Текст книги "From What I Remember"
Автор книги: Valerie Thomas
Соавторы: Stacy Kramer
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
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?’”
Kylie looks up at me. “‘Oh my God, Karen, you can’t just ask people why they’re white,’” she says.
Mean Girls. We know the script by heart. That movie and about a million others. The number of hours we’ve logged together watching films is appalling. There have been times when we’ve watched the same film four times in a row. There have been lost weekends when we’ve barely come up for air. I would say this is because we are ardent film lovers, but I know it’s more than that. Both of us, for our own reasons, would prefer to live embedded in the silver screen than in the real world of high school. At least, that’s what my therapist says. Kylie is going to be a screenwriter and I’m going to be a…who knows? I’ve got time and money, so I’m not particularly concerned, unlike Kylie.
Kylie keeps walking. I rush to catch up with her. A few stray curls poke out from her signature ponytail. Girlfriend wears her gorgeous fro so tightly slicked back it looks like a helmet. She needs to embrace those kinky Latina curls. With her bronze skin, her golden eyes, and those massively long black lashes, she could look like a movie star. Sister is hot even in an outfit that could make Marilyn Monroe look neutered. Sadly, she doesn’t have a clue. She thinks she’s ugly. It kills me.
“You’ve totally outdone yourself today,” Kylie tells me, giving my ensemble the once-over. “Are you trying to push Alvarez over the edge?”
“You know he secretly lives for it.”
I’m driving the headmaster crazy. Freiburg is a straight-ass school in a straight-ass town, and my dresses and skirts do not please Headmaster Alvarez. He talked to my parents last year, but he’s kind of given up at this point. Just like my parents.
“Hot or not?” I ask Kylie as I spin around in my vintage platform black patent heels (purchased on eBay). I am wearing lime-green skinny jeans with a gorgeously tailored Marc Jacobs black dress, borrowed, without permission, from my sister. I know. It’s so out there. I was kind of born out of the closet. Way out. Every year I’ve taken things a little further in my insatiable need to push this conservative crowd to their limit. And this year I went all out. Full-frontal fashion. I’m about to blow out of town; might as well do it in style.
I’m not an idiot; I’m aware of what people say about me. I know they think I’m a screaming queen, which, oddly enough, I’m not. I’m just a regular gay boy. I’m not insatiably drawn to women’s clothes or anything, but this is one way to distinguish myself at Freiburg. I don’t have many other marketable skills. I mean, I tried the volleyball team, at my dad’s insistence, and it was…a freaking nightmare. Large, hard balls coming at me from every direction at high velocity.
But this cross-dressing thing has been kind of a boon for me, a solid extracurricular, with all the Internet shopping, studying of fashion blogs, and even learning to sew. It’s been a good distraction and a résumé builder. People still tease me about my voice and my boy crushes, but it’s died down as I’ve amped up the fabulousity quotient. My outrageous outfits allow me to take center stage in character, which is far better than being the lone gay guy in the corner.
“Yeah. You’re rocking it. Even in this hideous fluorescent light,” Kylie says. Kylie is the one person who has always accepted me just as I am.
“I have a gift. Speaking of which, I’ve got a little something for Charlie Peters. A graduation present. I just need you to help me get him into the boys’ room.”
Kylie and I always call Charlie Peters, Charlie Peters. We could just call him Charlie, but it’s another one of those things that stitches our friendship together.
“Shut up. You are all talk. Besides, Charlie Peters is so not gay,” Kylie says. “You think everyone’s gay.”
“Most people are. They just don’t know it yet.”
“Okay. Whatever. Listen, Will, I’m kinda in a hurry. I’ve got to get to the library.”
She’s not in the mood to play.
“The library? We’re done, baby. Stick a fork in us.”
Kylie is such a grind, it worries me. Who’s going to make her kick back and watch Modern Family and Fringe at NYU? I may have to fly in from Berkeley and physically force her to chillax.
“Mistress Murphy gave us one last assignment.”
“Please tell me you’re not going to do it. It will build character not to do it. I promise.”
