Get all A’s … Score 1600 on your SATs … Sign up for a hundred extracurricular activities … Get into Harvard, and you’ll be just fine … Don’t, and you’ll be dog doo.
I mean, that’s not exactly what McElroy says. He puts in a lot of blah-blah about meaningful experiences and discovering yourself and making friends that last a lifetime, but what it really boils down to is: Don’t screw up. Don’t make us look bad.
I glance over at Sari, who’s looking about as pukey as I feel.
I want to raise my hand and ask: What if we can’t do any of these things? What if we’re good at some things but not so fabulous at others? What if I have to throw up in the middle of my SATs? What if we’re just sort of … average?
Will you hunt us down and have us killed?
Immediately after orientation, we have to rush around like crazy people to sign up for classes. I’m so nuts, I have no idea what I’m doing, just that I beg for art instead of chorus and tell Madame Beauvoir that I really, really hope I get into her intermediate French class. She smiles and tells me a lot of people have said the exact same thing.
Tomorrow, we’ll get a printed schedule, telling us what classes we got. Just one class with Sari, I think. That’s all I ask. That, and no classes with the Prada Mafia.
At lunch, Sari keeps saying over and over, “I can’t do this.”
I say, “Me neither.”
After lunch, the rest of the high school starts to arrive. Suddenly, the halls are crowded, and the stairs are so full of people, it’s hard to get up and down. The sophomores, juniors, seniors have taken over. They’re all yakking and slapping hands. You try to get past them, and forget it; no way do they move for some measly freshman. They all look like they know what they’re doing, like they’ve been here before and it’s no big thing.
As Sari and I trudge upstairs for first-day assembly, I wonder if I will look like that next year.
I doubt it.
But when we finally make it into the auditorium, and the entire high school is there in one big crowd, I have to admit, I feel a little excited in a corny way. Everyone is up and walking around, finding friends to sit with or pretending to be so into reading something that they don’t care that they’re sitting alone. Sari and I find a place at the back of the auditorium. It’s Sari’s idea, and it’s smart. A lot of our classmates have sat right up front, and they look like eager-beaver losers.
From the back, we can watch as people come in. Sari keeps nudging me, saying things like, “There’s Eric, our resident pot dealer.” Or, “Oh, my God, she’s still a stick,” about Allison Bell, who was out of school last year because she was in the hospital for anorexia. Or, “Oh, gag. Daisy Fisher,” who volunteers whenever they need someone to run something. Bake sales, canned food drives, school raffles … you just know Daisy’s going to be out there going, Buy, buy, buy. It’s all for Eldridge!
Things are getting really hysterical now. Every two seconds, the gym doors swing open and there are huge cheers. The seniors have arrived, all pumped for the first day of their last year. A crowd is starting to form at the doors, mostly the elite crew—the soccer guys and their girlfriends. Every time one of them comes in, the rest of them hold out their hands, and the new arrival runs through, slapping hands like some jerk at the Super Bowl.
You just know they wouldn’t be doing it if no one were here to watch them. It’s totally about, Look how great we are, how amazing and above you. Of course, they’re completely blocking the door, so everyone else has to squeeze through the crowd and run for a seat.
They’re all whooping and cheering like fools. I say, “Would someone please hose them down?”
But Sari isn’t listening. She’s staring at the crowd, eyes shining, not wanting to miss a thing. Her mouth’s open, like she’s ready to call out to someone; she’s up on her toes, like she wants to run right over there.
I’m about to say something else when she jumps and starts craning to see into the crowd. Startled, I look where she’s looking. At first, I don’t get it. Then I see David Cole.
He’s laughing, as usual. He’s one of those people who’s always laughing—usually at someone. A billion people rush forward, all pounding his back, slapping his hand. Somehow, just by coming in, he’s made everything about him, like we’re all here to welcome him or something.
“Oh, my God, how hot is he?” Sari whispers.
I roll my eyes. “Sari, give it up.”
But she’s still staring at him. Well, she can stare all she wants, but I guess she’s not noticing that right next to David is his girlfriend, Thea Melendez. And if Sari thinks she’s messing with that, she’s dreaming.
