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After class, I walk straight to Max’s locker, where he’s standing with Lily (über-girlfriend) and Charlie Peters (sidekick). Max and Lily have been dating since the begi
Of course I’m invited to the official Freiburg Graduation Fiesta, as are all graduating seniors, but in keeping with the fascistic social code that is life at Freiburg, you only go to the Graduation Fiesta if you’re not invited to the nonofficial, thereby cool, graduation party, which is being hosted by Charlie. Hence, losers only at the Fiesta. No, thank you very much.
Will and I have decided to make our own party. A John Woo movie marathon preceded by an In-N-Out Burger run. It’s an end-of-the-year tradition for us. I get teary at the thought of it. The end of an era. I am so going to miss Will next year. Could there be another Will for me at NYU? Probably not. I don’t make friends that easily.
“Seriously, no Lady Gaga. I’m so over her. I’m all about the Gorillaz and the Dirty Projectors,” Lily insists, fiddling with her gold door-knocker earring that has no business on her moneyed, white ear. The fact that these rich kids like to slum it by dressing faux ghetto bruises me to the core. The ghetto is not particularly cool. I know. I’ve been there most of my life.
“You are just so ahead of the curve, Lil. No one can keep up,” Charlie jokes.
“I know. It’s sick. I’m, like, setting trends all over the place,” Lily says.
I’m standing right next to them, but they’ve yet to acknowledge me. So typical. I don’t want to deal with them as much as they don’t want to deal with me, but what choice do I have?
“Just make sure you get some old-school mash-up in there. Like Prince and Parliament,” Max adds.
“Prince? Seriously?” Lily whines. “Maxie, c’mon, your music taste reminds me of my dad.”
“We can’t all be as hip as you,” Max says with a smile, though I think I sense a hint of a
“No, baby, we can’t,” Lily snaps back, with bite. And then she takes Max’s face in her hands and kisses him, long and hard. Charlie just stands by, the lonely job of the loyal third wheel. I guess this is part of Max and Lily’s very public game of romance. I have to look away. I’m afraid I might gag.
I clear my throat. I need to say my piece and get the hell out of here.
Max, Charlie, and Lily turn to me, bemused.
“Let me guess: you want to talk about Murphy’s assignment,” Max says, laughing in my face.
“Uh, yeah. I do,” I say, holding my ground.
“Dude, you called it,” Max tells Charlie.
“Give it up, Kylie. Grades don’t matter anymore,” Charlie tells me.
“They do to me. I don’t want an F in English. I’m doing the assignment, and since it requires a partner,” I say, turning to Max, “you’re going to have to do it with me.”
What I don’t say is that because I’m not sporty or arty or a theater geek, the one thing that distinguishes me at Freiburg is my valedictorian position, and I’m not about to lose it. I happen to know that Sheldon Roth is a mere .02 points behind me, nipping at my heels, and Patrick Bains is on Sheldon, and Lily is right behind Patrick. (As much as I’d like to write her off as an idiot, I can’t. She hit the jackpot: rich, beautiful, and smart.) My name may be printed on the graduation ceremony program as valedictorian speaker, but the numbers can change at any time. With one bad paper in English, Sheldon could pull ahead. This is a war and I intend to win it.
“You’re kidding, right?” Max says. “Murphy can go to hell.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve got an academic scholarship to NYU and I really need to keep my grades up.…” I wish I didn’t feel the need to apologize. I wish I could drum up a genius comeback that would shut them up. Tragically, I’ve got nothing. My wit goes into hiding with these people. It’s not like I care about their approval; it’s more like we’re different species and I’m not sure how to communicate with them. Popular people are from Mars. The rest of us are from a distant galaxy that no one has ever heard of.
The great irony here is that I can write a brilliant character. I just can’t play one in real life. In the world of my screenplay, the one that earned me a full scholarship to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, I created the most kick-ass female protagonist ever, one who nails the perfect line every time. One who never finds herself in situations like this, flush with humiliation, begging Max Langston to find a shred of decency somewhere inside the cavernous, empty space that is his soul. You’d think I would have picked up a few tips from her. Sadly, that’s not the case.
Lily rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. You are such a geek, Kylie. Just blow it off. One stupid paper from Murphy doesn’t matter in the scheme of things. She’s just trying to freak us out because she knows it’s her last chance to mess with us.”
Lily’s right. Mistress Murphy’s threat is empty and baseless. My scholarship won’t be affected; I’ll still be valedictorian. But I can’t ignore an assignment. I didn’t achieve an Ivy trifecta (Brown, U Pe
“Seriously, Kylie. No one’s doing it,” Max adds, flashing his pearly whites. I stare at the floor, afraid I’ll lose my courage if I have to look at him for a second longer. He’s too hot. It hurts the eyes.
“I have time after sixth period. We can meet then. It shouldn’t take long. I, uh…can write yours, if you want.” I am getting this done. No matter how low I have to go. And frankly, with the offer to do Max’s assignment, I’ve hit the floor. Hopefully, NYU will be more of a meritocracy. “Ten minutes. That’s all I need and I can write both papers at home tonight,” I say.
“Okay. Cool. Write my paper,” Max says.
Whatever. I’m never going to be friends with these people. I’m here to graduate first in my class and get the hell out of Dodge.
“Later,” Max says. And then he throws his arm around Lily, pulls her close, and they kiss again. This time with tongue. Thanks so much. Once just wasn’t enough.
Forty-eight hours and counting…
ylie doesn’t even see me as she rushes down the hall, staring at the ground. She’s wearing her daily uniform of gray jeans, white T-shirt, and that lame-ass ratty knit scarf her grandmother made her, like, a million years ago. Girlfriend needs a makeover. I’m so the guy for the job, if Kylie would just give fashion a chance. But all the beautiful clothes I’ve given her over the years are marooned in her closet, tags on, waiting to get off the island and back into civilization. At least she’s not wearing those Uggs anymore, which look like huge suede foot tumors, as far as I’m concerned. I tossed them in the garbage last time I was at her house. Saving Kylie from herself is a full-time occupation, let me tell you. I was born for the job. Too bad I can’t do it professionally.
“‘Hey, girl,’” I call out. “‘If you’re from Africa, why are you white?’”