License to Spill

by Lisi Harrison

  I was no better than the other customers at Benihana, including my brother. The more I realized this the more I panicked. Had I peaked in middle school? Was it all downhill from here? Does A.J. have what it takes to keep my parents from getting a divorce? I hurried for the bathroom to experience what was later diagnosed as anxiety disorder.81 Shortness of breath, distorted vision, eyes darting like a trapped animal. I am allergic to average.

  Running circles around the competition will no longer suffice. I have to grease my proverbial wings and break the sound barrier. Raise Coach Speedman’s 10 percent rule to 20 before this panic disorder allergy kills me.

  So here I sit. Outside Mrs. Martin’s office, with a list of queries including but not limited to “How do I win the Principal’s Award?” “How can I become a member of the 2012–2013 Phoenix Five,” and “How can I boost my likability on social media?”

  I also have a list of un-askable queries including but not limited to “Why hasn’t Blake tried to kiss me?” “When your parents stop sleeping in the same room is divorce inevitable,” “How can I get straight A’s without cheating?” and—

  FOE-M-G, Lily just walked out of Mrs. Martin’s office.

  I knew I should have wished her a happy birthday! I didn’t have to mean it. I just had to say it. It wouldn’t have made up for stealing Blake but it might have kept her from telling on me. If that’s what she was doing. Which it had to be. She smirked right at me!

  Stay calm, Vanessa. Don’t panic. Don’t look at her. Keep writing. Write. Write. Write. This isn’t getting graded. It doesn’t have to be good. Just write, girl. Write!

  I should have killed her with kindness. Offered to take her out for a birthday ice cream. Treated her to a triple scoop and then apologized for unfriending her. I could have convinced her to drop the hacking thing. I could have done something. But I didn’t. I’m just sitting here; breath shortening, vision distorting, eyes darting.

  Now I am fanning my pallid complexion with a brochure on taking a stand against peer pressure. I need to leave. I can’t face Mrs. Martin now. She knows… so itchy… losing saliva… must keep writing… It’s keeping me from fainting… My EpiPen is a peppy pen… Talk me down PeppyPen… Keep me grounded… No, don’t. I have to stand. I have to get out of here. Too late. Here comes Mrs. Ma—

  Date: Still my birthday

  I closed my eyes, wished for Blake to forgive me, and blew out the candles. Mom cut the carrot cake while I tried to smile. My present, a white envelope propped up against a half-empty ketchup bottle, looked about as promising as my future.

  “Any plans tonight?” Dad asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Where’s Blake?”

  “Sick.”

  “What about the others?”

  He was referring to the Homies. Even he knew I didn’t have friends at Noble.

  “They offered but I have a paper to write,” I said. “Which reminds me, where can I find 1972?”

  “Excuse me?” Mom said, licking icing off her thumb.

  “I need more typewriter ribbon.”

  Dad almost choked. “You’re not using that old thing, are you?”

  I nodded.

  “Typed my first published article on it,” he said. “Someone found a headless body at a topless bar.”

  “It still works?” Mom asked.

  “No. Poor guy bled to death.”

  Mom giggled as she handed Dad some cake.

  “Why don’t you use your computer?” he asked.

  “A typewriter is faster.”

  As expected, that led to a series of inquiries about my bat mitzvah savings account and why I wasn’t allocating those funds toward a laptop.

  “I spent it on a back-to-school wardrobe.”

  Mom gasped. “Not those androgynous European club kid clothes.”

  I nodded.

  “You paid for those?”

  “Someone had to.”

  My parents exchanged a conspiratorial look.

  “As much as you detest conformity, there are certain inalienable rights that come with being part of the public school system,” I said. “The right to modern clothing, the right to technology—including but not limited to high-speed Internet—and the right to choose my own luncheon meats. If you don’t want to grant me these rights, fine. Homeschool me. But if you want me to survive the persecution of public—”

  “What is it you need, Lily?” Mom asked.

  I looked at her with an inappropriate amount of sass, but really? She needed me to spell it out for her?

