by Josh Farrar
They both crack up, which is generous, considering how weak the joke is.
“Friendship can walk the plank, matey!” I yell.
They know I don’t mean it.
4
Cramming
It’s still Friday, only three classes to go before the weekend. Nomura, Ira, and I get to seventh-grade study hall early so we can grab the table in the far corner of the library. It’s the farthest one from where Mr. Blossom, the librarian, sits, so you can usually talk quietly or at least pass notes without getting in trouble.
“Do they speak English?” I whisper to Nomura. I’ve got the “H” volume of Encyclopedia Britannica in front of me—all the computer stations were taken before I got here, so I’m stuck with this monstrous book, furiously flipping the pages toward the “Haiti” entry.
“Who?” Ira asks.
“Haitians,” Nomura says.
“I think they speak French,” Ira says. I can’t believe he knows more about Haiti than I do, but he won’t for long.
“That’s good,” I say. In sixth grade, we had the choice to either keep going with Spanish—everyone at St. Chris’s takes Spanish from third to fifth grade—or give French or German a try. I went for French, mostly because I’d just started listening to M83, a French band, which I admit is a lame reason to study a language.
Now I have a better one.
“Haiti was colonized by the French, but I think most of the people there speak Kreyol,” Nomura says. I have no idea what Kreyol is, or how Nomura can know such a thing, but I try to memorize the word so I can look it up later. “The educated people probably speak both.”
“So, Bijou must speak both,” I say. “I mean, she goes to St. Cat’s. That’s educated, right?”
“She’s in seventh grade,” Ira says. “Is seventh grade ‘educated’?”
“You guys are in seventh grade,” Nomura says. “Are you educated?”
Rocky Van Sant struts over to us, Trevor Zelo lazing behind him as usual. Rocky and Trevor are the most popular guys in our class. By “most popular” I don’t mean that any of us actually like them, of course; they’re rude and obnoxious, and they spend most of their lives thinking up ways to make themselves look smarter than we are. But they’re going out with Jenna Minaya and Angela Gudrun, the two best-looking and most popular seventh graders at St. Cat’s. And Angela and Jenna are so good-looking that having them as girlfriends makes Trevor and Rocky, whether popular or not in the strict definition of the term, almost godlike. They are set for life—or at least until Angela and Jenna decide to dump them—and in the meantime, the rest of us are supposed to do whatever Rocky and Trevor tell us.
“Howdy, boys,” Rocky smirks, leaning on our table. “What are we up to?” He doesn’t actually care; he’s looking for something to make fun of, which usually doesn’t take him very long.
“Working on a report,” I say, not wanting to give anything away.
“Oh yeah?” Trevor asks, pretending to be interested. “What’s it on?”
“Haiti,” I say, figuring I might as well come out with it, since Rocky’s already leaning over and peering at the encyclopedia entry.
“Mr. Miller?” Rocky asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “We had to pick a Third World country.” I hope he doesn’t ask me what the “Third World” is, because I haven’t a clue.
“What do you care about the West Indies?” Rocky says. Did I mention that Rocky’s the smart one? Trevor’s really good-looking, with sort of caramel-blond hair and green eyes, so it’s obvious why the girls like him. But Rocky, who’s on the short side and twists his black hair into greasy spikes with hair gel, isn’t handsome at all. He uses that evil brain of his to trick girls into liking him—at least, that’s the only explanation I’ve been able to come up with.
“I didn’t say the West Indies,” I say. “I said Haiti.”
Rocky chuckles. “Alex, life is a race, and you’re so far behind, you think you’re in first place.”
“Nice, dude,” Trevor says, slapping him a high five.
Nomura gives me one of his silent, Yoda-like “I’ll explain later” looks, and I make a mental note to look up “West Indies” as soon as Rocky and Trevor are out of my sight.
“Anyway, you may have heard about the earthquake in Haiti? In 2010?” I say, busting out my facts. “That’s why I chose Haiti for my report. Everybody cares about Haiti right now. How they’re recovering and everything.”
