Ginger Kid

by Steve Hofstetter

  Amalia and I decided to add a gag to our script, where the announcers kept getting each other’s names wrong. At first it’d be hard to notice, but eventually, she was calling me Barbara and I was calling her Stanley. Our ad-lib got a tremendous response from the crowd and made us wish we’d have used it during every show and not just prank night. I understood then why Hope had loved her plays so much.

  My other moments in the sun came in between acts. As the crew rushed around changing the set, some of the cast from the various plays acted out short sketches, and I got to be in two of them. One was improv, showcasing one of the same “Whose Line Is It Anyway” games I’d done a hundred times. It was an incredibly short set change, so I was only able to get one joke off. But it worked, and I felt great.

  The other sketch I was in was a bit longer. The talented sophomore I was learning from wrote a Saved by the Bell parody that I happily participated in. I believe that Saved by the Bell is simultaneously one of the worst and best shows in television history, because it was such cheesy garbage, but it was so much damn fun. The sketch crushed (harder than Amalia and my name gag) and it felt good to be a part of it. Everyone cheered, especially for the sophomore who wrote it. I said it then and I will say it now: Lin-Manuel Miranda is extremely talented.

  By the end of that final night, I got to be in three scenes, and all three killed. The thing I didn’t learn about comedy until years later is that it doesn’t always work when you need it to. Sometimes you put yourself out there and fall flat on your metaphorical face. But not that night. That night, it was perfect.

  I was pretty emboldened. Not emboldened enough to ask a senior like Katie Averill out, but emboldened nevertheless.

  THE THIRD ELECTION

  I was very proud of the work I’d done as the divisional vice president of USY. I did the social stuff, like organizing a few Kinnuses. I did the administrative stuff, like organizing the meetings. And I did the community service stuff, like organizing letter writing campaigns. USY was called an organization, after all. I figured I should be organized.

  It was rare for a junior to be vice president, and kind of perfect since that meant I could easily run for president. And, just in case there was any doubt as to whether or not I could handle the increased responsibilities if I won, the president got sick.

  No, I was not involved in anything nefarious. Two months before elections, the president was hospitalized with what he later learned was Crohn’s Disease. The doctor said to eliminate all stress, so he stepped down and asked me to take over. I agreed and became acting president of the division.

  As the election approached, it looked like I would run uncontested for president. Why shouldn’t I? I was already president. I was already vice president. Hell, I did two jobs for the price of one.

  More important than that, people genuinely liked me. Well, some people did. Some people did not like me. Rachel Farb was one of those people.

  Rachel Farb was a bully from a family of bullies. I don’t know what happened in that house to make the Farb kids such jerks, but it was working extremely well.

  Rachel’s older brother, Doug, was my brother’s best friend. Doug was a little guy for his age (which still made him a big guy for my age), and he thought he was hilarious. Doug wasn’t funny at all—he was just mean. Yes, sometimes mean jokes are funny. Sometimes mean jokes are really funny. But Doug was the type of guy who would shove someone into a wall and think it was the cleverest piece of comedy ever created. That someone he shoved was usually me.

  David would discourage Doug from his barrage of sticks, stones, and names, but he never stopped him. Perhaps David was afraid of Doug, too.

  I don’t throw around the word hate without careful consideration, but I hated Doug. Whenever Doug came over to hang with David, I tried to not be there or I’d find a way to not be seen. That got a lot harder when we moved four people into a two-bedroom apartment in Forest Hills. In the hundreds of times I saw him, Doug never said a nice word to me. I don’t mean he never paid me a compliment—he never even said hello without following it with an insult. Doug is now a special education teacher—a particularly ironic profession considering how often he gleefully called me retarded.

  Doug once came into the room I shared with David, asking if I’d seen his sneakers. I said no as quietly and politely as I could, lest I disturb his thousand-year slumber. He began looking around my room and asked if I could help him. So I did. I got up and began looking around with him. It was the only time Doug and I did anything together without him mocking me or punching me. That didn’t last.

  When I got near the closet, Doug shoved me from behind. I went head first into the wall and fell in a heap of Steve. As I clutched my bloody nose, Doug laughed hysterically.

  “I know where my sneakers are! I can’t believe you fell for that, you retard!”

  That was Doug Farb. The guy that makes fun of you for trying to do him a favor.

  But the most Doug story I can tell is how he became David’s best man. David got married that year, which thrilled me. Not only is a wedding typically a happy and joyous occasion, but it meant David was moving out. I would get my own room, and David’s wedding would be the last time I ever had to see Doug Farb.

  I did not expect to be David’s best man, though I certainly would have enjoyed it. Someone’s best man is an extremely personal choice, and David had to choose between his brother and his best friend. Even at the time, I got that David was in a difficult spot and that the choice was not easy for him. Objectively, it made more sense for David to choose me. Friends come and go, and David and I weren’t inseparable, but we were certainly close enough. David and Doug drifted apart after David got married, and I’d be surprised if David has seen Doug even once in the last decade. But I get that David couldn’t have known that would happen ahead of time. Even if I did.

