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This wasn’t the first time I’d appeared in our town paper. Getting into the Glendale Gazette is actually not that competitive. You can accomplish it for far less than DJing a warehouse party. I got mentioned in the paper when I won the eighth grade spelling bee, and before that in fifth grade when I was a youth volunteer on Steve’s friend’s mayoral campaign. I still had those clippings in my desk drawer, cut out for me by my father. This wasn’t the first time.
But it felt the best.
“So that’s why you wanted me to get you DJing equipment, huh?” Dad asked, not looking up from his paper. “Very clever. Now, were you pla
“I…” I rubbed my eyes. “Neither. I was pla
“Because your mother would blow a fuse if she knew her underage daughter was at a nightclub?”
“Because … It’s complicated, Dad.”
“Try me,” he said. “I’m a relatively smart guy.”
Yeah, my dad was smart. Smart enough to kill me if I told him I’d been hooking up with a guy who was three and a half years older than me. I said, “Because some people there don’t want me to play. And they have a good point.”
“The thing about being an artist,” Dad said, folding his newspaper and setting it down on the table, “is that there are always going to be people who want to stop you from doing your art. But this usually says more about them and their issues than it does about you and your art. Trust me. I’ve been a musician since I was younger than you. And if I had a pe
“So you’re saying I should sneak out of the house tonight to DJ a warehouse party?”
Dad gave a little laugh. “You wish. No, Elise, all I’m saying is: don’t let anyone else decide your life for you.” He stood up and straightened his tie. “Let’s go.”
Dad drove me to school. We met Mom in the parking lot, and then we headed to the principal’s office, united.
Of course, the principal wouldn’t see us. The principal never sees anybody; he is way too important for that. We met instead with the vice principal, Mr. Witt, most famous for his masterful handling of the Jordan DiCecca–Chuck Boening iPod Crisis. My parents showed Mr. Witt Elise Dembowski’s Super-Secret Diary and explained what was going on.
“What are you going to do about this?” my dad asked.
Mr. Witt suggested the following things:
1. Most likely, I had actually written this diary, but now that my parents had discovered it, I was just acting like I hadn’t so I wouldn’t get in trouble.
2. Even if somehow I didn’t write this blog, there was no reason to believe that the blogger was a student of Glendale High. It could have been anyone in the world! In fact, the blog might even be referring to a different Elise Dembowski!
3. Glendale High had zero tolerance for bullying, and therefore it was impossible that any one of the school’s 850 angel-faced students was the culprit.
“I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Witt,” Mom said, “but I have to disagree. I would appreciate your conducting a real investigation into this question. This is harassment. This is bullying. We need to know that the school is taking this as seriously as we are.”
“If any of our students is somehow ru
After our meeting, my parents left matters in Mr. Witt’s capable hands and headed to work. “I’ll pick you up at three to bring you to Alex’s school fair,” Mom said before she left.
I blinked. “I’m ungrounded?”
“No way, José. You are definitely still grounded. But you’re going to that fair.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because,” she said, “you told me you wanted to be a good big sister. And that’s what a good big sister does.” She gave me a quick hug. “I’m sure Mr. Witt will sort this out.”
I was sure of nothing of the sort, but I put on a smile and waved goodbye.
* * *
As I headed to lunch a couple hours later, I braced myself for more questions about Start from Chava and Sally. But what I didn’t brace myself for was the dozen other kids who showed up at our table as soon as I sat down.
Emily Wallace slid in right next to me. A few of her friends joined her. And of course wherever Emily goes, boys follow. The guy who had once offhandedly called me a “lesbo” sat down next to Chava, who looked like she was maybe going to faint. A bunch of other guys in T-shirts, sweatshirts, track pants, and other gear that proclaimed GLENDALE LACROSSE gathered around, too.
“What’s going on?” I asked, looking around the table. Looking for escape routes. Looking for a lunch monitor.
“Nothing,” replied one of the girls. “Just eating lunch with you.”
And you might think I would be happy to have the popular kids sitting with me, like: This could be it! The moment when my fortune changes! Next stop is homecoming queen, student council president, and juggling three boyfriends at once!
But that wasn’t what I wanted. It never had been. Leave those dreams to Sally and Chava. I hadn’t wanted popularity; I had only wanted friends.
“Tuna fish,” said another girl, pointing at my sandwich. “Good choice.”
“For real,” agreed another. “I wish I’d brought tuna fish today.”
I looked at Sally and Chava and raised my eyebrows as high as they would go, to say, This is weird, right? But Sally and Chava were too busy beaming at all our lunch guests, like desperate hostesses who hadn’t been quite sure that their party would ever begin.
“I wish I had tuna today, too!” was Chava’s contribution.
Conversation continued in this vein for a few more minutes before one of the less tactful guys, who clearly couldn’t handle the suspense any longer, burst out: “I saw you in the paper!”
“Me, too,” I said, eating a bite of my sandwich, which, if the girls were to be believed, was the most miraculous sandwich ever to grace the Glendale High cafeteria. I tried to ready myself for what these people, these people who did not understand, would have to say about Start.
“Did you really go to that warehouse party?” asked another guy.
“Of course she did,” said the first one. “There was a photo of her there.”
“Chava and I drove her there last night,” Sally answered proudly. “She was grounded, so she snuck out of the house. I was the getaway car.”
“That’s cool,” a girl said to Sally, in a tone like she legitimately meant it. Sally beamed. Then the girl turned to me. “So you actually DJ there?”
I tried to smile as the walls I’d built between Start and school, my real life and my dream life, came crashing down piece by piece, battered away by lacrosse sticks and mascara wands.
“I went to see her once,” Emily butted in. All eyes snapped to her. “Guys, it was so much better than a school dance.”
Everyone murmured their approval and envy of Emily’s lifestyle.
“How did you get to do that, though?” one of the guys asked me. “I mean, why you?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Luck of the draw?” But that was a lie, and I couldn’t do it; I just couldn’t leave it at that. “And I’m good at it,” I added.
Oh, you think you’re so great. You think you’re so special. You think you’re so much better than everyone else.