  “A computer, Mom. Clothes. Normal sandwiches. A fighting chance!”

  She handed me the envelope.

  I turned it around in my hand, politely intrigued.

  “Go on,” Dad said. “Open it.”

  I did. There was a white gift card inside. The logo—piece of fruit with a bite taken out of it—looked wonderfully familiar. Too wonderful to be true. So I assumed it was a biblical reference to greedy old Eve’s apple craving in the Garden of Eden to avoid disappointment. “What is this?”

  “As you would say, a first-class ticket to the year 2012,” Mom joked.

  “The Apple store?”

  “I’m tired of sharing my typewriter,” Dad said. “Go get a computer already, will ya?”

  I screamed for joy.

  We laughed and hugged and ate cake.

  Before going upstairs I thanked them for everything, including but not limited to loving me for fifteen straight years in a row.

  10.26.12

  INT. NOBLE HIGH GYM—HOME TEAM BLEACHERS—NIGHT.

  DUFFY bounces the ball toward the net. Excitement builds. SHERIDAN’s pear-shaped bottom hangs off the lip of the bleacher in anticipation. DUFFY lifts the orange orb. He aims, he shoots, it soars, he scores! SHERIDAN jumps to her wedges and cheers for DUFFY. RANDOM GIRLS cheer for him too. Some wave signs. Others claim they love him.

  My clenched fist says they better not mean that.

  Channeling Khloe Kardashian with a black beanie, gold hoop earrings, skinny jeans, and a stylishly baggy black tee, I looked every bit the part of a baller’s girlfriend. Except for the ring, which I turned around the moment the Encryption waved goodbye and went into the locker room. Yes, I call Duffy the Encryption because he is sending me some serious mixed messages.

  O’course I don’t say this to his face. The only noun I would ever share that with (besides “journal”) is Audri because we live for nicknames. But Audri went to Octavia’s so I haven’t told her yet.

  Why do I sound so un-jealous of Audri’s little Friday night sleepover?

  Glad you asked.

  FLASHBACK.

  Audri and I walked to school together today—alone—for like the first time in a dog’s ear. I told her that and she cracked up because apparently the expression is “dog’s year.” I think she’s wrong about that but I didn’t tell her. We were having a much needed moment and I didn’t want to knock the boat.

  Actually, at first I did want to knock the boat. I wanted to knock it hard so she would fall off the edge and land in shark-infested waters because she made me feel so seriously awk at Rosco’s. I even pretty much told her that.

  So, was it embarrassing? (Me.)

  Was what embarrassing?

  Making out in public like that? (Me.)

  No. It was a total turn-on. (Audri.)

  I stopped walking.

  What? (Audri, confused.)

  Sorry. My internal organs seized. I’ll be okay in about an hour.

  Seriously, Sher? (She grabbed my wrist and began pulling me down the block. I resisted. She let go. Her celery-stick body was no match for the pear.) If you act like a prude every time I tell you something like this I’m not going to be honest with you anymore.

  I’m not a prude, Audri. I just know you and you’re not like this.

  Like what?

  All… (I wiggled my Rubenesque hips and made a show of feeling myself up.)

  How do you know what I am? (Audri.)
/>
  Really?

  You know who I was, but I’ve changed. (Audri.)

  Oh, you’ve definitely changed. And you know what? I’m fine with it. I’m happy you’re making new friends, and that you have a sugar glider, and the lead in Wicked. So stop acting like an archetype and get real.

  I’m not acting like an archetype.

  Are too.

  Are not.

  Are. End scene.

  Puh-lease. Audri cleaned her glasses with her seriously tight Michael Stars tee, glared at me through clear lenses, and asked, Which archetype? Like that was even my point.

  The masquerader? The thrill seeker? The child.

  Audri’s jaw hung slack. Don’t hold back.

  Okay, the betrayer, the seducer, the—

  The seducer?

  Too far?

  I know.

  We laughed.

  I have been known to take a soapbox and run with it but I was on to something and we both knew it.