David and Thea are the official Eldridge couple. They started going out last year when they were juniors. David was this really out-of-control guy who was always getting kicked out of class for screwing up and mouthing off. According to some people, he was on the verge of being expelled.
So, needless to say, everyone was shocked when he started dating Thea, who is Miss Perfect Popular.
Nobody thought it would last. But it has. For real. Some people just “go out.” But David and Thea are, like, in love. Whatever that means.
I can definitely see why Sari thinks David’s hot. A lot of people do. He’s got this very dark hair, and he’s lean because he’s a soccer freak. He’s sarcastic and self-confident. But Sari can forget it. Frankly she has a better chance of going out with Bailey Watts.
Now the administrators start filing onto the dais, to many hoots from the crowd. But there’s no sign of our fearless leader, Jeannie Carsalot, also known as Gee-She-Farts-a-Lot. At any other school, Jeannie Carsalot would be called a principal. Here, she calls herself director of education. Don’t ask me why.
Finally, Maisie Sheridan, the assistant director of education, gets up onstage. Crazy Maisie is, like, six feet tall and weighs absolutely nothing, so she looks like this huge, nervous noodle.
She starts banging on the microphone and asks us all to shut up. She says: “People”—I hate it when people call you “people”; it’s like they’re trying to stop themselves from calling you something else—“People, it’s time to settle down. Okay? Okay, people?”
Nobody settles down.
“People? Okay? Can we … Can we just listen up?”
Nobody listens up.
Maisie just stands there like she would like to hurl the microphone at us.
Some of the seniors start howling. Maisie gets out a few more “Okay” s and “All right” s. Then she gives up and hands us over to Jeannie Farts-a-Lot.
Jeannie Farts-a-Lot is roughly the size of a small planet. She walks right up to the microphone, grabs it, and yells, “HI!”
You swear the walls shake. Like the gym floor is just going to give way. But for some crazy reason, we all yell, “HI!” right back at her.
“I can tell we’re feeling good to be here,” says Jeannie Farts-a-Lot.
And I guess we are, because we are all cheering.
Then, before I know it, it’s 3:30 and it’s all over. My first official day of high school is over.
And I lived through it and everything.
The next day, I get my class schedule. I open it, and there it is—my life on a computer printout.
Name: Horvath, Jesse
Grade: Nine
MONDAY
8:30-9:00 Homeroom
9:10-10:00 Gym (D. Melnick)
10:15-11:00 Intermediate French (G. Balmain) [I have Madame Baimain! Argh!]
11:15-12:00 Biology (E. Feiffer)
1:15-2:30 Algebra (B. McGuiness)
2:45-3:30 20th Century European History (A. Burgess)
TUESDAY
8:30-9:00 Homeroom
9:10-10:00 Algebra (B. McGuiness)
10:15-11:00 English Literature (H. Barry)
11:15-12:00 Intermediate French (G. Balmain )
1:15-2:30 Biology (E. Feiffer)
2:45-3:30 Art (S. Rothstein)
WEDNESDAY
&n
bsp; 8:30-9:00 Homeroom
9:10-10:00 Gym (D. Melnick)
10:15-11:00 English Literature (H. Barry)
11:15-12:00 Art (S. Rothstein)
1:15-2:30 20th Century European History (A. Burgess)
2:45-3:30 Biology (E. Feiffer)
THURSDAY
8:30-9:00 Homeroom
9:10-10:00 Intermediate French (G. Balmain) [Argh, argh!]
10:15-11:00 English Literature (H. Barry)
11:15-12:00 Gym (D. Melnick)
1:15-2:30 Study Period
2:45-3:30 Algebra (B. McGuiness)
FRIDAY
8:30-9:00 Homeroom
9:10-10:00 Intermediate French (G. Balmain ) [Argh, argh, argh!]
