Limos, Lattes and My Life on the Fringe

by Nancy N. Rue

  “Go to the prom with Quinn and have that special time in what you want to wear.”

  She gave me another long look. “You don’t understand, Tyler,” she said. “You only just started gettin’ laughed at, ‘cause you got other things goin’ for you. You’re smart and you can talk like you some kinda professor — and you’re all playin’ the violin and all that.” She jabbed a ringed thumb into her chest. “I ain’t got a whole lot goin’ for me except Quinn and my dream that I’m someday gonna be a fashion designer and make all them girls look like they been shoppin’ at Walmart.” Her voice thickened. “But right now, I don’t even see how that’s gonna happen, ‘cause I can’t go to the prom without feelin’ like I don’t belong there.”

  It was probably the first time in my life that I ever just opened my mouth and let something important come out without analyzing it from six or seven different angles first.

  “You know what, Candace?” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “I am going to change that.”

  “How you gonna do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But if they want to throw the prom in my face and nominate me for queen — then they are just going to see what I can do with it.”

  A smile spread across Candace’s face like melting butter. “They sure are, cousin,” she said. “They sure are.”

  By the time I got Candace to her house and dragged myself upstairs in mine, I was exhausted. I thought at first that was the reason my bag felt so heavy when I finally made it to my window seat. Then I remembered the book I was supposed to have left on the seat of the bus. I’d gotten so wrapped up in making my vow about the prom, I’d forgotten about it.

  “The way this day is going,” I said out loud, “the police will probably come looking for it, now that I’m a known felon. Thank you again, Candace.”

  Come to think of it, she should return the book to the bus. I hardly ever rode it, and I wasn’t the one who picked the thing up in the first place.

  I couldn’t help being a little curious about it, though. Hadn’t Candace told me it said if she found it she should keep it? I had a hard time believing that, given her recent penchant for theft, but of course I had to see for myself.

  I stuck my hand in the bag — and yanked it out again. Something in there was warm. The words “hot jewelry” popped into my mind.

  Okay, I was turning into a worse drama queen than my cousin. I slid my hand back in, tentatively this time, and felt around for where the warmth was coming from. My fingers touched the leather cover, and heat shot instantly up my arm. It didn’t burn. In fact, it made me want to hold on.

  So, fingertips pressed to its warmth, I eased the book from the bag and rested it on my lap. It was the first time I really had a chance to look at it, and I was immediately fascinated. The leather cover was scarred and scuffed like it had seen some serious miles, and a long crease ran from top to bottom on the left side, probably from people folding it back like a magazine. There was even a watermark along the bottom, maybe from somebody reading it in the bathtub. Whoever had it before Candace discovered it had carved things into the cover — mostly what looked like initials, and in different styles. So it had been in the hands of several different people, then. Definitely fascinating.

  The only thing on the cover that looked like it had been there originally were two letters — RL — which were engraved into the leather. RL. Did I know any famous authors with those initials? Robert Louis Stevenson? No — the S was missing.

  You could look inside, Brain Child, I told myself. But my fingers didn’t want to leave the warmth of the cover. It was somehow soothing, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever needed soothing. I always managed to sort things through logically before I got to the I-need-a-hug stage.

  Until now.

  Now I wanted to cling to this book. And that scared me. So for no other reason than that, I shoved it under the cushion of the window seat.

  Chapter Six

  But I didn’t forget the goal I’d announced to Candace, and I spent the next several days fine-tuning it. When I typed the final version on my computer — in official-looking Georgia font — it was exactly what I’d been working toward.

  Make the Castle Heights Junior/Senior Prom accessible to everyone who wants to attend.

  My dad had taught me that it was always essential to have a firm objective for a campaign. Once you had that, you could maintain your focus. Or, as he put it, you could better “keep your eyes on the prize.” Mine was going to be seeing Candace walk into that prom on Quinn’s arm with her head held high.

  Having that as an objective also kept me from envisioning the Ruling Class being locked out due to lack of character, not to mention manners. It had to be accessible to everyone. That was a bummer, but I didn’t see any other choice.

  The next step was another thing my father always said: If people knew better, they’d do better. That meant research, and that’s where I could kick tail. Even Google feared me.

  So I spent all day Saturday sailing around on the Internet and printing out articles on financially out-of-control prom activity. I had so much information, Sunday morning I had to go down to the sunroom and use the long table to spread things out and get organized.

  The almost-all-windows room was drenched in delicious light. I hadn’t even noticed until then how much spring had crept in. The trees that canopied the backyard were covered in lacy bright-green first leaves, and the walkway that led to Mom’s koi pond was lined in daffodils a foot deep on each side. Last spring, she’d called it an embarrassment of riches.