  We walked the next block in silence. Then out of nowhere, that Skippyjon Jones book Mom reads to the twins popped into my head. It’s about a Chihuahua who pretends he’s a cat. And for some reason that summed up how I was feeling. Audri is a PG-13 who’s pretending to be an R.

  Admit it, Sher. You’re still mad because I’ve branched out.

  More like sold out. (Me with a perfect comeback.)

  You sound like my therapist. (Audri.)

  Roslyn?

  No, Susan.

  (Yay. Susan is the one she likes so I continued.)

  Audri, you can have friends without acting slutty, you know. Because that’s not who you are and that’s not what Jagger likes about you. Same with Octavia only with her you’re being all Florence Nightingale even though you know she’s faking and sick people make you dizzy.

  Okay, I get it, you’re not jealous. (Audri, annoyed at my soapboxing.) You want me to be me.

  Exactly.

  So if I tell you I’m sleeping at Octavia’s tonight you won’t be mad?

  I’ll only be mad if you leave Mr. Cozy at home.

  But—

  Audri, I’ve tolerated that nubby Honey Nut Cheerios–scented blankie for nine years. If Octavia is a real friend she’ll put up with it too.

  She thought about it for a second and then said, I hear ya.

  We were running to first period when I remembered that I forgot to tell Audri about my humiliating Best Friend ring. Maybe it was for the best. I was obviously channeling someone levelheaded and mature—like Hailee Steinfeld or Ivanka Trump—and decided it would benefit our relationship if I stayed in that headspace a while longer. At least until sundown. So while Audri and Mr. Cozy went to Octavia’s, I went to the Flames/West Orange game dressed as a baller’s boo.

  END OF FLASHBACK.

  CUT TO:

  DUFFY scores another basket. SHERIDAN stands and cheers.

  If I knew I’d be doing all these squats I would have worn m’ Hard Tails. (Me to the girl beside me.)

  Ha! (Her saying “ha” instead of laughing it.) That Duffy is the real deal. This black-haired chipmunk-cheeked sophomore’s name was Ivy.

  I know all about Duffy. He’s the reason I’m here. (Me as Khloe.)

  You and every other girl. You know, except me. I’ve been hanging with #7 for three weeks.

  Ha! (Me saying “ha” instead of laughing it.) Ivy has been hanging. Get it?

  At least once a day.

  Ha.

  I wasn’t sure which “it” she was referring to so I was relieved when The Encryption scored and we could move on.

  While THE CROWD cheers, some older HUSSY (junior) runs onto the court, grabs DUFFY’s face, and kisses him, mouth closed but on the lips. She runs back to her seat all proud and leaves him standing there all stunned. Other HUSSIES hiss like the FIRST HUSSY stole their man. One even screams, “I want your wrist cuffs!”

  SHERIDAN’s bright expression is eclipsed by a dark thought. She sits. THE CAMERA ZOOMS IN as denim-encased legs surround her like prison bars. She doesn’t feel like a leading lady or even a best friend. More like an extra in a straight-to-DVD movie about a high school basketball hottie who got too big for life in a small town.

  You okay? (Ivy sits down too.) I didn’t shatter your dreams or anything, did I?

  O’course not. (Me, trying not to sound shattered while also trying not to look like someone who just found out her crush is a potential player.) Duffy invited me here. We’ve been hanging for a few weeks too. (I thumbed my ring to make sure Best Friend was still facing my palm.) Anyway, he’s not my dream. Acting is.

  I knew I liked you. (Ivy.)

  You act?

  Every chance I get. I’m saving for Coachella.

  They pay you?

  Handsomely.

  Commercials, right? (Me, trying not to seem superlatively impressed.)

  Movies.

  Impressed shape-shifted to depressed. Ivy was friendly and attractive but she didn’t have “it.” So why her? Why her and not me?

  Which movies?

  Let’s see… Last year I did Gimme Shelter, Drama Class, Bad Parents, Turnabout, Now, Forager, Leaving Circadia, and The Grand Theft. This year—

  What? How?

