by Chris Colfer
“What?” she asked.
“Your weather report?” I repeated.
She half-consciously gazed out the window for a second. “It’s cloudy,” she said, and put the earbud back into her ear.
“Great,” I said. “Thank you, Vicki.” At least it was progress.
Vicki Jordan is one of those “goth” students. Sometime during the eighth grade she ditched everything she owned that made her look alive and became the walking undead. She dyed her hair, smeared on some black lipstick, and discovered SPF 110.
Personally, I don’t buy “rebellious phases.” I think they’re just dramatic ways of saying, “I have no real problems, so I’m going to dress differently and hurt myself so people think I’m more complex than I really am.” I’m sorry; you can kiss my ass with your “inner turmoil.”
You want to be “left alone”? You don’t want to be “understood”? Then stop dressing up every day like it’s Halloween, you whiny little bitch. Get over yourself, get some Zoloft, and stop being a fucking eyesore to everyone around you.
Apparently I feel strongly about that topic. Anyway, moving on…
“Emilio, do you have a section you’d like to tackle this week?” I asked. I might as well have been talking to a picket fence.
“I love America,” he said in his thick El Salvadoran accent. I think that’s the only English sentence they taught him before he was sent to the States. At least Emilio has a real excuse for disregarding me.
Language barrier or not, that guy gets around. I’ve lost count of how many American girls I’ve caught that El Salvadoran Frenching. He’s traveled across many borders just to put his hands below other borders. I’ll stop with the metaphors; you get it.
“That’s great, Emilio, we’ll create a special patriotic section just for you,” I said, looking over my notes. “Now what about creative writing? Does anyone have any essays or short stories or—”
“I’ve written a short story for the Chronicle,” Malerie said, raising her hand.
“Let’s hear it!” I said.
Malerie nervously stood up and made eye contact with everyone before reading.
“This is written by Malerie,” she made clear, and began. “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of—’”
“Malerie,” I cut her off.
“Yes?”
“You didn’t write that.”
She looked at me very confused, as if I was telling a child she didn’t actually come from the stork.
“But it’s in my handwriting,” she said. “But if you don’t believe me…” She didn’t finish the thought and just sat back down.
If the Pillsbury Doughboy had a sister, I imagine Malerie would be her look-alike. She’s short and round and a little…different. I wouldn’t say she’s slow, I’d just say other boats make it to the island before hers. She struggles a bit with concentration, metabolism, and plagiarism…but who’s perfect?
Malerie has also carried an old camcorder around for as long as I’ve known her. She films everything. I used to find it intriguing when she first joined journalism class, sensing there might be the potential for a strong reporter in her, but now that I know creative writing is her passion it just worries me. What does she do with all that footage?
I eventually reached my favorite part of class: my assignment.
“As you may have guessed, I’ll be tackling another local issues piece this week,” I informed them. “My article last week, ‘Small-Town Sex Scandal,’ was a huge hit on the Chronicle’s Facebook page.…It was about Mr. Armbrooster, the health teacher who was fired after using Gumby and Play-Doh to teach lessons about the female reproductive system.”
Crickets. Statues in the Louvre would have been more interested. The bell rang and, like dogs at feeding time, everyone ran straight for the door.
“Don’t forget there’s a Writers’ Club meeting after school if any of you changed your minds about joining!” I called out after them. “Or changed your personalities…”
I went to the board and erased Clover High Chronicle, editor, Carson Phillips and wrote, Writers’ Club, president, Carson Phillips. There’s something about doing this that gives me satisfaction every time. Even with all the bullshit I put up with, I still take pride that these clubs are still around.
I usually spend lunch replacing old “Join the Writers’ Club” posters with new ones, as they’re pretty much always the first targeted by vandals. I find it painfully ironic that those illiterate bastards tag YOU SUCH COCK on posters trying to attract writers.
The Clover High club system is intense. There’s really nothing to do in this town, so students basically have no choice but to join after-school clubs for their own sanity.
THE CLUBS:
The Cheerleading Club: Also known as the Future Trophy Wives and Soccer Moms Club. The cheerleaders travel around campus in a vicious pack, emotionally scarring innocent bystanders they encounter. Warning: They do everything as a team, including menstruate.
The Athletes’ Club: Jock central. They don’t just play sports and measure each other’s organs; they also practice character-building exercises like “Smell My Finger.”
The Yearbook Club: Freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors alike gather here and put together pictures and memorable quotes that totally rewrite history so the lies they tell their grandchildren will appear truthful.
The Drama Club: A place where boys can freely dress up and wear makeup and girls can spend years afterward wondering why those boys never loved them.
The BSU: The Black Student Union is for our one black student. He may be alone, but the school has convinced him it’s important to represent his community. (And by having a BSU, the school gets a major tax credit! Score!)
The FBLA: Thinking about becoming a business owner or entrepreneur? Well, then don’t join the Future Business Leaders of America; that’s not what it’s for! This is a place to fight over who has the best cell phone and whose daddy makes the most money.
