Now That You Mention It: A Novel

by Kristan Higgins

  Or listened to her sneak out, slipping open the window, out onto the roof, down onto the lawn, as light and silent and beautiful as a dragonfly.

  I missed her so much my bones hurt with it. The fact was, my sister had become a bitch, and it would’ve served me well to tell her that and show some gumption, as my mother would say...but that was the gift of hindsight. As it was, I yearned for her love, the friendship that I had never once questioned before our father left. “When will you be done in there?” was about the lengthiest conversation we had in years.

  So Luke Fletcher was my heaven and hell. Any excitement in my life came from occasionally being paired with Luke in school. Every time was a mixed bag—we’d do a calculus problem on the board, extra credit going to the person who finished first; me acutely aware that my arms jiggled as I wrote, that the whole class was pulling for Luke.

  But either way, if he won or I won, he’d smile at me, and it was everything.

  Until senior year, that was.

  Twenty years before I started high school, Scupper Island had produced a super genius named Pedro Perez, son of a fisherman, who was off-the-charts brilliant. He went to Tufts, then Harvard, then Oxford, then Stanford, and before he was thirty, he had three PhDs and had invented a computer algorithm that tracked consumer data and changed marketing forevermore. He had seventy-nine patents on all sorts of things, from agricultural tools to advanced rocket engines (and time-travel machines, if you listened to the rumors). Like any good billionaire hermit, he owned a ranch in Montana and moved his family out with him.

  But once a year, Dr. Perez came back to Scupper to show his appreciation to his hometown by sending the kid with the highest GPA to Tufts. This Scupper Island slot at the university may or may not have had something to do with the fact that Dr. Perez had given the school tens of millions of dollars. It might simply have been a testament to our good public schools, funded by the tax dollars of our summer residents. But each year, a Scupper Island kid went off to Medford, Massachusetts and never looked back.

  The scholarship covered everything. Tuition, room, board, books, a generous allowance that, rumor had it, covered everything from dorm-room furnishings to eating out. Dr. Perez’s only requirement was that the recipient finish college; dropouts would have to repay him.

  No one ever dropped out.

  Scupper Island was so grateful they renamed a street after him—Maple Street became Perez Avenue, and every year at the start of the second semester, Dr. Perez left Montana, returned to the island and announced the winner. He asked that grades not be posted after December midterms, so the winner could be kept a secret until the first week of January, when the entire school assembled to see who the lucky senior would be.

  Most years, it was obvious who’d win, but occasionally, it would be suspenseful.

  Going into our senior year, Luke and I were neck and neck. I had a 4.115 GPA, thanks to the weighted grades from my AP classes (an A in those meant a 5.0, not a 4.0).

  Luke’s GPA was 4.142, because he got A-pluses in gym... And every year, for that miserable semester, as if changing in the locker room in front of my slender female classmates wasn’t punishment enough, I got an A-minus.

  I tried, I was a good sport, cheering on my classmates even if they ignored me. I sweat and ran and played volleyball, diving for balls, trying my best, and I still got an A-minus. I wondered if that had been deliberate; the gym teacher was also the soccer coach. If Luke went to Tufts, he’d almost certainly play soccer, which would be a feather in Coach’s cap.

  “An A-minus is a good grade,” Coach said when I meekly approached him freshman year and asked what I had to do to bump that grade up. His eyes scanned me. “For a girl with your physique, I’d say it’s a very generous grade. You work hard. You’re doing fine.” The implication was clear. Only the really fit kids got As.

  Luke, of course, was a god.

  In the spring of my junior year, my mother sat me down and told me if I wanted to go to college, I’d have to get there myself, a fact I already knew. She didn’t want me to get my hopes up that there was money “lying around for that.”

  If I won the Perez Scholarship, I’d go for free. To Tufts! The name itself was beautiful, light and sunny, full of promise.

  Only 0.027 of a grade point average stood between Luke and me.

  And so, shit got serious...at least, for me. Luke and I took the same AP classes. If I could get even half a grade higher than Luke, I could erase my deficit.