  Extra work, baby. Free food, a paycheck, and celebrity sightings. It’s the bomb dot com.

  Ah. (Me. Relieved.) Do you meet casting agents?

  All the time.

  Directors?

  Yep.

  Two buzzers went off—one from the scoreboard and the other in my brain. Duffy’s game was over, mine was beginning.

  Can you get me in?

  Everyone hurried to congratulate the Flames. Ivy checked her phone. I’m booked on Jersey Shore tomorrow night. You want in?

  Yes! (Me, bobble-heading.)

  Done.

  I hugged Ivy so hard she coughed. Let’s go say hi to the guys. (Her, trying to escape my appreciation.)

  I agreed because Ivy had just offered me my first professional gig and I didn’t want to take off on her. Not because I wanted to stand like a bodyguard behind the Encryption while he humbly thanked a mass of hussies for projectile-puking compliments all over him. Not because of that at all. Just so you know.

  To Be Continued…

  END SCENE.

  Friday

  Feeling = Dudes with mustaches who talk like slick movie cops are total Derps.

  That’s what I thought before I flipped back in my journal and reread the stuff Officer Boyle said to me. Turns out the guy is a prophet.

  You’re a good-looking boy, Andrew. And you’re at that age. Girls are going to be throwing themselves at you. Get used to it, son. Heck, enjoy it. There are worse problems, kid.

  Not that I’m the kind of guy who wants to reread compliments from cops. But last night was the kind of night that’ll make a guy wonder if the Force is with him.

  Feeling = The Force from Star Wars, not the police force. But thinking of the one from Star Wars made me think of the police one, which made me think of Officer Boyle, which made me look back to 10.12.12, which made me realize that there is no Force, I’m just good-looking.

  I’m not trying to sound like Mandy, who acts all surprised when Megan or Morgan tells her some dude thinks she’s hot. She’s all: Seriously? Why would he even say that? You’re so much hotter than me… Filibust… Filibust… Filibust…

  It’s just that I’m not like Bieber or anything. Not that I think Bieber is hot. All I’m saying is that girls were into me last night like I was all “swaggy.”

  Feeling = 1) Weird at first.

  I scored a lot in middle school but never had girls scream, “I love you.” I guess high school girls are different.

  2) Then it made me feel slick.

  I didn’t want Sheridan to think I was into the Screamers. Not that we’re official or anything but I did give her a ring.

  3) Then I felt guilty.

  Because the Screamers made me feel like an NBA pro and I liked it.

  4) Then I felt like
a slick NBA pro.

  After the game Sheridan asked if I wanted to walk home together. I did so I said yes. Then Hud and Coops said some guys were going to Bedrick’s house. As in, Duffy do you want to come with us to Bedrick’s house? It was the first time they asked me to do anything (other than die) since 10.8.12 and I really really want my friends back. I also heard Bedrick has an epic game room… so I said yes.

  5) Then I felt like a slick NBA pro who was also a player.

  Only instead of ditching Sheridan for another girl, I was ditching her for my guys, so it didn’t seem as bad.

  6) Then I felt better.

  Because Sheridan said her dad could pick her up so it was no big deal. She is seriously the coolest girl who is also pretty.

  7) Then I felt lucky because a girl like that likes me.

  So I asked her if she wanted to get ice cream this weekend. She said no because she got booked for a TV show. I was about to ask her which show when I noticed her Best Friend ring was turned around.

  8) Then I felt like she wasn’t into me anymore.

  That’s when I realized she wanted to walk so we could have the talk. Only I was in a decent mood for the first time in weeks and I wanted to stay that way as long as I could. Also the guys were right there. So I pretended I didn’t know she wanted to have the talk and said, “Text later?” like everything was fine. Then I left.

  9) Then I felt bad.

  10) Then I felt like Bieber again, only cool.

  I was all pumped to hang in Bedrick’s basement and play air hockey but all the guys wanted to do was talk about the Screamers. So we played press conference instead.