  It was kind of inspiring, really, as I ordered my papers into neat piles. That and the fact that I basically had the house to myself. Sunny was in her room. My parents had gone to church as usual, something I’d stopped doing the second Sunday we lived in Castle Heights. It wasn’t only because at the church they chose the pastor preached the single most boring sermon I had ever heard, or that the high school class consisted of Kenny, Candace, and another boy and girl who fell just short of making out during the lesson. I’d already started getting restless with religion before we left Long Island, and a new place seemed like the logical point for pulling away from it.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God, or even that Jesus came, died, rose again, all that, so that somehow we could be sure we’d go to heaven. What I wasn’t sure of was what difference that made to me now, and the Castle Heights church didn’t show any signs of being able to help me figure that out.

  So on that second Sunday morning, I quoted my parents the only Emily Dickinson poem I could actually relate to:

  Some keep the Sabbath going to church

  I keep it staying home

  With a bobolink for a chorister

  And an orchard for a dome.

  I made the argument that I wanted to explore my spiritual growth myself, even though I wouldn’t know a bobolink if it pooped on my head. They agreed, on the condition that I would get up when they left for church and spend that hour intentionally exploring. I always got up. But I couldn’t say I did much spiritual excavation. Maybe today, doing a good deed while the daffodils bloomed in the garden — maybe that qualified.

  I was about to start a spreadsheet on my laptop — you thought you were being a wise guy, huh, Patrick? — when a slim shadow fell across the table. I hadn’t heard Sunny come in, but she was now standing over me, holding a coffee mug. The prickles of resentment stirred on my neck.

  “Morning,” she said. “You’re up early.”

  “So are you,” I said, trying not to sound like I hoped her visit to the sunroom would be short.

  It evidently wasn’t going to be, because she sank onto the flowered-cushioned loveseat and tucked her bare feet up under herself. Her white oversized sweater fell into just the right folds as she snuggled her hands around the mug. Even when she was depressed, she was poised. Although, I had to admit, her face looked a little less pinched-in today.

  “Dad and Rowena are
at church, huh?” she said.

  “Uh-huh.” I snuck my gaze over to the computer screen.

  “They invited me, but — “ She shrugged and took a sip from the mug. “Can I get you a cup?”

  I shook my head. I actually liked the stuff, especially if it was loaded with cream and sugar, but I didn’t want this to turn into a coffee klatch. I had work to do.

  “I just can’t do church right now,” she said. “When I was in the worst of the depression, I talked to the pastor at the church Will and I went to — I was seeing a therapist, but I thought I should have some spiritual guidance too, you know?”

  I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. I let my hand wander onto the keyboard.

  “I didn’t expect him to pray over me and I would be magically healed, but I also didn’t expect him to tell me I was only depressed because I had unrepented sin I needed to confess. He actually said seeing a therapist was not only a waste of time, it was unchristian. There I am, bawling my eyes out, and he’s telling me I’m just a lousy sinner and I need to fall on my face before God.”

  “So did you?” I said. I was interested in spite of myself.

  “I’d already spent so much time praying and crying I had calluses on my knees and slits for eyes. A little comfort would have been a nice touch.” She took another sip of the coffee and closed her eyes as she swallowed. “I’m sure the pastor here isn’t like that, but I’m not ready to open myself up to that possibility. I just feel so vulnerable all the time.” “Good word,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Vulnerable. It’s a good word.”

  As Sunny surveyed me over the top of her mug, her eyes filled. This was why I felt so awkward around her; everything I said made her cry. Everything anybody said made her cry.

  “That’s what I admire about you, Tyler,” she said. Her voice was fragile. “You see things so, I don’t know, objectively. You were always sort of logical as a kid — you never freaked out over things, from what I remember. I thought maybe you’d get a little more emotional when the hormones kicked in, but you’re still so analytical.” She pointed her chin toward the stacks of papers on the table. “Are you this coolheaded about everything?”

  “I try to be,” I said.

  One of the tears spilled over her lower lashes. “I would love to be more that way. Maybe then I wouldn’t get hurt and turn into a basket case.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, which turned out to be fine, because she uncurled from the loveseat and headed back into the main part of the house.

  I looked at the tidy piles on the table. Vulnerable might be a really good word, but I didn’t want to be it. It looked painful.

  Monday I had my spreadsheet ready and my facts in an outline I could speak from extemporaneously — another one of my favorite words. My next step was to make an appointment with Mr. Baumgarten, the principal, and I did that before school. His secretary gave me a pass to get out of Chemistry, which on that day’s block schedule was right after lunch.

  “Don’t plan on this taking all period,” she said when she handed it to me.

  “I don’t want it to,” I said. “I like Chemistry.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, how refreshing.” Then she gave a short laugh. “A little nutty, in my opinion, but refreshing.”

  And they wondered why so many kids thought school was a waste of time.

  I was jazzed about the way my research had turned out, but I wanted to test drive it on somebody before I presented it to Mr. Baumgarten. At lunch, I talked Valleri into joining the Fringe and me for a dry run. She didn’t look all that excited about it, but she came.

  The Fringe was there, waiting. Matthew and Deidre had gotten over me ditching them on the half day — they weren’t into grudges — and Yuri acted like he hadn’t even been there. Half the time I suspected Yuri had early Alzheimer’s.