Rocky gives me a doubting look. “Nah, you’re up to something. You’re … breathing funny. But whatever. I’ll find out soon enough.”
I don’t respond. Maybe if I don’t say anything, he’ll drop it.
“So, are you guys going to Spring Fling?” Ira asks, out of nowhere.
Trevor is taken off guard. “Jenna and Angela are going,” he says. “So, yeah. Obviously.” I wonder if he realizes how that sounds: like Jenna and Angela are leading the two of them around on leashes. Is that how it is, when you get the most beautiful girl? Once you’ve got her, you have to do whatever she says, go wherever she goes? “How about you, Ira?” he asks, looking amused.
Before Ira can answer, Rocky chimes in. “You going to bring your sister again, like at Fall Ball?”
“I didn’t bring Maricel,” Ira says. “She was just there. We’re in the same grade.”
Rocky smiles and turns toward me. “I’ve got an idea, Schrader. Why don’t you bring your sister? She’s gorgeous.”
“Nice,” Trevor says. “An older woman.” They laugh and high-five again. It’s a constant thing with them.
“She wouldn’t even so much as look at you, Rocky,” I say. “Trust me on that.”
He ignores me. “Anyway, it’s too bad she’s not coming, because here’s what’s gonna happen. You guys are going to spend Spring Fling alone, just the three of you, talking about the same stuff you talk about every day at school. Only you’re going to look over to the dance floor and see me and Trev dancing with the two hottest girls at St. Cat’s.”
“That sounds so … frustrating, doesn’t it?” Trevor asks. “Watching other people have fun while you have the same conversation you’ve already had a thousand times, with the same two losers you hang out with every single day of your life?” He looks genuinely confused. “Why even bother coming at all?”
Just then, Mr. Blossom appears. Firmly placing his hands on Rocky’s shoulders, he addresses all of us. “Boys, I wish you wouldn’t make me say this every single Friday, but it’s called a silent study hall for a reason. Another word out of any of you, I’ll be seeing you in detention.”
A smattering of yes-sirs, a tucking in of chairs.
Once Mr. Blossom is safely out of range, Trevor takes a seat at the next table over, checking that Blossom’s back is turned before kicking his feet up and leaning back in his chair. Rocky follows him at first, but then turns back around.
“Here’s what makes things tricky,” he says, his voice just above a whisper. “Girls don’t like scaredy-cats. If they can tell you’re nervous—and believe me, they can tell—they won’t come near you.” He twists one of his gelled spikes, and I wonder how many times a day he has to wash that gunk off his hands. “But how can you be cool around a girl if you’ve never hung out with one who wasn’t directly related to you? It’s a genuine dilemma.”
“Thanks for that pearl of wisdom,” I say. However, probably the most irritating thing about Rocky is that he’s usually right about this stuff.
“Look on the bright side,” he says, ignoring me again. “Spring Fling’s not for another twenty-four hours. Maybe you can get some, you know, experience, between now and then.”
Trevor, still leaning back in his chair, says, “Schrader’s definitely going to need to ditch these two if he wants a girl to take him seriously, though.”
“For sure,” Rocky says. “Nomura’s … half-cool, I guess. He isn’t a total disaster. But Mr. Sci-Fi over here? Total chick repellent.”
I glance at Ira, who is looking o
ver at the wall of library books, as if scanning for a title. But I can tell he’s embarrassed. And angry, although he’s smart enough to know there’s no way he can win here.
“Oh, and just one more word of advice, Schrader,” Trevor says. “Lose the cords.” He points to my fraying pants, and I can’t help but take a foolish look at my own lap.
“Cords are not cool, little man,” Rocky says. “Not cool at all. Even the nastiest chick at St. Cat’s wouldn’t go near a guy wearing those things.”
“We’ll see, Rocky. We’ll see.”