  He didn’t seem concerned. Luke was gifted at English and history; I had to sweat over those subjects to get my grades. But I had an edge in science, and it was a weighted class. AP bio was my chance.

  I pictured going to Tufts. I sent away for information, and Luke’s mother, who ran the post office, snarled at me when I collected the fat catalog, knowing full well why I wanted it. She ignored me when I thanked her, but I barely cared, inhaling the sharp, rich scent of the catalog before going to the park bench to pore over the pictures and course descriptions.

  Oh, the campus! The brick buildings and unnaturally green lawns! I could see myself in one of the dorm rooms, a puffy white comforter on my bed, throw pillows and...and whatever else people brought to college. I’d be in the beautiful city of Boston (well, Medford, but practically Boston). I could see my future self: slim and pretty with better hair, at ease, laughing with friends—friends!—treating them to pizza with Dr. Perez’s expense account.

  I would get an A-plus in AP bio. I didn’t think Luke could.

  But he pulled a rabbit out of a hat...or a human, more accurately. Xiaowen Liu was a Chinese girl whose family had just moved to Maine from Boston and lived in a big house on the cliff. On the first day of school, Luke asked her to be his lab partner.

  “Hey, Nora,” he said with a grin. “Guess who got a perfect score on her biology SATs?” He gave Xiaowen a one-armed hug, making her blush. I didn’t blame her. I understood. She had an accent; the Cheetos had immediately pretended not to understand her and didn’t even try to pronounce her name—She-ao-wen, not terribly hard. But they insisted on calling her “Ex-Ee-Oh-whatever,” the feral, skinny bitches.

  I said hi to Xiaowen on her first day, and she said hi back, but that was it for the “Outsiders Bonding” moment. I lacked the confidence to ask if she wanted to hang out sometime, and besides, her mother chauffeured her to and from school in a new Mercedes. The money thing, you see. I was an islander; she was a rich person from away. She had what I wanted to pull off and failed—quiet confidence.

  All three of us got an A-plus on the first big bio test.

  There went my edge in science.

  Then came the English class speeches.

  Luke knew he’d ace his. I was the Troll, after all; he was Apollo.

  Public speaking was my greatest dread—standing in front of my peers, their judgment and disdain enveloping me like a poison gas. I’d have to suck in my stomach. I’d break out in hives on top of acne. I’d sweat. My scalp would ooze oil. Seriously, I was cursed.

  But I needed every A-plus I could get. We were assigned topics; mine was the failure of the juvenile justice system in Maine. Luke’s was on genetic engineering, an unfairly interesting topic.

  I worked on that speech for weeks. Researched and studied, outlined and organized. I went to the library to watch speeches by MLK and Gandhi and Maya Angelou for body language and rhythm. Practiced in front of a mirror. Filmed myself. Memorized. Tweaked. Memorized again.

  Luke gave his speech, and it was an unsurprising success. He was relaxed and confident, friendly and informative. Was it one for the ages? Not really, but if I’d been his teacher, I’d have given him an A. Maybe an A-plus.

  Mr. Abernathy congratulated him fondly and told the class that tomorrow, we’d be treated to mine. Sweat flooded my armpits and back at the mention of my name. There were groans and sighs from the Cheetos.


  “Don’t worry, Nora,” Mr. Abernathy said absently as I left the class. “You’ll do fine.”

  “That’s a tough act to follow,” I said.

  “I’m sure you’ve worked hard, dear. Try not to worry.”

  Ha.

  I thought Mr. A liked me. Maybe he was even rooting for me. He was the classic English teacher—rumpled and kind, disorganized and eloquent. His classroom was cheerfully messy, books overflowing from the back bookcase, faded posters of great authors hanging on the walls, a few straggling plants on the windowsill. His desk was covered in papers and books, and the huge dusty blackboard (which was actually green) was crowded with homework assignments he never managed to erase, quotes from literature and abbreviations like GMC for goal, motivation, conflict, or KISS for keep it simple, stupid and doodles of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson. Though I was a science geek, he made me love reading.

