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Neither of us spoke for about ten minutes. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I turned to Kylie and said, “‘Did you know without trigonometry there’d be no engineering?’”
Without missing a beat or even glancing up from her pizza bagel, Kylie said, “‘Without lamps, there’d be no light.’”
“No way,” I said. What were the chances the new girl could quote The Breakfast Club?
“Way,” Kylie said. And then she looked up and smiled at me. Girlfriend has an amazing smile. Her whole face lights up. “Breakfast Club is one of my favorite movies of all time.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” I concurred. And we’ve been best friends ever since.
Our family’s relationship, unfortunately, is a whole different story. Our parents have only spent one miserable evening together in the past six years, and it will never happen again. Kylie’s mother insisted on having us over. She made spaghetti with meatballs. It was, how do you say en anglais? An unmitigated disaster.
My sisters and my mother are all vegans, so they just nibbled on salad. (You’d think with all our money they’d fill up on lobster, caviar, and filet mignon, just because they can; but no, they spend their money on dried lentils and tempeh.)
Since only beer was on offer (which is to say, there was no wine served, a crime worse than murder in my parents’ opinion), only a handful of words were exchanged all evening, unless you count my incessant blathering, which filled the silence but a
At some point, toward the end of the long day’s journey into night, Jake, Kylie’s little brother (who I love more than my own siblings, and who is challenged in his own special ways), launched into a thirty-minute exposition on the San Diego bus schedules. I think it was right after that that my parents made some pathetic excuse about a previous engagement they’d forgotten. They were out of there so fast the wind shook the shelves. I stayed and played Yahtzee with Jake and Kylie, rather than head back to Cloudbank (that’s right, our house has a name).
Kylie is staring at the clock in the library, twirling her hair. She’s pissed. We’ve been waiting here for thirty minutes, and still no Max. I’m so not surprised. Kylie springs up from her seat and bolts for the door. And she’s off. Uh-oh.
Kylie’s temper is not something to mess with. She looks like she’s going to blow, in a big, operatic way. I live for these scenes. As we’re getting precariously close to graduation, this could be Kylie’s final performance. I race to catch up with her, no small task in these crazy platform shoes. I seriously need to get some sneakers.
hate when people are late. It’s at the top of the list among my many pet peeves. I am also infuriated by selfishness, narcissism, and stupidity. Hard as it is to believe, Max appears to have all of these traits in spades. He ca
I rush across the quad, pretty sure I’ll find Max on the squash court. Will weaves and bobs behind me in his ridiculous shoes. I hope at Berkeley he will feel less of a need to display his sexuality like a merit badge. I know for a fact Will loves tailored suits and his old worn-in Levi’s. Maybe someday he’ll feel comfortable enough in his skin to wear them. Or, at the very least, choose more sensible shoes.
A Frisbee slams into my head. A bunch of kids stare at me, pissed. I realize I’ve just crashed the Ultimate Frisbee championships. I apologize and veer off, out of the line of fire. I know I should appreciate the beauty all around me, but something about the blazing green lawn and the stately brick buildings, surrounded by towering palm trees, makes me want to hurl. I watch for a beat as Lauren Jacobs leaps into the air to snatch the Frisbee. She’s wearing such short shorts I can see her butt cheeks, and a pink T-shirt so tight her nipples are practically visible. Why must Lauren constantly dress like a stripper? She’s hot. I get it.
Lauren tosses the Frisbee back to Chase Palmer, whose white-blond hair glistens in the sun and whose perfect teeth sparkle like diamonds. All these happy, shiny people. I will never adjust to this world, ever.
“Hey, Kylie, wait up,” Harriet Zoles yells to me. I pretend not to hear her and pick up the pace. Harriet Zoles is one of the precious few people at Freiburg who relentlessly seek out my company. Her and a few other Crofties. Crofties are so named because they spend their time in the undercroft, an inside archway beneath the main building. Will and I tried to hang with them for a while. As it turned out, aside from being unpopular, we had very little in common with them. They’re kind of extreme geeks. I’m sure they’ll go on to create the next Facebook or Google, and I’ll be kicking myself that I didn’t cozy up to them more when I had the chance. But as much as Will and I tried, we just couldn’t make the co
No woman is an island, but together, Will and I are a very tiny atoll, floating peacefully off the Southern California coast. Sure, it can get lonely. And maybe in a different place, at a different time, we’ll visit the mainland. But for now, island living suits us just fine, thank you very much.
I yank open the door to the sports center and march down the stairs, toward the squash courts. Will takes a step, his heel gives, and he tumbles down the stairs, landing in a heap outside the court.
Lily looks down at Will and snickers. “Maybe that’s why men don’t wear heels, William.” Lily’s two BFFs, Stokely Eagleton and Jemma Pembolt, sitting at her side, giggle on cue.
If this were some kick-ass action movie, the main character—that being me—would yank up her pencil skirt and, with one long sweep of her leg, incapacitate all three of these girls with a swift kick to their heads. Then she’d straighten her skirt, freshen her lipstick, brush a little lint off her sleeve, and saunter off with a wink and a smile. But this is not a movie. This is my dismal life. And I’m no hero.
So I glare at Lily and company, and then look down at Will and ask, “You okay?” Hardly Oscar-worthy.
“Never better.”
I help Will up and onto the bench. He bites his lower lip and rubs his leg.
“You sure?” I ask again.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t stop the show on my account. You know how I live for the climactic second act break,” Will says to me.
I leave Will and march onto the squash court, where Max is in the middle of a heated match with Charlie. I know this is such a bad idea, but I’m so over it. Max Langston and his crew do whatever they want, whenever they please, to whomever they choose. Enough already.
I’m so caught up in my fight for justice, I am completely oblivious to the squash ball flying around the court until it smacks me in the butt.