10:15-11:00 Gym (D. Melnick)
11:15-12:00 Art (S. Rothstein)
1:15-2:30 20th Century European History (A. Burgess)
2:45-3:30 Biology (E. Feiffer)
I can’t believe this. I will never survive. Gym for first period—which only proves that Sari is right: There is no God—and when not gym, French! What kind of universe expects me to conjugate French verbs at 9:00 in the morning? And for English, I have Mr. Barry, who’s supposed to give new meaning to the word “creepazoid,” and for art, Stella Rothstein, who’s probably a big airhead who thinks everything should be “pretty.”
And the only class—the only class—I have with Sari is English.
Well, so much for awesome. This year has definitely taken a turn for the horrific.
3
—Hollow Planet: The Darkening Storm The actions of the Verduli were inexplicable. They kept their own counsel, made their own rules. There was a saying: “To have a Verdul as your ally is to have the enemy at your back.”
HALLOWEEN DANCE
Frightfully Fun! Scary Good Time! Thrills! Chills!
(But Hopefully No Spills)
“Whoa,” I say to Sari. “Thrills and chills. Is that legal?” “Look.” Sari points to a sign-up sheet. “You too can be a part of it all. ‘Boo! We need you!’ Let’s see. We have the Food Committee …”
“Gummi worms and popcorn balls.” “Music Committee.”
“Truly horrifying.”
“Decorations Committee.”
“Ooh, ooh. Black and orange twisted crepe paper and balloons.”
It’s weird what you can get used to. I’ve been a freshman for only a month, and already high school is no big deal.
On my first real day of classes, every teacher told me the same thing: that I would work harder in their class than in all my other classes.
How I’m supposed to work harder in every class than in all my other classes, I don’t know. That night, I asked my mother if it was okay if I became a janitor.
I look at the lame party sign. Frankly, the whole thing just confirms my opinion that Halloween hasn’t been any good since I stopped trick-or-treating.
I say, “Clearly, what we must do is bag the whole thing, go to my house, and rent truly disgusting videos.”
Sari says, “Definitely.”
I take a pencil out of my bag and start signing the volunteer sheets: Eugenia Flatulence. Horatio Fecalmatter. I’m trying to decide if Ana L. Retentiv is worth it when Sari says, “Look.”
I look. I don’t see.
“Thea Melendez signed up for decorations.”
I look at the sign-up sheet. There’s Thea’s name all right. But I don’t see anything amazing about it. Thea’s always doing things like that. Sometimes she even gets Lord God David Cole to help her, even though he obviously thinks stuff like that is for losers.
I glance at my watch. “Sari, we are seriously late for English.”
Sari’s still looking at the stupid sign-up sheet.
Don’t ask me why. Sometimes I can’t figure Sari out.
When classes started, I thought if I had to have Sari in just one class, I’d want it to be English, because Mr. Barry is definitely not someone you want to face alone.
I thought wrong.
Remember the raging bathroom debate on Mr. Barry? How everybody was fighting about whether Barry rules or Barry sucks? Well, I’m definitely in the Barry sucks camp.
Sari thinks he’s kind of cool.
But that’s only because Mr. Barry thinks Sari is way cool.
Every time she comes to class, he stands up and says, “Hi, Sari,” in this moronic voice. She never raises her hand, but he’s always asking her, “What do you think, Sari?” And when she says, “I have no idea,” he says, “How come? Didn’t do the reading?” And all Sari has to say is, “I did the reading,” and he lets her off the hook.
Yet another advantage of hotness.
For the record, and in case you care, Mr. Barry is not hot.
Mr. Barry is very tall and very skinny, with this goofy way of talking that makes him sound like he’s our age instead of what he is—which is decrepit. The very irritating thing about Mr. Barry is that he flirts like a madman, but he still wants you to think that he’s a Good Guy. That he’s not a Creep. And I’m sorry, but when you laugh, and touch, and give compliments the way he gives compliments (“That’s a great sweater, Sari”), I don’t care how “nice” you are; you’ve earned your place in the Creep Pantheon.
We’re reading Romeo and Juliet, which is vomitous. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner these two dippy schmoes off themselves, the better. Then we can move on to Macbeth, which at least has witches and a few decent murders.
Barry’s got us reading the whole play aloud. This, he says, gives us the opportunity to fully appreciate the greatness of the verse. This, I think, gives him a chance to goof off and not do a lot, except say, “Okay, guys, what’s Romeo feeling here?”
