by Maurene Goo
I didn’t even know what to say, I was so embarrassed for both of us.
“Um. I-I’m not really hostile,” I said in a small voice. A snort of laughter again from Mr. Williams.
“I’m not! I mean, I just — I’m a normal teenage kid, right? Angst and all that? It’s not like I’m going to shoot up the school or anything….”
Mrs. Karkis’s eyebrows shot up dangerously. “Don’t even joke about that!” she hissed.
I was baffled. Why was she asking me this stuff? Wasn’t it clear that I wasn’t really that psycho? The column wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone! And then I got uncomfortable — maybe everyone else at school actually thought I was nuts, too. Oh, God, why couldn’t I just have left well enough alone and stayed invisible?
Suddenly distracted by a small bleep! from her computer, Mrs. Karkis tried to talk to me while clicking around with her mouse. “Well, Holly. People are offended. And you really should be more aware of people’s feelings. And of your own as well, sweetie.”
What the —?! Was I actually in a guidance counselor’s office to be guided and counseled? Unheard of! I thought all these people did was mess with our class schedules and then call it a day.
“Okaaay. Is that it? I’m not in trouble? Should I write some kind of retraction or something?”
I looked at Mrs. Karkis expectantly, but she was distracted by what I could have sworn was a Tumblr blog featuring cats wearing fedoras. Once again, I was truly impressed by the intellectual brains that ran my school.
Mr. Williams cleared his throat and moved his chair over to me. “Hi, Holly. Actually, I had something more than a retraction in mind. But before we go into that, you do realize that what you did was really, really stupid, right?”
I looked down at my lap. “Yes.”
“And you do know that The Weasel Times has yet another controversy on its hands?”
It was true. The paper was constantly berated by the school administration. Like last year, when they ran an article about the student government’s corruption in assigning student parking spaces. I thought it was a fine piece of investigative journalism, but apparently the student government members got pretty pissed and demanded that the principal stop funds for the newspaper. Babies.
Mr. Williams leaned back, crossed his arms, and said in a slow, deliberate voice, “But we welcome controversy.”
Huh?
“This may be a huge mistake, but my instincts are telling me that you have — uh — a way with words.”
I was so confused!
“What are you getting at?” I asked impatiently.
He raised an eyebrow with amusement. “Yeah, quite the mouth on this one. I think you’d make an excellent columnist.”
“Huh?!”
“Would you want to write a real column for The Weasel Times?”
“Are you for real?”
“Yes, I’m for real.”
“For real, for real?”
“Holly!”
“Okay, okay. Just making sure. I mean, because I don’t know if anyone’s going to want to read my column. Everyone is probably freaking out,” I said.
“Yeah, some uptight teachers and students are, but a lot of them are also laughing.”
Mrs. Karkis glared at both of us. “One needn’t be considered uptight to be offended. It was offensive. And the only reason the administration is going along with this is because I convinced them that maybe this would be therapeutic for you and your anger issues.”
I tried to hold back a giggle. “I don’t have any anger issues.”
This time both Mr. Williams and Mrs. Karkis laughed. I looked between them defensively.
Mr. Williams shook his head and said, “The thing is, you got a reaction out of people. What’s important is not whether your opinion is popular, it’s that people react to what you write. The Weasel Times has never been too concerned with popularity anyhow,” he added.
Interesting. Did I really want to trade in my blissful anonymity for the drama I had endured today? But if I didn’t do anything about it, say anything about it, all people would remember me by was that column. Which, while funny to some, was probably not the best representation of me.
I thought about the impending school year stretched out before me: the daily monotonous routine of getting through classes, with my friends as the only bright spot of my high school existence.
I thought of people actually reading what I had to say. And me, having a proper outlet for my opinions.
I took a deep breath and smiled.
“Okay. Sign me up, dudes.”
What genius gave Holly Kim her own column? I will no longer read this crappy paper. I only read it for the two measly comics you guys put in there anyways.
SEE ya.