  I got everybody around my laptop at our table in the corner of the cafeteria and brought up my spreadsheet. “This is how much the average high school student — the average kid, now — spends on the prom. Three hundred to three thousand dollars.” I shook my head. “Isn’t the word recession in anybody’s vocabulary?”

  I looked up for nods and agreeing grunts. I got a beige look from Matthew and a clueless one from Yuri. Deidre laughed out loud.

  “What?” I said.

  “How much time did you spend on this? I didn’t put this much into my English midterm.” She laughed again, from some pointy part of her I didn’t know. “I think you’ve gone OCD or something.”

  “You don’t get what I’m trying to do?” I said.

  “I get what,” Matthew said. “I just don’t get why.”

  “Because the way it is now isn’t fair.”

  “What is?” Yuri said. “If life was fair, I wouldn’t be five foot four. You don’t see me getting on the Internet to find out how to get taller.”

  “That doesn’t even make any sense,” I said.

  Deidre tapped my screen. “Neither does this. I thought we decided to let the whole prom queen thing die, not resurrect it.”

  “I changed my mind. I think it’s important.” “And I think you need medication,” Deidre said.

  I looked behind me, hoping for some support from Valleri. But she was gone.

  “Your new little friend bailed five minutes ago,” Deidre said.

  “So when’s that Andrew Jackson presentation supposed to be?” Matthew said.

  “Why don’t you find out?” I squinted at him. “I need to go get some medication.”

  I shut down my laptop and closed the cover. Matthew shrugged and propped his feet up on the table. I didn’t even look at Yuri.

  “You don’t need to get all annoyed, Tyler,” Deidre said. “Who said I was annoyed?” I said.

  Annoyed really wasn’t what I was feeling as I slid the computer into my bag and left through the back door. Once again, lonely was the word to describe it. I used to be enough company for myself. Now — not so much.

  I’d never been in Mr. Baumgarten’s office before that day, and as I sat on a black leather and chrome seat facing the matching one he lowered himself into, I realized I’d never even had a conversation with the man. A file with my name on it was on the glass coffee table between us, which meant he’d had to look me up. All I knew about him was that he ran the school without being seen that much, and now I knew that his office looked like it belonged to a corporate CEO — at least as they were portrayed in movies. There wasn’t so much as a championship trophy or a picture of a team anywhere. Nobody would know this office belonged to a high school principal; that made me think he didn’t really want to be one.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Bonning?” he said.

  He had a bemused look in his eyes. It was like we were playing grown-up or something. That was okay. He’d get it in a minute.

  I opened my computer and went over the spreadsheet. He gave me the nods and grunts I’d hoped for from the Fringe, so I went from there to my memorized outline, explaining in detail the dilemma of the less financially privileged student. When I was finished, I sat back and folded my hands and waited, the way my father had taught me. The person who is willing to stay quiet and wait usually gets what he or she wants. I’d lost many a debate at the dinner table before I learned how to do that.

  Mr. Baumgarten steepled his fingers under a chin with a cleft you could have parked a Buick in. “This is impressive, Miss Bonning. I can see why you have a four point 0.”

  I nodded my thanks. He cleared his throat. Good. He wasn’t comfortable with silence. He’d have to break it soon, like —

  “So let me ask you this.” Now.

  “What is it that you want me to do, exactly? You think I should cancel the prom?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “My goal is to make the prom accessible to everyone. As you can see, the current standard is far beyond the typical student’s reach, financially speaking, and —”

  He put up a finger and glanced through my file. “Ah,”
he said. “That’s right — you weren’t here year before last. I offered discreet assistance then for anyone who couldn’t afford to buy tickets, but …” He dropped the file on the table. “No one ever asked.”

  “Nobody’s going to ask!” I said. “How demoralizing would that be?”

  His eyebrows came together over his nose. I hadn’t noticed until then how precisely man-scaped they were. He actually had more hair in them than he did on his head, so I could see that his scalp was turning red.

  “You might want to watch your tone,” he said.

  What tone? I was confused. I thought we were having an adult discussion.

  “I’m still not clear on what it is you’re asking me to do,” he said. I expected, “So make it snappy, kid,” to be the next words out of his mouth.

  “I’d like an opportunity to present this to the juniors and seniors,” I said. “And I’d like your support in encouraging them not to turn the prom into a competition for who can spend the most money.”

  “You want to level the playing field, as it were.” He tried the amused smile again. “Are you a bit of a socialist, Miss Bonning?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m a realist. I think part of our education should be in how to spend money wisely and how to treat people decently instead of making them feel less-than because they don’t drive to school in a BMW.” I tapped the computer screen in the vicinity of the demographics I’d worked up. “This is a blue-collar town, Mr. Baumgarten. Only twenty percent of the student body comes from households that are considered upper middle class, yet the entire school is run by that minority.”

  His scalp went a deeper shade of red. “The school is run by me,” he said.

  “Then you are the one to point your students in a more democratic direction. Because right now, they’re primed to perpetuate the inequalities that currently threaten the very fabric of our society.”

  The crimson faded from his scalp, and he gave me what could only be termed a patronizing smile. As in, “That all sounds very good, but when you grow up you’ll understand.”