by Alyson Noel
“I don’t need to see your file to know that you’re failing.”
I look at her hair that’s permed poodle tight, but just for a second, and then I focus on her outfit. She’s wearing a light blue crisply ironed cotton blouse, a belt with flowers painted on it, and pleated white cotton twill pants. And I’d bet you anything she’s wearing high-rise, full coverage, cotton crotch, underwear.
“I thought after our meeting you had a firm understanding of what you needed to do to get into a decent school. But you’ve let your grades suffer to the point where the best we can hope for is community college, and that’s only if you graduate.”
There’s that “we” again. They act like this is a team effort or something. “So, what’s so bad about community college?” I ask.
“Nothing, provided you’re motivated enough to even go there.” She looks frustrated and reaches her hands toward me, palms up. “You are a very bright girl, and it’s such a tragedy to watch you waste your potential like this. You are capable of so much more. But I’m afraid if you don’t apply yourself this very minute, and if you don’t do extremely well on your finals, you will not be graduating with your class. Your future is in jeopardy Alex.”
She’s looking straight at me and she’s trying to get to me, trying to reach me, but I can’t stand it so I sink lower in my chair and stare at the floor. We just sit there quiet like that for the longest time. I mean, I don’t owe this woman anything. And I don’t remember making a deal with her. She railroaded me into all of this and she wouldn’t listen when I told her I couldn’t do it anymore. If I want to mess it all up, well, that’s my business. She can just go back home to her photogenic family and forget this ever happened.
We just continue to sit like that and I can feel her staring at me and I don’t know what to do, so finally, I reach into my backpack and pull out the paper I’d been carrying around all week. It’s my latest short story, the one with the big red A on it. I look at it for a moment and then hand it to her and go, “I’m trying, okay? I really am. I’m going to all of my classes, and everything.” And then I start crying. What a total dork.
She doesn’t come around the desk and try to hug me, thank god. She just reaches across her desk, grabs a tissue, and quietly hands it to me. After awhile she says, “I didn’t know you liked to write.”
I twist the tissue around and around and go, “It’s just something I do sometimes. I’m not all that serious about it.”
“Why not?”
I just look at her, “What do you mean?”
“Well, you enjoy doing it so much you even do it in your free time. Your English teacher seemed to be impressed and from reading the first paragraph I am too.”
“I’ve got others,” I say.
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” She sets my story on her desk and looks at me. “You don’t have to love History and Economics, but you have to get through them to get to the good stuff, the stuff you do like. I know your grades in French are okay and English too, but it’s not enough. You can’t graduate on that alone.”
“But even if I do start applying myself, or whatever, I still won’t get into a good school for next year. I mean, I’ve totally blown it, and my dad told me he won’t pay for it anyway,” I tell her.
She looks at me steadily and says, “You’re young, and very bright. You can still go to a good school and get a scholarship. Maybe not next fall, but there’s still the year after that. But you can’t just put it off until then. You have to start trying now. You have to graduate.”
I look at her for a moment, and it’s clear that she really does care. She’s not just trying to shame me. Then I look at the picture on her desk of her kids and husband and I wonder if she means well with them too.
“There’s a statewide, library-sponsored, teen fiction writers contest.” She stops and shuffles around inside her desk until she finds the papers she’s looking for. Then she picks one up and reads from the back. “The winner will receive a two thousand dollar scholarship, and the chance to compete in the nationwide finals for additional scholarship money, a trip to New York, and publication in Sixteen magazine.” She sets it down and looks at me. “I’d like to enter your story, if it’s not too late. What do you think?”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically.
She gives me a disappointed look and it makes me feel bad, but I’m not budging. “Why not?” she asks.
“I don’t compete anymore,” I tell her.
“Competition is healthy.”
“Only for the winners,” I tell her. “Not for the losers.”
“It inspires people to do better, to be better.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” I say, avoiding the look in her eyes.
She sits there for a moment and then without saying anything she gets up from her desk and leaves the office. But I’m not sure if she’s done trying to convince me yet, or if I should stay seated for round two. So I just sit there for a while staring at the floor, and then I grow a little bored, so I pick up one of those papers about the contest and start reading it. But then I hear her coming back and I don’t want her to see me reading that, so I fold it up and stick it in my bag real quick.
“I’m sorry,” she says, rushing back into the room. “I have to pick up my daughter from school now. But I do hope you’ll take me seriously about your grades, and I do hope you’ll reconsider this contest.”
I just nod as though I’m already considering all of that, and then I grab my backpack and head for the parking lot.
When I get home I grab a container of strawberry yogurt and a spoon and sit in front of the TV and try to find something interesting to watch. But as I flip through the channels I keep thinking about what Mrs. Gross said about graduating, and how close I am to not doing it. And the thought of having to go to summer school, or even worse, returning to that dreadful place next year is unbearable. So I turn off the TV and go into my room, determined to open my textbooks and get my act together.
