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Max takes my hand in his, which is when I see them—two identical gold bands. One on his hand. One on mine. The rings catch the sun; light shoots off the gold and bounces around the room.
What exactly happened last night? I am ablaze with an unsettling mix of passion and panic. I’m sweating now, which can’t possibly be appealing. What have I done? I’ve got high school graduation, a summer internship at the San Diego Arts Council, New York University in the fall, and parents who are going to freak. I’ve been MIA for the past twenty-four hours. I’m in Mexico with Max. And we’re wearing rings that look suspiciously like wedding bands. This is bad. Very, very bad.
I’ve never even been on a date.
Or had sex.
Or have I?
I rack my brain, but the things I can’t remember skirt the dark edges like storm clouds. I turn back toward Max, and for a fleeting second the dread dissipates. He looks so lovely and content as he drifts back to sleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath. It’s heart-stopping.
I turn away, and the panic sets back in, full-throttle.
I sit up, intent on hatching a plan, and that’s when I see Lily Wentworth standing in the doorway, staring at me.
s. Murphy drones on, partnering up our English class: “Brendon and Julie, Nadia and Sam, Kylie and Max…”
Wait, what? Kylie and Max? Terrible idea. I’ve managed to escape all interaction with Max Langston in six years at Freiburg, since I got here in seventh grade. We’re at opposite ends of the social spectrum, which is probably why Ms.
Murphy put us together. She’s spiteful like that.
“An assignment? No way,” Lily Wentworth blurts out. Lily has her head buried in a huge leather bag that probably cost hundreds of dollars. She never looks directly at anyone. She always looks past people, her eyes flitting around, searching for something or someone better.
“But tomorrow’s the last day of school.…” Lily whines. While I hate Lily, bitch extraordinaire, she makes an excellent point. Right now, in classrooms all over the country, teachers are handing out candy and patting self-important seniors on the back for a job well done. Not Mistress Murphy, as Will and I call her. (We’re pretty sure she works nights as a dominatrix.) She has found new and inventive ways to torture her students year after year.
“We’re not supposed to get any more homework,” Charlie Peters adds.
All bets are off. No one seems to care that they’re talking back to Mistress Murphy. Something no one would have dared last semester, when grades mattered a whole lot more.
“And that is precisely why I am giving you this assignment, Mr. Peters. I’m tired of seniors riding out spring semester like school is over. If you stop exercising your mind, it atrophies. And next thing you know, you’ll be on the street begging people like me for spare change. And I won’t give you any,” Murphy says.
Harsh.
A flicker of a smile crosses Murphy’s face, which is all sharp angles and pinched features. She’s enjoying this. She definitely dabbles in S&M. I can see her now, clad in leather, holding a studded riding crop as some poor guy pleads for mercy. There are sighs all around. But unlike everyone else in class, I don’t mind one last writing assignment. If I’m going to be an Oscar-wi
“Crap, not Kylie Flores. She’ll actually want to do it,” Max says, loud enough for everyone around him to hear, including me. What an asshole.
A bunch of people laugh. Ha-ha. So witty. He may be perfect on the outside, but inside it’s a different story. If he had a thought in his head, it would perish from loneliness. Max, as always, basks in the attention. He tips back in his chair and tosses his shaggy, sandy locks, like a preening bird.
Like everyone at Freiburg, Max is a spoiled rich kid, floating in a vapid sea of privilege, completely and blissfully ignorant of how the rest of the world lives. Everyone, that is, except for Will. Thank God for Will. God knows, I wouldn’t have survived without him.
Luckily, two more days and Freiburg Academy is in my rearview mirror. I will fly off to New York University knowing the worst is behind me and the best is yet to come. The world will embrace what Freiburg didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t—my biting sarcasm (which, unfortunately, is often on the fritz at Freiburg), my fiery temper (which I consider a sign of a passionate soul rather than a lack of self-control), and my offbeat looks (I’m half Mexican, half Jewish, which looks great on paper, less so in the harsh white light of La Jolla). I will shed this coat I’ve been forced to wear that reads Token Scholarship Student. I will reinvent myself and become someone fabulous, fascinating, and ecstatically happy. I will be unrecognizable to all who knew me, including myself. The Freiburg class of 2012 can kiss my ass. I will finally be free of the social chains that bind me.
Okay, that’s a little over the top. Not my best prose. It sounds more like a bumper sticker or a fortune cookie than actual insight. But it’s all I’ve got right now, and it paints the picture. Life at Freiburg sucks. Plain and simple.
“You will interview your partner and write a thousand-word essay about the two books that made the biggest impression on them during their years at Freiburg. The paper is due tomorrow, the last day of school. If you choose to abstain, I will fail you on the paper, which will count toward your final grade in English this semester and could impact your total GPA. Let’s see how your college of choice feels about that,” Mistress Murphy a
Surely the administration wouldn’t condone this move, but Murphy is a renegade. She’s been teaching in these hallowed halls for so long, her outrageous behavior goes unchecked at this point. While everyone else can slack off, Murphy’s threats tap right into my own particular brand of crazy. I will have to do this paper. I’m currently number one in my class with my GPA, a long-held goal of mine, but an F could throw things wildly out of whack, dropping me to number two. The top is a precarious place at a competitive private school like Freiburg, and it requires constant vigilance.
“Does Playboy count?” Luca So
Mistress Murphy sucks in her breath and glares at Luca. “Go directly to the headmaster’s office, Mr. So
Luca saunters out of class, all confidence and swagger. He couldn’t care less about the F. The rest of his life is taken care of, and he knows it. I wonder if I would be cavalier and cocky like that if my parents had more money than God? I hope not. But who knows? If I didn’t have to prove myself every damn minute, maybe I’d be dancing on a desk with a lampshade on my head. Students cheer Luca on as he exits. He lifts his fist in the air in salute. Really, people? Do we want to encourage this guy?
I’m sure Max’s favorite book is something so glaringly obvious it’ll feel like a blunt object to the back of my head. The Catcher in the Rye or, worse, The Gui