“I am going to do it. And I’m doing Max Langston’s as well. We’re partners.”
“Kylie, Kylie, Kylie.”
“He won’t do it if I don’t do it for him. I can’t not do it. I can’t. I’ll be better at NYU. I promise,” Kylie offers.
“Doubt it.” Maybe New York City has the answers for her. God knows San Diego only had questions.
“Yeah. You’re probably right. I need to get to the library. I’m meeting Max there.”
“Oh, we get to meet Max Langston at the library?” Mortals like us don’t normally interact with the Max Langstons of the world.
“We?” Kylie says, shooting me a warning glance.
“I’m coming with.” No better view than staring at Max from a neighboring carrel.
“Will, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Sadly, no.”
“C’mon, this is only going to make things more difficult.”
“You’ll barely notice me.”
“Impossible.” Kylie sticks her tongue out at me.
I stick my tongue out at her. It’s an interchange we have about seven hundred times a day. I love her. I would give her a lung and a leg if I had to. Hopefully, I won’t have to.
“Okay. Here’s the plan. You have sex with Max over in biographies, and then I can go down on him by the microfiche,” I suggest.
“Gross. I wouldn’t touch Max with a ten-foot pole. I have no interest in sex with Max, at all.”
“Um, hello…you have no interest in sex whatsoever. It’s a problem.”
“Not everyone thinks about sex twenty-four seven,” Kylie says.
“I beg to differ, darling. Most seventeen-year-olds are not only thinking about sex, they’re actually having it, unlike us.”
I think about sex every single minute of every day. Not that it’s getting me anywhere. Kylie and I are both virgins, but for very different reasons. It’s not normal for a seventeen-year-old girl to turn that whole part of herself off. She’s going to explode one day. I just hope I’m there to pick up the pieces.
We take a seat at a table in the library to wait for Max. I reach into my pocket, pull out a fabulous pair of long, gold chandelier earrings, and offer them up to Kylie.
“You have to wear these for graduation. You need something that’s going to stand out on the podium. These will look major with your hair all wild, and—”
“Will, you promised me you wouldn’t steal any more of your sisters’ stuff.”
“You’re the valedictorian, darling. You need some kind of something. Annie will never know they’re gone. She has gobs of them.”
“The thought is sweet, and I love you for it, but I won’t take your stolen goods. I’m sorry.”
Damn Kylie and that moral compass she wears around her neck. My sisters have so much stuff, it’s embarrassing. I’m just trying to share the wealth.
“At least let me buy you a dress for graduation.”
“Will, seriously, drop it.”
I do drop it. But I vow to pick it up again before Friday. Kylie deserves a slamming dress when she stands up there at the podium and blows us all away with her speech. Of course, no one will see it under her gown, but it’s the principle of the thing that counts.
Kylie and I are an unlikely pair. I’m one of the richest kids in a school filled with La Jolla’s most moneyed families, while Kylie is one of five scholarship students. We met on the first day of seventh grade, in the far north corner of the cafeteria, having both been pushed out of all the prime real estate. Kylie was new and I was, well, me. We ended up at the same empty table, along with Justin Wang, who just sat there, in a trance, communing with his Nintendo.
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 annoyed everyone to no end, including me.
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 cannot get away with this. I don’t care how hot or popular he is. A force beyond my control seizes me, and before I know it, I’m running toward the sports center. For anyone else it would be social suicide, but I was dead on arrival years ago. I’m working hard at controlling my anger, but it has been sorely tested at Freiburg. Just this year, I’ve had minor eruptions at least three times: when Isabel Tornet cheated off of me in AP Calculus and then tried to pin it on me when she got caught; when Oscar Mezlow taunted Will for being gay; and when I saw Jemma Pembolt teasing Anna Salington about being overweight.
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 connection happen. Talking to Harriet Zoles is like torture, or “water-boring,” as Will would say. And, unlike Franklin Peterson, I don’t build elaborate, historically accurate structures out of Legos competitively. Nor do I think Mandarin is the only way to get ahead in this “global rat race” we now live in, as Sheila Nollins insists, every chance she gets.