  “Don’t worry,” he repeated, sensing my insecurity. “I have every faith in you.”

  At least someone did. I went home and practiced the speech again and again and again in the cellar, so Lily and Mom wouldn’t overhear me. I slept horribly, having nightmares about getting lost, missing my speech, then giving it, only to realize my legs were covered in fur. I couldn’t eat that morning (a rarity, let me tell you), and my heart thudded and twisted all morning.

  I slid into English and slunk to my desk. “All right, then,” Mr. Abernathy said. “Nora, you’re up, dear.”

  I went to the front of the class, and before the sweat could start oozing from every pore, I began.

  The class was about to be stunned. So was I.

  That saying about practice makes perfect? Being prepared? It worked.

  Rather than give statistics (as Luke had), I had chosen a fellow student to use as an example.

  “Sullivan Fletcher was convicted of underage drinking and illegal drug use after a devastating car accident in which he was the driver,” I began. “Tragically, his twin brother, Luke Fletcher, was also in the car at the time and suffered the complete severing of his penis.”

  The class burst out in surprised laughter. Except for Luke.

  The rest of the speech followed the fictional life of juvenile delinquent Sully Fletcher, his poor-quality education, the violence he would encounter in our woefully underfunded correctional facilities, his difficulties in getting a job, finding a wife, his high odds of divorce and becoming a deadbeat dad. I talked about his struggles with drug use and alcoholism.

  I walked between the rows of desks, addressing the students by name. “Picture that, Lonnie. Seven out of ten. What if you were in the bunch? Caroline, you have a little sister. Imagine if she had to visit you in State.”

  I ended by stopping by Sullivan’s desk. “I hope you’re never in an accident, big guy,” I said fondly, as if I could actually have a conversation with a Fletcher boy, let alone call him by a nickname. Then I turned to his twin. “And, Luke, I hope your parts stay intact.” Another big laugh. “But now you all know what to expect once you start down the dark road of a criminal.”

  Then...shockingly...applause. I think Xiaowen started it.

  “Very entertaining, Nora,” said Mr. Abernathy. “Well done.”

  I went back to my seat, my face now burning, the sweat now drenching me, my face so slick with oil that I could write my name in it, but the speech was over. I had faked my way through that composed, relaxed, funny persona, and it worked. The minute class was over, I bolted for the bathroom before my bowels melted.

  I had to miss my next class, thanks to nervous diarrhea.

  The next week, when our speech papers came back, there was a big fat A-plus at the top of mine.

  I covered my grade with my hand, but Luke saw mine...and I saw his. A-minus.

  He gave me a cool, assessing look. In that moment, it seemed like Luke Fletcher realized that he might not get something he wanted. Something he felt was his due.

  Later that day, he hip-checked me in the hall, sending me sprawling, my corduroy jumper riding up over my thick thighs, my books splaying all around me. “Watch where you’re going, Troll,” he said, his voice the same sneer the Cheetos used, slashing like a razor because it came from his perfect mouth.

  He stepped on my notebook and pivoted, tearing the cover.

  He had never called me Troll before.

  It was November; the semester would be ending in December, just before Christmas. Per Dr. Perez’s request, our grades would not be posted from now until the announcement. We had midterms coming up, and based on what I knew, I ran the numbers.

  Despite the A-minus on his presentation, Luke was more than likely going to pull an A, if not an A-plus, in English. Because of my stupid gym grade, even if I got a perfect score on every test (as I fully intended to do), Luke’s GPA would be 0.008 higher than mine. He’d get the scholarship. He’d go to Tufts.

  I’d have to go somewhere else. I’d be saddled with debt, have to take on a couple of jobs, try for every merit scholarship there was. It was possible. I could do it.