The Clover High Choir: It’s where all the most talented singers at Clover High go to sing backup for the choir teacher’s tone-deaf daughter.
The Debate Team: If you’re fortunate enough to have been born knowing everything, join the debate team and argue with kids just like you. You can’t correct an opinion, but these kids sure as hell will try.
The Celibacy Club: A coven of very unattractive girls who find it easier to “stay pure” and “save themselves” than admit that no one wants to sleep with them.
The FFA: The Future Farmers of America. I don’t have a joke for this one, this shit is real!
The Clover High Band: Do you like playing instruments? Then join band so you can play for an unappreciative choir singing backup for the choir teacher’s tone-deaf daughter.
Detention: I’m not sure it’s considered a club, but they have by far the most devoted members.
And of course:
The Writers’ Club: A place students can express their thoughts and creativity through the power of words. But ask anyone else and they’ll tell you it’s worse than detention and we apparently “SUCH COCK.”
I sat at a desk in the journalism classroom after school today for forty-five minutes staring at the door. I knew today would be the day; the day when someone finally saw one of my posters and would be compelled to join the Writers’ Club.
The door handle started to move and I sat up in my seat. I felt like an astronaut finally discovering life on another planet. The door swung open.
“Hi, Malerie,” I said, a little disappointed. In the three years I’ve run the club, Malerie has been the only other member. The club was even her second choice; she only joined when she got kicked out of the BSU.
“I wrote another short story for the Chronicle,” she said. “And this one I think you’re gonna like!”
“Great. Let’s hear it,” I said, bracing myself for whatever I was about to hear.
Malerie cleared her throat and began to read from her notebook. “�
��Call me Ishmael. Some years ago, never mind how precisely—’”
“Malerie,” I cut her off. “Did you actually write this?”
“No,” she said, and slumped—well, slumped more than usual. “I’m a complete disappointment.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I told her. “Writing takes time. Using your own words would help too.”
“But I can’t think of any ideas myself. I have zero imagination. All God blessed me with was this flawless complexion and really good table tennis skills.” She lowered her head and looked at me helplessly. “Carson, how do you do it?”
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. The question had caught me off guard; no one had ever asked that before. What was my process exactly? Where did it all come from?
“Don’t try to find the ideas, let the ideas find you,” I said, unsure if I even knew what I was talking about. “It’s one of the most amazing experiences, finding something to write about, or realizing something for the first time. It comes out of nowhere and just hits you. Then it’s all you can think about and it goes through your body and tries to escape and be expressed in any way possible.…It’s a lot like…like…”
“Lightning?” Malerie asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Like lightning.”
I let it sink in for both of us. Even I was surprised by my answer. It may have been the first time I’ve ever talked about writing in the Writers’ Club. Usually our meetings are spent talking about schemes to recruit new members or looking up the species of insects Malerie finds on the school bus. I’ve always spent so much time trying to inspire others to write I had forgotten what inspired me.
“Don’t worry, you’ll find something to write about someday,” I told Malerie, and she smiled at me.
Malerie has really grown on me over the years. Her wheels may not spin as fast as those of the average car, but at least she has a pulse. She may be the closest thing to a sidekick I’ll ever have.
10/4
Do you ever find yourself in those dear God in heaven how did I get here situations? The kind that make you think please kill me now death couldn’t be any worse than this type of thoughts? Me too.
Twice a week for an hour after school I have to suffer through a student council meeting. While the other members of the council have all been “elected” to their positions, being the editor of the school newspaper entitles me to join in on the discussions.
They’ve tried to get rid of me countless times, and even though I would rather be in the Gaza Strip with a target strapped to my back, I fight them every time. It’s called “freedom of the press”; look it up. Besides, if I don’t sit in on those meetings I never know what’s going on, and I’ve got to write my expository editorials on somebody.
What’s the nicest way I can describe the student council members? They’re the kind of people who come from good families, have never had to deal with any major problems, and will most likely never have to work for anything in their lives. That’s strike one against them. The fact that they’re also ornery, uppity half-wits is strike two.
One of them stuck a tampon on my back last week after the meeting. I walked around after school for hours and no one told me it was there. I’m still not certain who did it.
The student council is led by student body president Claire Mathews. She’s pretty, popular, petite, a proud cheerleader, and I suspect she also shits cupcakes.
Her parents are queen-bee-breeding machines. Every Clover High class since 2007 has had to deal with the wrath of a Mathews girl.
Claire is the youngest of five (and hopefully the last). There’s a rumor she had a younger sister, but she wasn’t born as perfect as the previous girls, so they axed her like a runt, à la Charlotte’s Web. I started this rumor.
Also on the student council is vice president and yearbook editor Remy Baker. Not that I would ever admit to having an intellectual equal at school, but Remy is probably the person closest to it. She’s smart, ambitious, and driven (sound familiar?). The difference is, Remy drank the high school Kool-Aid. So naturally, we clash like two horny goats fighting over a mate.
She uses her power for evil. Sophomore year, Remy “forgot” to put me in the yearbook. How the hell does someone “forget” to put a student in the yearbook?! She was just mad because my History Day project beat hers.