  When David sat me down to tell me that he’d chosen Doug, he explained that he knew I’d be okay with the choice, but that if he’d chosen me, Doug would have been angry.

  “I am okay with the choice,” I said. “Though you knowing that Doug wouldn’t be okay with it is exactly why you shouldn’t have chosen him.”

  Rachel Farb was just as bad as her brother. She never physically harmed me or threatened me, but she was as big a thorn in my side. Perhaps even bigger, because I had to work with her.

  Rachel was also on the divisional board of USY, as director of membership. She skipped half of our meetings, and she constantly mocked me and interrupted me at the ones she did attend. Also, she was horrible at her job—she didn’t run a single event targeted at driving up membership numbers. Under Rachel, the division’s membership declined for the first time in more than a decade. Perhaps we lost members because no one wanted to hang out with Rachel Farb.

  The most underhanded thing that Rachel did was not skip all her own work but take credit for mine. There was an event we’d been holding in the same location since before my siblings were in USY, so I suggested a change to keep it from going stale. That was one of the few meetings Rachel actually attended, and she fought me on the idea. Not the way Doug fought me, but she fought me.

  My idea prevailed, the change worked, and the event was a huge success. So Rachel stood in front of the group and took credit for the whole thing. My ego was bruised, but at least I didn’t end up with a bloody nose.

  When Rachel announced that she was running against me for president, that was the first time either Farb made me laugh. But since Rachel was serious, I decided to take it seriously, too.

  A third and fourth student jumped into the fray also, but those two were freshmen who hadn’t even held a position in their chapter before and were running as goofs. I didn’t pay them much attention. I figured, if anything, they and Rachel would split the wholly unqualified vote, making my election even easier. And if I didn’t have enough of an advantage, that year the elections were held at my home chapter, ensuring that I’d have maximum friend turnout.

  I wrote a speech
about my qualifications—how I’d already been president and how I knew what it took to do the job. I talked about how I’d organized events and how I’d organized meetings and how I’d organized letter-writing campaigns. And as I sat down, I smiled, because I knew I had it wrapped up.

  My smile faded quickly. Rachel started her speech by saying, “I could tell you stories about what I’ve done in my position, but I don’t have stories. I got plans, baby.”

  I wanted to yell that she couldn’t tell stories about what she’d done in her position because they’d all start and end with her skipping meetings and taking credit for other people’s ideas. But I couldn’t. It’d be pretty rude, but more so, I already knew I was in trouble. Rachel was giving her version of the classic “I promise soda machines in the cafeteria” speech. Her plans were nonsensical, poorly thought out, and impossible to execute. But no one cared.

  Rachel did the only thing a wholly unqualified candidate could—she brushed her lack of experience under the rug and lied to everyone. And, like it has a million other times in history, it worked.

  The election was set up so that if no candidate had a majority, there’d be a run-off between the top two. With four people running, I assumed that a run-off would happen. I was wrong again—Rachel won on the first ballot. I didn’t just lose—I got completely spanked. The division didn’t want to vote for someone who was organized. They wanted to vote for someone who had plans, baby.

  After the vote, I was asked if I intended to run for any other positions, as that was the option of anyone who was running for president. I declined. And I walked to the back of the room in stunned silence.

  Mason came over, grabbed me by the arm, and walked me out of the room. “You don’t need to torture yourself,” he said. “It’s over. There’s nothing you can do now.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Mason and I just walked around the block. At first, I blamed Rachel’s inane populist speech and the other students for letting it work. But as Mason and I talked it out, I realized that my original assessment was wrong. They didn’t care whether I was organized or not. They cared about me being their friend. I lost because I didn’t have as many friends as I thought I did. And Mason helped me realize that was okay.

  I had spent so long being ignored in school, that when I found USY, I wanted everyone to like me immediately. I had forgotten—or perhaps I’d never known—that friendships are forged over more than just seeing people once every few weeks. Mason wasn’t just a USY friend; he was a real-life friend. We’d hang out outside of USY, we knew each other’s families, and we talked about who we dated. Actually, we talked about who Mason was dating and who I wanted to date. The point is, we were friends.

  And no one else in that room was my friend. I thought they were, because I could hold their attention, they were happy to see me, and sometimes I could make them laugh. The lessons I should have learned from Hope and Charlotte were coming together. Making people laugh didn’t make them my friends. That made them my audience.

  I didn’t lose because of Rachel’s empty Coke-machine promises or because the members bought into them. I lost because I was so busy worrying about what people thought about me that I hadn’t taken the time to ever think about them. It wasn’t enough to get people to like me. I also had to afford them the same courtesy.

  I walked back into the room and watched the rest of the election unfold. The results were fairly predictable, just as the race for president was if I had truly thought about it. As each winner was announced, I smiled and applauded, and I meant it. And when it was all over, I walked up to Rachel.

  “I wanted to congratulate you,” I said, to her confused silence. “I’m glad you won.”