— MIKE J., SOPHOMORE
I think it’s totally rude of you guys to give Holly her own column after that totally offensive article she wrote. She obviously doesn’t respect us. Why should we be forced to open the school paper and be judged by her every week? Um, also? NO ONE asked.
— ANONYMOUS, JUNIOR
This is for Holly: YOU RULE! I hate BHS, too! We suck.
Rock on,
— VLADIMIR P., FRESHMAN
Why is everyone at this school so sensitive anyway? Do you not know how annoying you all are??? Seriously, get over yourselves. Don’t let people get you down, Holly. I can’t wait to read your column every month!
— KAREN S., SOPHOMORE
Who cares about this column thing by that loser Holly? Why aren’t you guys concentrating more on the football season? BHS is going to KICK ASS this year. WOO!
— TREVOR F., SENIOR
Oh, the sweet smell of Homecoming. And by “sweet” I mean retching.
In theory, I like Homecoming. I like how it falls in … the fall. I love the idea of traditional — and slightly lame — high school rivalry dating back to the days when high school kids wore sweaters with letters on them.
I like how the Homecoming game got its name from all the alumni, young and old, coming back home to root for their alma mater on a crisp, autumn evening — or as crisp as it can get in San Diego. (Why is it that all seasonal stereotypes assume everyone lives in New England? States like California were founded like a hundred years ago. Time to get with this century.)
Anyway. I like watching kids get manic about who’s taking whom to the dance. I like how during Homecoming week we get to do weird things like wear our pajamas to show school spirit. I like how at the rally, we all get to smash apart a Volkswagen Bug painted orange to show our aggression for our rivals, the Kennedy Tigers.
This year’s Homecoming game should be pretty sweet — I hear Kennedy’s football lineup really sucks.
Not that I know anything about football, but last I heard, Kennedy’s captain got suspended for selling weed. Classy. And supposedly their quarterback is fat.
I don’t say these things out of misguided school pride. It’s because I find pleasure in making fun of people outside of our school once in a while. And this seems like a better time than any, right?
As for the Homecoming Court, where shall I begin?
I find the whole idea ridiculous. Yes, I do. As if high school isn’t dysfunctional enough, let’s throw in a massive popularity contest. And we all know that the male portion of the Homecoming Court isn’t judged as critically as the female portion.
Because for the gals, not only do they have to meet the popularity prerequisite, they have to possess beauty-pageant looks as well. Why not just bust out a swimsuit competition and have court hopefuls catwalk in their bikinis during lunch one day? It wouldn’t make the Homecoming Court any more sexist than it already is.
So while I enjoy the idea of Homecoming and maybe even the outdated idea of temporary “school spirit,” I am 100 percent against voting for a Homecoming Court. Didn’t we establish two hundred years ago that America is so not into the idea of monarchies? Our forefathers would be disappointed.
Rah Rah Sis Boom Ba
h,
The student body president’s voice squawked over the speakers. “Yes, you heard correctly, we’ll be hosting the Homecoming dance in our very own gym this year! We know we’re going to have an AWESOME Homecoming! Go Weasels!”
Everyone around me started grumbling and moaning.
“THE GYM? It’s in the gym?!”
“Sooo lame!”
“Oh, wah.”
Well, that last one was me.
It was lunchtime, and everyone had stopped in their tracks to listen to the latest announcements about this year’s Homecoming — gossip had been buzzing for days about where we would hold the dance this year.
Concentrating intensely on balancing my pizza slices and bag of chips, I approached Liz and David at our usual lunch spot under a large oak tree. David was standing precariously on his skateboard, while Liz was perched daintily on a bench wearing a gauzy patterned dress belted at the waist. I looked down at my striped shirt, jeans, and high-top Chucks. I always looked like a twelve-year-old boy next to Liz.
Before I could greet them, two freshmen girls walked by consoling each other, near tears over the announcement. David called out, “Oh my God, who cares?!” Their jaws dropped and they hurried away, sniffling petulantly. Ah, we’re a friendly bunch.