  I’d applied to the colleges like Harvard and Yale that had huge endowments for kids in my shoes, but I wasn’t likely to get in. All their applicants had fabulous grades, too, and grades were the only thing I had going for me. I lacked any extracurriculars aside from the Math Olympics, too busy studying. No sports to sweeten the pot, no hours of community service, no trips abroad to dig wells.

  I wanted to be a doctor—I loved science, and I could see myself in surgery, saving lives, beloved by my peers, not having to worry about clothes because of scrubs. For that career to come true, I needed great grades from a great college to help me get into med school, which would cost at least another quarter of a million dollars.

  It would be a long, long road without the Perez Scholarship.

  The Fletcher boys had everything. Two parents who loved them and each other. Their father owned the boatyard, his mother was not only the postmistress of our town but also ran the general store (same building, very cute, a must-visit if you were a tourist). As year-rounders went, they were set. They weren’t wealthy but they were solid. I imagined that Luke would be accepted at many colleges, get plenty of merit and sports scholarships.

  But I needed the Perez Scholarship. And it looked like I wasn’t going to get it.

  One day in early December, as I sat in the cafeteria, not eating (chubby girls didn’t eat in public), reading The Scarlet Letter, Luke approached me, his sycophants trailing behind him.

  “Hey, Troll, guess who called me yesterday?”

  Even as he insulted me, I couldn’t help the blush of attraction that burned my chest and throat. “I don’t know.”

  “The soccer coach from Tufts. Said he can’t wait to have me on the team. Guess the scholarship’s mine. Nice try. But you knew it would go to me, didn’t you? Deep down inside that fatty heart of yours?”

  His fan club laughed. He rapped his knuckles on my table, making me jump, getting another laugh, then left.

  Tears stung my eyes, and hatred—for Luke, for high school, for myself—churned in my stomach. There had to be something I could do. Something that Luke couldn’t. What that was, I had no idea.

  Finals were approaching, and both Luke and I knew we had to ace every damn test. Uncharacteristically, he was studying, no doubt to make sure he wouldn’t hand me the win. Every day after school, I saw him in the library, once my refuge, and he’d mouth, “Sorry, Troll.”

  I was doomed.

  With two weeks left in the semester, with the January announcement of the Perez Scholarship recipient coming just after break, I was desperate. I pored over my report cards, doing the math again and again. Even if I got an A-plus on every exam, if Luke did the same, he’d win.

  But there was that matter of the A-plus on my speech to his A-minus. The tiny ray of hope. It was possible that one A-minus could drop his term grade
to an A, and if that happened...well, shit. Even if that happened, he’d still be the tiniest bit ahead.

  On the last day of classes before exams, Mr. Abernathy wished us luck, told us to study hard. “Won’t make a difference,” Luke said as he passed my desk, bumping it with his hip.

  I sat there, my face burning, pretending to take a few last notes, waiting for everyone to leave. It didn’t take long.

  “Everything okay, Nora?” Mr. Abernathy asked, gathering up his own stuff from his cluttered desk.

  “Oh, sure,” I lied.

  “I have a meeting, I’m afraid. Do you mind turning out the lights?”

  “Not at all, Mr. A.”

  He smiled and left, and I sat there for another minute. Told myself I’d done all I could. That the University of Maine would give me a good package. Or maybe I’d go to community college for a couple of years and then transfer somewhere. I told myself that while the road to my adult life would be longer and harder without the scholarship, it was still a road I could travel.

  But my heart, that stupid organ, ached. My stomach, that bottomless pit, growled. I’d go home, stuff my face, have a cry and a binge before Lily came back from whatever she did after school.

  Tufts had been so close. A free ride. The beautiful dorm room. Expenses. The pizzas. The friends.

  I got up to turn off the lights.

  Then I saw it.

  There, on the messy, dusty blackboard filled with quotes from Shakespeare and Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth and homework assignments from the last two months, was my chance.

  It had been there all along, written in Mr. A’s messy scrawl on the very first week of school, on the far left-hand side of the board. Underneath a caricature of Edgar Allan Poe and above a quote from Heart of Darkness, was my future.