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.
I hear Lily and her harpies laugh hysterically.
“Kylie, what the hell are you doing?” Charlie asks. He and Max continue to whack at the ball as if I’m not there.
For the second time today, Max looks at me and rolls his eyes.
I feel naked and ridiculous standing in the middle of the court, the ball whizzing around me.
“Max and I were supposed to meet forty minutes ago,” I say, holding my ground in what is increasingly becoming one of my worst ideas ever.
“Oops, my bad. The game went long. Obviously we’re not going to do it now. So can you get off the court?” Max asks.
“No. I cannot get off the court. You are so unbelievably rude it’s mind-blowing. I mean, were you raised in a barn?” I know this is an odd comment, but, as usual, I’m not on my game with these people.
“No, Max wasn’t, but a barn is better than a trailer. Or do you people call them double-wides these days?” Charlie says.
Charlie is referring to the fact that I live in Logan Heights, not exactly the posh part of town. It’s twenty miles outside of La Jolla, but more like worlds away. My family’s shabby little rental house could be shoehorned into Charlie’s guest bathroom. I’m guessing, of course, since I’ve never seen any part of his house and never will.
Charlie’s comment sends me into the stratosphere. I go from angry to apoplectic in a split second, losing my pride, my dignity, and all sense of decorum in the process. Sure, I’ve got a temper and it flares up at inopportune times, resulting in verbal fireworks, but I’ve never gone completely postal. Until now. Maybe it’s graduation jitters or anxiety about my speech. Whatever it is, my fury has come to a rolling boil and just bubbled over onto the court. I can’t control my urge to pummel Charlie. I haul off and kick him in the shin. I swear I can hear Will gasp from outside the court. Charlie grabs his leg and yelps in pain. What a drama queen. It wasn’t that hard, was it? I am embarrassed by my slide into violence, but at least I’ve got their attention.
“What the hell?” Charlie says.
“What is your problem, Kylie?” Max adds.
“You are my problem, Max.”
A few other students have wandered over and are watching the show. I’m turning bright red. But I’m not putting my tail between my legs and backing away now. I’ve already gone too far; might as well go all the way. Right is might. I think. I hope.
“Actually, now is a perfect time for us to talk,” I say, whipping out my notebook. I poise my pen above the page. “You’re here. I’m here. What could be better?”
Max and Will gape at me like I’m some kind of creature from a horror movie.
“So, what’s your favorite book?” I ask Max.
“Kylie, let’s do this later. I’ll be done in half an hour.” He sounds almost conciliatory.
“Screw you, Max. You’re such an asshole. You’ve wasted enough of my time today. We’re doing it now.”
Jesus. Who says this kind of stuff in real life? Me, apparently. I’m not filtering. I’ve gone completely off the edge. I just wish I could have waited until after I delivered my valedictorian speech. I’m going to be standing at the podium, the laughingstock of Freiburg. Will anyone even want to listen to a speech I’ve labored over for months? Too late to worry about that now.
Max’s expression switches from placating to pissed. “You know what, Kylie, screw you. The deal is off. You’re on your own because you’re the only idiot who cares about doing the assignment. I was trying to be nice, but fuck it. And I’m in the middle of a game. So get the hell off the court.”
At this point, Max whips the ball at the wall, missing my head by only a few inches. He’s a very good player, so I have to assume that was on purpose. I’ve lost the battle and the war. I skulk off the court. I’m still livid, but my anger is now mixed with the sour taste of humiliation. I keep my head down and hurry toward the exit, ignoring the peanut gallery.
Will catches up with me outside. He loops his arm through mine. “You had me at ‘Screw you, Max.’ You were brilliant!”
I don’t say anything. I’m too busy beating myself up. Why can’t I just let go for once and kick Murphy’s stupid assignment to the curb? Will can tell I’m in the middle of round five of one of my self-boxing matches. He’s been ringside many times before.