Liz threw him an incredulous look. “Who cares? David, do you really want to wear a tux that you rented for ninety bucks in the same gross room where tall, sweaty guys play basketball?”
“Uh, no. Because I don’t plan on renting a tux. Do you even know me?” David asked while nimbly jumping off his board to sit on the grass in one clean swoop.
I sat down on my backpack next to him (there’s nothing worse than wet grass stains on your butt, even if you are just wearing an old pair of jeans) and laughed at Liz’s contemptuous glare.
She huffily kicked off her gray suede ballet flats to tuck her feet beneath her. “Okay, well, for some of us, the idea of a school dance in the gym is so lame. They had it at the W Hotel last year!”
Boring. I turned my attention to chowing down my wholesome meal when Carrie jogged up to us, out of breath. She tossed her macramé tote onto the ground dramatically. “Hey, guys. Can you believe Mrs. Worthington held me in class during lunch because she thought I was mocking her Spanish lesson behind her back? I mean, I was, but God, she was using the tiny microphone again. How could I resist? And to deprive me of my lunch! I’m pretty sure that’s against the law.”
“Wait, you were just hanging out with Mrs. Worthington? I always wondered what she made you delinquents do during lunch,” Liz mused.
Carrie rolled her eyes and wedged herself between David and me, grass stains be damned in her cut-off shorts. “She literally made me sit at my desk and read my Spanish book for twenty minutes. While she sat at her desk and ate a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. In silence.”
“That’s sad. I’m too sad to eat my pizza now.” I stared mournfully at my meal, working to keep a straight face.
“Don’t you remember how insane ol’ Worthington used to be in Intro to Spanish? She would almost throw our desks across the room if we didn’t address her as Señora Worthington.”
It’s true. The rest of us were one year ahead of Carrie in Spanish (in a lot of subjects actually — Carrie’s parents didn’t push her to take every honors class in the world), and spent most of last year’s class trying not to die laughing.
Liz let out an unladylike snort and said, “That microphone. I mean, WHY did she need to lecture with a microphone? We can hear you, Señora. Esta muy fuerte.”
We all laughed while Carrie looked confused. “What’s fuerte mean again?”
David threw a straw wrapper at her braided head. “You deserve your sad-sack lunchtime with Mrs. Worthington.”
Liz kindly removed the wrapper from Carrie’s hair. “Well, anyway, all you missed was David’s usual antisocial ‘cool kid’ act. He doesn’t want to go to the dance,” Liz tattled.
Carrie shrugged. “Well, it’s in the gym now, so who cares, right?” She reached over to grab a pizza slice off my plate. This might be considered super rude behavior by, oh, everyone, but we’ve been sharing/stealing each other’s food since we were five. I slapped her hand but was too slow, and she held up the slice triumphantly.
Liz groaned. “I know. Can you believe the incompetent idiots in the student government decided to do that? I honestly think it’s because they ran out of money after buying monogrammed jackets for themselves.”
Carrie looked up thoughtfully while nibbling on her ill-gotten pizza slice. “I wonder if I should ask Scott to the dance.”
I almost choked. “SCOTT? What happened to the love of your life, Ted?”
“Oh, please,” Carrie scoffed, waving her hand dismissively in the air. “That was so last month. I’m in love with Scott now.”
Liz wrinkled her nose. “Um, Scott on the water polo team?”
Carrie closed her eyes and murmured, “Yessss.”
“Um — cough — douche!” David said while pulling his sunglasses on nonchalantly.
“He’s NOT a douche! Just because he’s a jock doesn’t mean he’s like, Matthew Reynolds.”
We all made faces and said collectively, “Matthew Reynolds. Bleeeugh.”
Liz daintily wiped her mouth. “Well, I still think Water Polo Scott is pretty ick.”
“WHY?” Carrie said, frustrated. “Just because he isn’t fluent in five languages and doesn’t look like an Urban Outfitters model?”