We’re up to the party scene where Romeo and Juliet first meet. Naturally, Mr. Barry calls on Sari to play Juliet.
Unfortunately for Sari, he asks Danny Oriel to read Romeo.
I take Hollow Planet out and slide it onto my lap, like I’m reading along. I’ve seen the movie. I know what happens. They fall in love. They get married. They die. End of story.
Here’s what I hate about Romeo and Juliet: all the secrets. Nobody says what they should when they should to the person they should say it to. Like in this scene, Romeo’s wearing a mask, so Juliet doesn’t figure out who he is until it’s too late. And Romeo doesn’t just tell Mercutio why he doesn’t want him fighting with Tybalt, never says, Wait, stop, I’m in love with his cousin. No, he lets Mercutio think he’s just a big fat wuss—which he is—and Mercutio and Tybalt end up dead. And the Nurse knows she should give a heads-up to Juliet’s mom and dad, but … she doesn’t. You know? It’s all missing letters and hidden identity and, Oh, oops, darling, I’m not really dead, I just looked that way. But, oh, dear, now you are dead.
I can’t stand that stuff.
Mr. Barry is asking Sari, “So, what do you think Juliet’s feeling at this party?”
I expect Sari to give her usual “I don’t know.” But instead, she says, “I think she’s excited.”
Sari saying the word “excited” really does something for Barry. Leaning forward, he says, “Yeah, what’s she excited about?”
“Like, maybe finally something will happen to her. Like, she’s not a little girl anymore.”
“And something does happen, right?”
Sari gives him a look like, Have you read this play? and says, “Well, yeah, she meets Romeo.”
“And falls in love.”
“Right.”
“Still think she’s a little girl?”
Sari doesn’t answer right away, so Danny jumps in: “I think if you’re just kissing with your hands, yeah, you’re still pretty immature.”
Sari snorts. “Yeah, like you would know, you mad lover, you.”
Then Barry asks us what it means that Romeo is wearing a mask, a question no one knows the answer to. We all go, “Um” for a long time, and then class is over. As we leave, Barry yells after us, “Think about it for next time—masks, mistaken identities, preconceived notions …”<
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Out in the hall, I say to Sari, “God, I can’t wait till we’re done with this play.”
Sari shrugs. “It’s a lot better than Great Expectations.” I absolutely do not agree, At least Great Expectations had the rats in the wedding cake. And Miss Havisham spontaneously combusting.
A few days later, as we’re walking to class, I ask Sari which videos she thinks we should rent on Halloween. She gives me a totally blank look.
“For our Halloween extravaganza.”
“Oh.”
“I was thinking first a classic, like Friday the 13th. Then something new. And maybe something goofy, like Scream.”
Sari frowns. “Yeah …”
She’s not really listening, I can tell. For some reason, she keeps glancing down the hall.
“It doesn’t have to be Friday the 13th. It could be—”
But then Sari interrupts. “I got to go. I’m going to be late.”
“Okay.”
I watch her run down the hall to her class. Lots of kids are going in. Then a guy who’s passing by holds the door open for Sari.
David Cole.
Sari smiles as she goes in.
David smiles back.
And then they’re both gone. For a second, I watch the space where they were. And then I realize I’m late and run to art class.
One thing that is absolutely better about high school is the art room. In junior high, all we had was this dark, dinky room in the basement. And all they gave us was a lot of old clay, dried-up paints, and brushes that were really stiff.
But over the summer, the school built this new art room on the top floor of the building. It’s enormous, with windows all around, so there’s tons of light. You can see out over the tops of the buildings, look up at the sky. The tables are high, and you sit on tall stools that let your legs swing free and feel like you’re sitting up in a tree.
I love the art room. It’s the one place in the whole school that’s quiet. The one place I feel like I can breathe.
Because I’m late, when I open the door, everyone looks up, including Stella Rothstein, who smiles. “Hi, Jess. Come on in.”
I scramble up on a stool, open up my sketch pad.
The True Meaning of Cleavage Page 3