I ignore the “little man” comment—Rocky’s two inches shorter than me, and he somehow thinks that calling me little will make it so—but I can’t help it; once he’s turned his back to us, I run my hand over my cords, wishing that I at least had something decent to wear. Knowing how to dress is way more challenging for those of us who have had no say whatsoever in what we wear five days a week, for the last eight years of our lives. But somehow Rocky and Trevor are able to figure out what’s cool and what’s not, and I’ve still got some time to do the same myself.
As for getting any “experience” in a single day, that’s not going to happen. I’ve got to concentrate on things I can control, like learning more about Haiti, learning more about Bijou, and figuring out what the heck to wear.
5
What’s Wrong with All-Boys Schools, Pt. 2
The uniform. It’s got to go.
Not only are we locked away from girls from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. every day, but we have to wear uniforms that make us look like a bunch of rich nerds. And I don’t mean we have a simple dress code. I mean the same, exact uniform, every day of the week, every week of the year: navy-blue tie with red-and-gold crest design; light-blue oxford shirt; gray pants (these can be slacks or corduroys—wahoo, a huge difference!); navy blazer; black shoes (oxfords or penny loafers—you make the call!); and dress socks, also black (black socks—hot!). If I’m feeling really crazy, I wear black athletic socks, but if wearing socks that are one millimeter thicker than dress socks makes me feel like some kind of rebel, I’m in serious trouble.
And believe me, no girl who goes to a regular school is ever going to look at a kid in a St. Chris’s uniform and say to herself, That’s the one I want—him, the one with the gold-buttoned blue blazer and the black penny loafers! Public-school girls think we’re either dorks or wealthy snobs, and believe me, I’m not rich at all. I’m on a scholarship, and my mom can still barely pay the tuition for me and my sister, Dolly, who’s a sophomore at St. Cat’s High School.
I keep telling my mom that Dolly and I would be happy to go to public school. We could all split the money, I say, and hang out on the beach in Puerto Rico for a whole year. Or buy a vintage Mustang. Or go to Foxwoods Casino and gamble on a rapper’s budget. Or buy a boat and sail to Puerto Rico.
There are a million things we could do with that money. I wish we could just spend it; it would be awesome!
Last September, the week before school started, my mom took me shopping for school clothes, ultimately buying me three pairs of pants and four shirts. Like every year since kindergarten, I was supposed to make it until summer vacation wearing the same three versions of my uniform every day. But how do you do that without totally destroying your clothes before June? It’s a major challenge.
Mom took me to H&M, which is slightly cooler than the Gap, at least. The store had blue oxford-type shirts that fit me perfectly, loads of black dress socks—supercheap—and the gray cords that I thought would be a cool change from the trousers (my mom’s word, not mine) I always wore.
The best thing about H&M is that the girls who work at the cash register are almost always really pretty. And that day was no different. We stood in one long line, waiting to be called by one of the three register girls, and they were all supercute and well dressed. One was white, one was black, and one was Asian. This is why New York City is awesome: it’s like an international convention for hot girls!
They were all way too old for me, but it was still exciting that I was about to talk to one of them. And I figured it was like practice for talking to girls my age. Why not take advantage of an opportunity, right?
So, we finally got to the front of the line, and it was like a game of roulette, trying to figure out which cute girl was going to call us up. Finally, the white girl said, “Next!” and we walked up to the register. She was a tall brunette, probably twenty-two or so, with giant blue eyes and bangs cut at a sharp diagonal. I wish my mom could have let me buy the stuff on my own, but she was the one with the debit card, so there we were, mother and son, side by side.
“You must go to Catholic school,” the brunette said as she scanned the tags.
“Kind of,” I said. “It’s Episcopal.”
“Really? You’re talking to an Episcopal schoolgirl,” she said. “I mean, I was. You know, when I was younger.”
“Really?” I asked. “So there’s life after Episcopal school? It gets better?”
“It does indeed,” she said, laughing. I could tell she thought I was funny.
I blushed even more, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t believe I was able to carry on a conversation with a girl this cute. And even make her laugh.
