13th, when I’m out there—when I’m out in the middle of the dance floor after the presentation of the royal court, when I’ve got a crown on my head and all eyes on me, it won’t matter which random guy I’m dancing with. I know which one I’ll be thinking of.
Long live my king. Viva mi Danielito. <3
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Second Semester Changes
Sent: 1/21 9:17 p.m.
Hi Ruben,
I’d like for you to coach the boys’ basketball team next semester. Mike Wade’s wife just had that baby, so he can’t do it this year. I think you’re just the right guy for the job.
Let me know how that sounds. I’m looking forward to seeing some games this year.
Best,
Quentin Greene
Principal, San Paulo Junior High School
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Second Semester Changes
Sent: 1/21 10:06 p.m.
Hey Quentin,
Thank you so much for the offer. It is very tempting, but I’m not sure if I’ll have the time to devote to both the basketball team and my writing club. Is there anyone else who you think might be suited to the team? I’m no sports expert, after all. Thanks so much again for thinking of me. Unfortunately, I think I’ll have to pass this time.
Thanks,
Ruben
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Second Semester Changes
Sent: 1/22 11:40 a.m.
I apologize, I should have been clear
er. My offer was less a question of preference and more of a request.
I know that the team represents an extra commitment, which is why I’m asking you to lighten your load a little bit. Starting next week, there will be no more writing club. I need you to focus on being the best educator you can be for all of your classes. You’ve got one hundred and fifty kids to worry about, not just three.
Thanks in advance for understanding. I appreciate all of the energy you bring to your job. Let’s just direct it in the right places, yeah? Those kids on the team need you.
Best,
Quentin Greene
Principal, San Paulo Junior High School
20 • Dorothy Wu
Friday, January 29
Twelve twenty-nine and fifty-seven seconds …twelve twenty-nine and fifty-eight seconds…twelve twenty-nine and fifty-nine seconds…twelve thirty.
WA-WA-WAAAAAHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!
Celebrate good times, come on! The semester is done, time for fun! I am so relieved to be finished with all those cursed final exams. I race out of P.E. as fast as my delightful legs can carry me and I meet up with Jake at our prearranged spot, the flagpole. To celebrate the completion of our first semester of grade seven, we have the most frabjous minimum day planned.
First, however, a somber matter. Jake and I go to room 213 to dearly thank Mr. Morales one more time for all he has done for us this semester. Mr. Morales says how sorry he is to see writing club end. He says nothing will ever replace us. He hugs both of us—first Jake, then Dorothy.
After that touching moment between teacher and students, Jake and I are ready for some good old-fashioned kids’ fun. How much fun? A picnic’s worth. Jake has supplied the paper plates, napkins, PB&Js, and Capri Suns. I have brought with me two bags of Peach Rings and one canister of Koala Yummies. Xtreme deliciousness awaits us.
It is a seven-minute walk to our destination, Bella Vista Park. Bella vista means “beautiful sight” in Spanish. The real beautiful sight is Jake’s eyes, which are the exact same shade of brown as a fine mahogany desk, with a vibrant amber crust encircling the sable pupil. But I do not want to tell him what I think of his eyes. After all, we are just friends.
But we are very good friends. At the start of the walk, Jake asks if I would like to go to the Sweethearts Dance with him, not as sweethearts of course, but as friends. I say yes! Oh, I am already so anticipatory. Methinks Valentine’s Day weekend cannot come soon enough.
On our five-minute walk, we see many delightful things. A hummingbird flapping and fluttering through the air. Two small dogs scampering after the same tennis ball. A tall, once-proud tree on which many young lovers have carved their initials. A beautiful biracial baby.
Once Jake and I arrive at the park, we are excited to sit down and get grubbin’. However, as soon as we set foot on the fresh grass, we discover that we are not alone.
Who else is there? A group of about ten tall gents, most of them wearing big black shirts and tall socks, like soccer player socks. I recognize them as the Radars, those infamous trouble-mongers from the eastern part of town.
“The Raiders,” Jake says softly. “Do you see Danny with them?”
I look. I recognize a few hooligans from my math class, and I see a large, fearsome-looking fellow who has one thick black eyebrow like Sesame Street’s Bert.
And, to my surprise, I do indeed see the San Paulo Junior High Writing Club’s own Daniel Uribe. He is not dressed in shiny black garb like the others, but he is talking and laughing with them all the same. I see him touch fists with Bert.
Jake has a stressed-eyebrows face. “We should eat somewhere else,” he says.
I shake my head at him. Bella Vista Park is my favorite place in the entire world, and it is a rather large place, too. Hundreds of kids could spend lunchtime here if they wanted. Why must we vacate the premises?
“Come on,” Jake says, and he starts to briskly walk away. I still want to stay, of course, but I decide to do what he wants and I run after him. Part of being in a relationship is compromise. Part of being in a friendship is compromise.
We spend the next several minutes trying to decide on a place to eat. I suggest the front lawn of the school, but Jake does not want the punk kids whose parents do not pick them up to stare at us. Then I suggest the beach, but Jake does not want to walk that far, or ride Darrell’s two-wheeler, plus he does not want to get sand in his food. “Then why are we eating sandwiches?” I ask Jake with a quizzical and humorous look in my eye. Jake does not laugh. Not even a twitter.