I change into some sweats and sit at my desk, and just to boost my confidence, I prop my latest short story with the A on it against a stack of books so I can steal a glance at it every now and then when I start to get a little bored (which is inevitable since I’m going to devote one hour to each subject that I’m failing, and that’s pretty much all of them).
When I’m well into economics, my second study subject, my phone starts ringing. I stop reading and stare at it, and I hate to admit it but that might be the first time it’s done that since Connor left and I stopped hanging out with M.
I watch it ring until it goes into voice mail and then I go back to my book and focus on reading because I promised myself I would get through this without distractions.
But not five minutes later my purse starts ringing so I close my book and walk across the room to get it. I mean, just because I’m not going to answer it doesn’t mean I can’t look at the display and see who’s calling. But I get there too late and now it just says “missed call.”
So I turn my cell phone off and start to toss it back into my purse when I see that paper I took from Mrs. Gross’s office all crumpled up inside. I smooth it out against the hard wood of my desk and read through it quickly, and I’m surprised at how simple it is. I mean, it’s basically an application that just needs to be filled out, attached to a story, and then mailed in. I don’t know why but for some reason I thought it would be more complicated. I thought it would be a bigger deal.
So I grab a pen and start filling in the boxes in all capital letters. (I’m not sure why I use all caps. I guess I just think it looks more official). And then I sign my full name at the bottom with a little more care than usual.
But that was the easy part. Because when I pick up my story and read through it, I start to feel panicked at the idea of some professional editors reading it and judging it. I mean, I know it’s a contest with judges, but I mean judging it like, “that story sucks,” kind of judging it.
I can’t do this. The
re’s just no way. I throw the application on the floor and stare at it lying there on my ugly, outdated, shag carpet, and I wonder when I got so used to losing. Just two years ago losing didn’t even occur to me, but now, it’s like I expect it.
But I don’t want to be like this anymore and maybe the only way out is to start trying again. I mean, maybe if I send it in secretly, without telling anyone, then I’m the only one who will know if I fail. And it won’t be that big of a deal since I’m used to it anyway.
I pick up the application, prop it up next to my story, and stare at the big, red A on the title page for a long time.
If I don’t try I won’t lose, but then I won’t win either.
Chapter 34
So on the night of the prom, do you know what I’m doing? I’m going on a date with Guy. I guess I started feeling a little sad and lonely, and I had no other prospects. My mom was going out with Chris again, Blake was nervously meeting Ken’s parents, and I heard Tiffany announce in a very loud voice in the girls bathroom that M was going to the dance with her mother’s tennis buddy’s son. Can you believe it? I mean, there was just no way I was gonna sit at home by myself. So I decided to return Guy’s call.
He seemed pretty happy that I called him back and as we were talking I decided to come clean. I just couldn’t stand the idea of another lie out there. So when he asked me about the weekend I mentioned that it was prom but I wasn’t going. That way he could be the one to sort of drag it out of me.
So of course he goes, “What? The prom? I thought you were in college?”
So I take a deep breath and I go, “I know.”
He sounds confused when he says, “What?”
“Well I guess I just didn’t want to admit that I’m still in high school. It’s like, you guys are in grad school and stuff, and well, it just seems so juvenile.” God, I sound like a dork.
So then he does the strangest thing. He starts cracking up. So I just sit there, holding the phone, not really knowing what to do, when he goes, “Well, I guess if you’re gonna come clean then I’ll come clean too, we’re not really grad students, we’re freshmen at UCLA.”
I totally can’t believe this, but I talk myself out of being upset, because that would be hypocritical. So I go, “Why did you lie?”
And he goes, “I guess for the same reason you did.”
“Wow.”
“Does that mean there’s no trip to Europe either?” he asks.
“Only in my dreams,” I tell him.
So then he goes, “Hey, if you don’t have a prom date, I’d be honored to take you.”
I swear that’s just how he says it, kind of old-fashioned but I like it.
“You know what, Guy,” I tell him, “I have no interest in the prom. Why don’t we just go to dinner or something instead?”
“Done. I’ll pick you up Saturday at seven.”
So Guy knocks on my door at seven sharp and when I peek at him through the peephole I see a very cute, kind of preppy, Paul Ruddish-looking guy, which was pretty much how I remembered him.
When I open the door he goes, “Wow, you look great.”
I’m just wearing my favorite low-cut, boot-cut jeans, a white baby-T, a little black blazer I bought in the boys’ department at work (I like the way it’s kind of shrunken looking), my favorite black, super-high-heeled Steve Madden, platform sandals (which kill to walk in but I love them), and my hair is wavy, loose, and long.
I smile and say thanks and start to close the door behind me when he goes, “Are your parents home?” Like he’s all prepared to make a good impression on them or something.
I just laugh and say, “No, my parents haven’t been in the same house since I was twelve. They’re divorced. My mom’s on a date.”
“Isn’t that the weirdest?” he says as he opens the car door for me. “My parents are split too, and it’s so bizarre when they start dating about the same time you do.”
He gets into the driver’s seat of his very cool, black Jeep Wrangler and starts the engine.
“I like your jeep,” I say as he pulls out of my driveway.