  I didn’t say that to confuse her, although it was fun to know that it had. I said it because I meant it. I wasn’t glad she won because I thought she’d make a good president; she was just as unqualified as she had been an hour earlier. I was glad because a burden was lifted off of me. Instead of spending the next year trying to impress everyone, I could spend it forging actual friendships like the one I had with Mason.

  I walked back over to where Mason was standing and found him talking to a few other people.

  “You guys want to get something to eat?” I asked. They did, and we all went to grab some food. Maybe I would become friends with some of the people in that group and maybe I wouldn’t. But I was, at the very least, going to try. And, hey, I could certainly organize a group to go get some food. Organizing was what I was best at.

  BLAZERS AND ZOMBIES

  With the stress of the election (and holding any position of responsibility in USY) gone, I focused on my creative writing and improv. I also focused on people. I had spent so much time feeling persecuted and sorry for myself that I hadn’t learned how to really make friends. I had some, but they were all people who made more of an effort than I did, and I realized that not everyone would extend themselves like that. To actually get to know people, I had to be the one reaching out.

  I started in the least likely place. I started with Katie Averill.

  Since Katie had already been saying hi to me before class, I started saying hi to her after class. And then I started sitting next to her, and working with her during group projects, and actually getting to really know her as a person.

  I knew from Amalia that Katie thought I was funny—Katie had loved our little name stunt during prank night. So one day, I gave Amalia a call. “I heard you’re going to junior prom,” I said, since I had heard Amalia was going to junior prom. It made sense that she’d be there. Amalia was a senior, but her boyfriend was a junior.

  Amalia and I talked about how she was strangely excited about it even though she’d been last year and she had her own prom coming up a few months later. Amalia was excited because this time she felt like she got to be a guest at someone else’s party. The only problem was that none of her senior friends were going.

  “Maybe one is,” I said. “I’m going to ask Katie.”

  Amalia practically burst through the phone. I was sure that part of Amalia’s excitement was having a friend that might be going to the party with her. But she also went on and on about how she had always thought that Katie and I would make such a cute couple and it was a wonderful idea and she was rooting for me and several other encouraging statements. Amalia also said that I’d better ask Katie soon, since it was going to be hard to keep that a secret.

  I called Katie right after I hung up. I didn’t have the guts to get rejected in person, but Amalia’s excitement had excited me.

  Katie and I talked about the latest assignment, a modern satire of a great work. I was planning on writing a version of “The Raven” about high school, an idea that Katie seemed to like. After all, she was writing a high-school version of Macbeth. We were in sync in many ways. And then, I just said it.

  “Do you want to go to the junior prom with me?”

  Katie said yes immediately. There was no time to blabber about how I thought it made sense for her to go because Amalia was going or to add in an as friends. Katie had said yes.

  I didn’t know what to expect from junior prom when I got there. The last school dance I’d been to was the first school dance I was able to go to. I was so excited for that one—Hunter had a few dances each year, and when the first dance came around, I put on my best ugly shirt (I wasn’t fashion forward enough to know that orange shirts are a bad idea for a redhead) and stood there awkwardly while everyone ignored me. From then on, school dances weren’t my thing.

  I had spent the previous three years at USY dances though, so I wasn’t intimidated by junior prom. I just wanted to know what I was in for. Jacob Corry’s girlfriend was a senior, so she became my Obi-Wan.

  Jacob’s girlfriend explained that junior prom was less a prom and more a fancy dance. There were no limos or corsages or tuxedos. The guys who owned suits would be wearing them, but half the students would probably be in a blazer and khakis. And it wasn’t like prom where dates showed up together.
The long-term couples did, sure, but most of the dates just met each other there.

  Armed with the knowledge of what to expect, I met Katie there. Sort of. I showed up, and she showed up, but it became pretty clear that we weren’t really there together.

  What happened between Katie’s immediate yes and her arrival to turn us so utterly platonic? Did Katie not understand I had asked her as a date? I specifically didn’t say as friends—she had to have known the difference. She was a worldly senior, after all.

  Then it hit me. Katie was a senior, and she couldn’t go to junior prom unless a junior asked her. And she wanted to go to junior prom with her best friend. It didn’t matter that Amalia thought Katie and I made a cute couple. Katie didn’t agree, and her opinion on the matter was way more influential.

  I gave my theory one final test. A slow song came on, and I approached Katie from across the room. Because that’s where she was hanging out—completely across the room.

  “Let’s dance,” I said, with the courage of a man who had nothing to lose. Not “Would you like to dance?” or “I was just thinking, maybe we should dance?” But a confident, assured, “Let’s dance.” That was the kind of thing that a boyfriend would say to a girlfriend if she was his date at the junior prom. So why couldn’t I say it to my date?

  Katie took my hand and we walked to the dance floor, and we danced. If you could call what we did dancing. We stood as far apart as we could while still technically touching and took small steps from side to side. My hands did their best to be on Katie’s hips, but her hands were not on my shoulders—her finger tips were on my shoulders. Had a casting director been there, Katie would have been given the lead in any zombie movie she wanted. What we did was as much dancing as sleeping is strenuous exercise.