We end up eating our food at the bus stop. Therefore, I would not call it a picnic. It is more of an on-the-go meal. Drat—I think—I should have brought Go-Gurt! Yet despite my obvious stupidity in not bringing transportable yogurt, I am still in high spirits. I am taking a merry afternoon jaunt with the person whose company I enjoy the most.
The bus is filled with such curiosities. Toward the back, I see an elderly woman who appears to have whiskers on her chin. I point at her to show Jake. “You should not point,” Jake says. I do not understand why not. When people point at me, I do not mind at all.
Eventually we reach the stop on Valdez Street, also known as Wu Country. When I stand up to get off and go to my house, Jake does not budge. I ask him why is he not coming over for an afternoon of Nintendo and board games like we originally planned? He says he should probably go home. I ask why? It is only 1:21; the afternoon is so nascent. He says he just feels like it. I say all right. As I get off the bus, Jake does not even wave or smile at me. What an ornery owl that boy can be sometimes.
I am confused about Jake as I walk to my house, but I am still feeling grand. After all, I have an entire Friday afternoon to myself. There is no reason why I cannot play Nintendo and board games by myself. Well, hmm. Board games might be difficult. I cannot settle Catan solo. Well, there is no reason why I cannot play Nintendo by myself.
I notice more small pleasures on my walk. A remote- controlled airplane zipping and whipping through the branches of tall trees. Two young tykes selling lemonade for a quarter a cup. A pigeon with a deformed leg. Come to think of it, that last one is not so pleasing.
When I reach my house, I am ready to go straight to my room and hang out with myself, but I am stopped from doing so by a loud voice, a displeased voice, the voice of my father.
“Dorothy! Come in here now!”
I walk into the kitchen, wondering why my father is home. Also, I wonder what he wants from me. Perhaps Darrell left his action figures out and my father thought they were mine. Pesky Darrell is always such a brat.
“Dorothy,” my father says in a very serious manner. “You got a C-plus in your math class.”
This cannot be true. My father is making this up to frighten me. I could not have gotten a C-plus because Jake helped me study for the final. Also, how would my father know my grade?
“I called your teacher. Mr. Peterson says you got a 79.4 in his class. Dorothy, this is unacceptable. I have spoken with your mother, and we agree that the proper punishment is to ground you for one month.”
My grade…my punishment…it is too many things to hear all at once. I feel a rush of hotness going to my head. Getting grounded used to not hurt me at all since I love my room so much. But now that I have become closer with Jake, and…oh no. Oh no. Please, please, no. The Sweethearts Dance. My father will never let me go now. I will never get to have that night. Jake will be so disappointed. I feel as though someone has ripped my chest open and sprinkled Pop Rocks all over my heart.
I am a stupid girl. A stupid, stupid girl.
21 • Hannah Schwartz
Saturday, February 13
I’m going to tell it straight through, just like it happened.
I had to get up early this morning. Painfully early. The only people who should be up before ten on a Saturday are farmers and the elderly.
I had to get to school to help set up for the dance with the rest of Leadership. I thought I’d sneak into Danny’s room and give h
im a good-morning kiss before I left, but he was outside on the Sport Court helping Jake with his dribbling moves or something. What a good person.
The atmosphere at school was crazycakes. Gossip was flying everywhere. Apparently Kristen and Alex are on the rocks because she wants to do something super-special for Valentine’s Day tomorrow—like, hundred-dollar-fondue special—but he wants to take it low-key. And I guess last night, Chase Sanford cheated on Corinne with this sevvy girl Taylor something, which…I mean, no offense, Corinne, but that’s what two straight months of wearing pajama pants and Ugg boots will get you.
Of course, the main thing on everyone’s minds was the election for the royal court. While we were all setting up in the gym, some of the Leadership kids who didn’t get nominated were counting ballots in the other room. I wanted to be a fly on that wall so bad. But I couldn’t know the results ahead of time. No spoilers. It’d be like prematurely flipping to the last page and learning the secret twist ending of a crappy Dan Brown mystery. When the counters finished and came out, I avoided eye contact with them. It had to be a surprise when I won.
If I won.
When I won.
The next few hours blurred by. I started to feel sick, got better, tried on my dress, hated the way I looked, showered, haired, makeupped, loved the way I looked, and Facebooked every second in between. By the time my group showed up at my house to take pics at five thirty, I was a vision in violet. The only downside happened when I tried to sneak a visit to Danny again. I went to his room, but he had already left for the Eastside where he was meeting up with his cholo group. I was bummed, but not devastated. I knew I’d get a kiss out of him eventually, even if I had to wait till hours after the dance.
Picture-taking and dinner were both quite awkward. Get this—out of my entire group of sixteen, literally every person was part of a couple except for me and…yes, the notorious Chad Beck. I almost feel like he planned it that way. So yeah, it was horrendous. When we all took the group picture, I had to grin and bear it as Chad held me with his big, gross gorilla hands. I guess the two of us could have stood on different sides of the group, but that would have looked bad.
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