Physically, Remy stopped growing around the fourth grade. I’m not saying she’s a hobbit—I’m above name-calling. I’m just saying if someone was missing in Middle Earth she’d fit the description.
Justin Walker is the sports commissioner and also the head of the Athletes’ Club. He’s so dumb if you handed him a box of rocks he’d probably stick one in the ground and say he planted a mountain. His older brother Colin Walker, who graduated when we were freshmen, is now the football coach, and Justin sort of lives in his shadow…if he’s not chasing it.
I should also mention that Claire and Justin are dating. Yup, the head cheerleader and the head jock are together! Don’t freak out, I know it’s shocking! Totally not cliché at all! I’m sure it’s true love.
The other student council members are Scott Thomas, the performing arts commissioner and president of the Drama Club, and Nicholas Forbes, the Student Council treasurer and president of the FBLA.
Scott Thomas has hated me since I reviewed him in Les Misérables. I said his performance was “shallow and unrealistic,” because it was. I’m sorry, low-budget production or not, Jean Valjean would not have highlights or sneak onstage to sing the backgrounds to “I Dreamed a Dream.” It was crap and I didn’t sugarcoat the truth, so he can suck it.
Nicholas Forbes is the oldest son of the richest man in Clover. His family owns pretty much everything in town: the strip malls, the farmland, and I think a few of the citizens. His parents gave him an Escalade at his sixteenth birthday party, and although I wasn’t invited, I heard there were iPods in the gift bags.
I doubt their real last name is even Forbes. I think they had that legally changed to piss everyone off. We get it, you guys hemorrhage silver dollars.
Just to review, the student council consists of Claire Mathews (queen-bee bitch), Remy Baker (yearbook twat), Justin Walker (shit-for-brains jock), Scott Thomas (dramatic prick), and Nicholas Forbes (rich mo’fo). There may be a test and/or murder trial later and I just want you to have the facts straight.
“I have some really great news!” Claire began today’s meeting. “I’m happy to report there will be enough trucks and trailers for all the clubs to have floats at homecoming.”
They all gave theatrical sighs of relief. I twirled my finger.
I have a special notebook for student council meetings. It mostly has illustrations of various torture and execution mechanisms I daydream about experiencing rather than listening to Claire’s biweekly power trips. This week I’ve been working on a guillotine/boiling water/electric chair combo.
“As excited as we all are for homecoming, we need to choose a theme for the Sadie Hawkins dance—it’ll be here sooner than we think,” she informed us. “Any ideas?”
“Fun Under the Sun!” Remy pitched proudly.
“That screams skin cancer to me,” I said.
“It would be fun,” Remy said.
“It’s an excuse to wear flip-flops and bikinis to school,” I added.
They began shifting in their seats.
“What about One Night in Paris,” Nicholas suggested. “My family and I went over the summer and it was beautiful!”
“Ab fab idea!” Scott chirped.
“That’s great!” Remy said.
They all nodded in agreement.
“If we go all out it might run us over budget,” Claire said. “Nicholas, do you think your dad can cover it?”
“He’s never turned us down before!” Nicholas said with a sleazy smile.
I mentally vomited and then said, “One Night in Paris? Like the sex tape? Come on.”
The shit-wads all slumped in their seats. But come on, s
eriously? One Night in Paris? Were they out of their minds?
“Okay, fine, let’s go with something a little more generic like Under the Sea,” Claire added to the possibilities. “It was the theme of my parents’ school dance.”
“Well, if you aren’t going for originality,” I commented.
“We aren’t!” Remy said.
“Great,” I said. “Everyone can bring their crabs.”
The shit-wads all became incredibly irritated with me. I don’t know why they always get so bent out of shape—they’re lucky I insult their ideas before another school does.
“I hate you more than I hate the Holocaust!” Remy fired at me.
“Bite me, hobbit,” I fired back. (Guess I’m not above name-calling.)
“We don’t have to listen to him; he’s just here because he’s the editor of that stupid paper,” Remy told the others.
“Dude, why do you care?” Justin asked me. “It’s not like you go to them anyway.”
“Because they’re stupid!” I said.
“Fine, then you choose a theme, Carson!” Claire challenged me.
All the shit-wads turned and looked at me with menacing glares. Scott even snapped a formation in my direction.
“Okay,” I said, and thought about it, but not too hard, as any idea I pulled out of my ass was going to be better than their asinine recommendations. “You all like TV, right? Why not do Famous Television Couples? People could be Fred and Wilma, Mulder and Scully, or Lucy and Ricky. …”
They glanced at each other coyly. They knew my idea was the best, and it sucked for them.
“Heidi and Spencer!” Scott shouted excitedly.
“What?!” I said. “No…no, that’s not what I meant—”
“Jon and Kate!” Remy said.
“Snooki and the Situation!” Justin said, and pulled up his shirt to show off his abs.
“Are you serious?!” I said. “That’s reality television—that’s ridiculous!”