“Um, no. Because he hits on any girl within ten feet of him. And also, Urban Outfitters? Please, I’m not Holly,” she said disdainfully while applying lip gloss.
I shrugged. “I have a soft spot for boyish hungry types, what can I say?”
Carrie plopped her head into my lap and brought her hand up to her forehead dramatically. “I only wish I could be within those ten feet of Scott! He’s my future husband, I can feel it.”
I giggled. “You’re crazy. And you’re crazy to want to go to the Homecoming dance.”
Liz dug into her giant Marc Jacobs bag and whipped out the latest issue of The Weasel Times and shook it right in front of my nose. “Speaking of! This month’s column was so annoying!”
“What, why?” I asked while swatting Liz’s hands away from my face.
“What’s your deal with the Homecoming Court? You sound insane!”
“Excuse me?” I replied, slightly offended. “What’s ‘insane’ about it? I think the whole thing is dumb.”
David lifted up his sandwich in solidarity. “What up.”
Liz looked at all of us and inhaled deeply. “Well, it’s a shame you feel that way. Because I’m running for Homecoming Queen.”
It was as if she’d announced that she was really a man. Or middle class.
“Are you joking?” I asked.
Throwing me an exasperated look specially patented by Liz herself, she said, “No, I’m not joking.”
“Seriously?” David asked. “Why?”
“Yeah, why?” Carrie seconded.
“BECAUSE. I WANT TO.”
We stared at her, Carrie’s pizza crust hanging in the air.
Not making eye contact with us, she got up abruptly from the bench, shoved her shoes back on, and stomped away.
“Liz! LIIIZ!” Carrie called out. Then she looked at us. “Man, she’s for real!”
David shook his head. “She’s being so bizarre.”
“Yeah, what’s with the sudden Homecoming Queen aspirations?” I asked.
Carrie sighed. “I think we need to remember that Liz isn’t really a hater, like us. I feel bad.”
“Me too,” I said.
We looked at David. He shrugged. “Well, I mean — Homecoming QUEEN?”
“But I think she’s serious!” I said.
“I know she is, that’s what’s so scary,” said David.
While I sat in journalism after lunch, I thought about Liz’s sudden interest in the Homecoming Court. It just didn’t make sense.
/> I first met Liz in middle school — she was the new girl in seventh grade and was instantly taken in by the so-called “popular girls.” It’s weird, but teen movies get it right with these kinds of girls. They’re all perfectly coiffed and bitchy to the max. And they are unbelievably elitist. Ugh, I’m getting irritated just thinking about them.
Anyway, this clique of gals was quick to latch on to Liz because, on the surface, she was an asset for them. Let me explain it this way — when she first walked into my homeroom class, this is what she looked like:
Okay, not really. But the thing is, she was super gorgeous and super well-dressed and groomed. I remember thinking, “Oh, brother.”
And it didn’t help that there were rumors swirling around school about how rich her family was. Apparently, she had lived in Paris for a few years while her dad ran some kind of bank, and her mother was a former model. At the time, I wondered why they chose to move to San Diego, of all unglamorous places. (I later learned it was because her huge extended Persian family all lived here.)
So imagine my surprise when she approached Carrie and me one day during lunch.
“Hi, my name’s Elizabeth. May I sit with you guys?”
I’m sure both our faces looked like this: :O
“Um, yeah!” Carrie sputtered, pushing her hippie horse food aside to make room on the table.
“Thanks!” She sat down and sighed, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head. (Because of her, a bunch of other girls had started wearing sunglasses, too, prompting a “no sunglasses in class” rule.)
“God, I’m so sick of those Barbie dolls,” Liz said while opening up her lunch. I don’t know what I was more surprised by — her declaration or the artisan bread and cheese spread that she was unpacking.
“You mean Candace and all of them?” I asked.
She nodded her head. “They’re so immature. And boring.”
Carrie laughed. “I don’t believe it!”
Liz looked at her curiously. “Why?”
An awkward silence followed, then I said, “Well, because … I mean … they really like you.”