But before I could think of anything more to say, the girl was putting the last pair of cords into the shopping bag, and my mom said, “Now, don’t lose these, honey.”
This time, I blushed purple. I mean, don’t lose a pair of pants?! I’m in seventh grade, and she thinks I’m going to lose a pair of pants? I haven’t lost an article of clothing since I was eight. To have my mom talk to me, in public, like I was still in second grade? Humiliating.
The girl gave me a pitying smile as we left the register, but I couldn’t even wave good-bye. So much for “practice.”
Here’s another thing: I need, I desperately need, practice. Even on weekends, those amazing forty-eight-hour stretches away from St. Chris’s, I’m still at a disadvantage when it comes to girls. Why?
Because I’ve barely ever even hung out with any. Except my mom and Dolly, and they don’t count.
Girls I’m not related to, real girls, have told me I’m pretty good-looking (actually, just one girl, who lives across the street from my aunt Liz in Denver, Colorado. But one is better than none, right?). I have brown wavy hair, blue-green eyes, and no zits. I’m five feet seven inches tall, which is pretty good for seventh grade.
But Rocky is right. I don’t know how to talk to girls. In general, I consider myself a pretty good conversationalist. I might not be as well-versed in current events as some people, but I know a lot about music, baseball, and cars, and I can tell a good joke. My mom and my sister don’t care about cars, and they don’t even know the rules of baseball, although they both love music, and they laugh at more than 50 percent of my jokes. But do real girls like music? And would they find me funny? There’s only one way to see: I’ve got to find a girl to talk to.
And after eight years in boys-only purgatory, I think I might have finally found one.
6
Dolly Hits the Nail on the Head
Finally at home, I run up to Dolly’s room and turn on her laptop. She’s not exactly in love with the fact that Mom says I can use hers “within limits,” and I’m not in love with the concept of “limits,” or the fact that I live in a household that can’t afford two laptops, so we’re even. And I know I’ve got at least twenty minutes before Dolly gets back from her cello lesson, so hopefully I can learn everything I need to and get out of here before my thirst for knowledge causes a war between my sister and me.
I pull out my pen and notebook and navigate to a wiki site on Haiti. I’m taking Rocky up on his advice, although not quite in the way he intended. There’s no way I can turn myself into some kind of suave lover-man overnight, but I can become the world’s—or at least St. Chris’s—leading expert on Haiti before Spring Fling. And if that fails, at least I won’t be as dumb as Nomura thinks I am.
According to the wiki, here are the b
asics:
Haiti’s an island, or more accurately, half of an island called Hispaniola, with the Dominican Republic occupying the other half. And Hispaniola is only one of a whole mess of islands in the Caribbean, including Cuba, Puerto Rico, and all the other ones where instead of paying all this money to St. Cat’s and St. Chris’s, my mom, Dolly, and I could be partying like rock stars. I cringe as I read that these islands are called the West Indies. This means that while Haiti has nothing to do with India, Bijou is West Indian after all.
Okay, so Rocky Van Sant knows more about Bijou, or at least her culture, than I do. Maybe I am an ignoramus.
I do a quick scan of the stuff Haiti’s best known for. Physically, it’s tiny—it’s about a quarter the size of New York State—but there are nearly ten million people there, and 50 percent of them are children. It’s a very poor country, supposedly the poorest in all of the Americas, and a place where a lot of people die of diseases Americans don’t die of, like cholera and malaria. And while Christianity is practiced by over 95 percent of the population, many people still associate Haiti with the vodou religion (complete with zombies—Ira will love this!) practiced only by a few. One thing Haitians are superproud of: they kicked out the slave owners over two hundred years ago and have been independent ever since.
Suddenly the door opens. It’s Dolly, dragging her huge, clunky cello case—it’s almost as tall as she is—over the threshold of her door.
“Computer time’s over, little brother,” Dolly says, startling me so much that while I’m turning around, I swing my hand across her desk and knock over a cup filled with pencils and pens.