He looks at me and smiles. “It’s not the most comfortable ride, but I like to mountain bike and hike and stuff so it comes in handy.”
I nod and smile and say, “The closest I’ve been to the great outdoors would be the boardwalk in Venice Beach.”
“No, that can’t be true?” He looks at me briefly and I nod my head that it is indeed true.
“Well, we’ll have to change that. I know some great spots for hiking and horseback riding, right here in Orange County. I grew up here.”
“You did?” I’m not sure why, but I’m surprised to hear that.
“Yeah. Well not here, but in Laguna Beach.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well that may be part of Orange County, but it’s way cooler than here.”
“True.” He looks at me and laughs.
“Did you have a horse?” I ask.
“Yeah, I still do. I have two. I keep them at my mom’s house.”
“I used to have a horse,” I tell him as I look out the window. “A long time ago.”
When we get to the restaurant he goes, “I hope you like Indian food.”
Now normally, in the past, I would just lie and say I love it, and try to fake my way through it. But I’m not lying anymore, unless I absolutely have to. So I say, “Well, I’ve never had it before.”
He smiles and says, “Then you’re at the right place because the food here is great, so if you don’t like this, then you’ll know you don’t like Indian food.”
He helps me translate the menu into food groups I’m familiar with, then we just order a bunch of different plates so we can share. And I have to say that even though some of it is surprisingly spicy, I think it’s absolutely awesome.
We enjoy a really nice dinner together. I mean there are a few awkward moments of silence, but for the most part he keeps it going pretty well and he’s interesting and easy to talk to. And I’ve only compared him to Connor a few times and even then I’ve tried to stop myself because that’s just not fair, it’s like apples and Oreos really.
So after he pays the check he goes, “Hey, let’s do something fun, something different. Are you up for it?”
“I’m always up for fun and different,” I say.
“Good, then let’s go bowling!”
“What?” There’s just no way I heard him right.
“Yeah, bowling.” He’s laughing and looking at me expectantly. “They have this late-night thing called ‘rock ’n’ bowl’ and it’s really fun. They turn the lights down low and they use these black lights that make the pins glow fluorescent. And the music is great. C’mon, Alex. What? Do you think you’re gonna lose?”
“Yes, of course I’ll lose. I haven’t bowled since grade school,” I tell him.
“That’s why it will be fun. Listen we can do the whole bar, club thing if you want, but that scene gets so old after awhile.”
And hearing him say that, I’ve got to agree. Suddenly I don’t feel like hanging out in some smoky scene, drinking and trying to act like I belong. I don’t know if bowling is the answer but it’s worth a try. “Do you know where there’s a bowling alley around here?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact I do.”
So we go bowling. I take off my cute sandals and replace them with some ugly red-and-green flats, and some socks Guy purchased from a vending machine. Then I grab some weird, shiny, bright pink ball I can barely lift, stick three fingers in it, and give up all hope of looking cool while I hurl it toward the fluorescent pins. I mean, if you’re going to bowl well, you have to be willing to look like a dork.
I start off good, getting a few strikes and spares, but my game quickly falls apart and turns into a series of gutter balls. But it doesn’t really matter ‘cause it’s not like we’re playing competitively or really keeping score, which is good for me since Guy just happens to be a great bowler.
We are having so much fun that we want to
keep playing but they’re getting ready to close up, so Guy looks at me and says, “So, what’s next?”
I look at my watch and I’m amazed to see that it’s almost one o’clock. It’s not like I have a curfew but I’ve been having so much fun, I’m sad to know that it’s almost over.
“Um, I don’t know,” I say. “It’s kind of late.”
“You want to get a coffee?” he asks.
And even though I’m glad to see that he’s reluctant to end it too, I shake my head and go, “We’re in Orange County, remember? Everything closes early. But I have coffee at my house if you want.”
“Should we head there?”
I look at him and smile and nod, and I hope that he doesn’t think I’m trying to seduce him by inviting him back to my place.
Chapter 35
When Guy pulls into my driveway I’m praying that my mom and her date won’t be here because it would be way too weird to hang out on the couch, making small talk with them. But all the lights are off, and I don’t see Chris’s car anywhere, so I’m hoping that means the coast is clear.
We walk in the door and Guy is right behind me with his hand on the small of my back and I’m getting kind of nervous and I’m wondering if this is still about coffee. I mean, he’s totally cute, and really nice, but I’m just not ready to fling myself on the couch and start making out with him, so I go straight to Mr. Coffee and start filling up the glass carafe and locating two clean mugs that don’t have anything embarrassing printed on them.
“Nice house!” Guy shouts, competing with the sound of grinding beans.
“It’s okay.” I look at him and smile and shrug.
“Is this you?” he asks, picking up a silver frame that holds a picture of a naked, bald, fat, drooling, eight-month-old, which unfortunately is me.
“Uh, yeah.” I cringe. “Hey, why don’t you go put on a CD in the living room?” I say, hoping he won’t see the picture of me in my Girl Scout uniform that my mom insists on displaying.