“His ass isn’t what it used to be. Freshman year, it was tight and sweet. He’s getting soft. Doesn’t bode well for middle age,” Will says, trying to cheer me up.
“You know that’s not true.”
“I know. He’s got an amazing ass, not to mention his six-pack abs and those guns—”
“Is this supposed to help?”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“I’m getting worse. That was ridiculous.”
“They deserved it. No one else stands up to them.”
“I hate this place.”
“Me too. But you’re gonna kill at NYU.”
I love Will for trying to prop me up. But I worry I’ll be just the same at NYU, or anywhere else I go, for that matter. What if it’s not Freiburg? What if it’s me? What if I just don’t fit in anywhere, like my brother, Jake? Don’t get me wrong: Freiburg sucks and has, rightly, been an endless source of blame for most of my social shortcomings. There’s very little here for me besides Will. But I can’t help wondering if, at a certain point, it’s partly my fault.
“Yeah. Whatever…” I say to Will, my insecurity creeping across my skin like a bad rash.
“Stop it. Do not let these people make you feel less than extraordinary. You are one amazing human. Don’t forget it,” Will insists.
“I don’t know. It’s just, I can’t believe I lost it like that. It was totally mortifying.”
“It was inspiring. You’re my hero.” Will pulls me into a hug. “Wanna go to Pinkberry? My treat.”
“Can’t. Gotta watch Jake,” I say, unhitching myself from Will and heading toward the street.
“‘Loser,’” Will calls to me.
“‘Blow me.’”
“‘Call me later?’” Will finishes the line from Cruel Intentions. He waves and disappears into the quad.
I need to get home. I’m already running late. But before I get on the bus, I’ve got to pee. So I hustle my way to the arts center. Everybody has their favorite bathroom at school, and this one is mine. It hasn’t been modernized like the rest of Freiburg. It’s shabby and creaky, with deep sinks and rusty metal doors on the stalls. And no one’s ever there. It’s a great place to hide away from the world, unlike Freiburg’s other bathrooms, most of which have been commandeered by various social groups. The bathroom in the basement, beneath the cafeteria, is where all the smokers go because, not surprisingly, the smell of institutional food overwhelms the smell of smoke, and no one ever gets caught. The bathroom in the main hall, near the lockers, is controlled by Lily and company. They freeze people out with old-school mean-girl tactics—staring, giggling, and whispering—which are somehow always in vogue and ever effective. I avoid that bathroom like the plague.
I am sitting on the toilet, peeing, when I hear someone enter.
“What, Mom? This is, like, the tenth time you’ve called in the past hour.”
It’s Lily. I’m surprised to find her here.
“No. I can’t come home right now. We’re all going to Stokes’s and then out for dinner. We can talk later. Or tomorrow.”
I don’t know what to do. Lily clearly doesn’t know I’m here. But the longer I stay, the more awkward it gets. I don’t want to appear like I’m eavesdropping, but any way you slice it, it’s not going to be good when I suddenly appear. The sooner I can get out of here, the better. I have no interest in Wentworth family drama.
“What’s the big secret? Why can’t you just tell me now?” Lily barks into the phone.
I flush and exit the stall. Lily glares at me. I keep my head down and pretend I haven’t heard a thing.
“I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you back,” Lily says, hangs up, and turns her high beams on me. Ugh. I’m not in the mood. I’m worn out from my earlier outburst.
We stare at each other for a beat, neither of us pleased to see each other, both for different reasons. Underneath Lily’s fierce bluster, I sense fear and embarrassment. It’s weird. So not Lily.
“What the fuck, Kylie?” she says, as if she owns the whole damn place.
“Sorry, I…” And my voice trails off. I’m thrown by the whole strange scenario. What I should say is, “What the fuck, Lily?” I mean, she’s the one yelling at her mother in the bathroom. Not me. But as usual, I’m on the defensive.
“Were you spying on me?” Lily demands.
“Of course not. I was going to the bathroom. I was here first. You walked in on me,” I remind her.
“Why don’t you get a life instead of listening in on other people’s?” And with that, Lily turns and marches out before I can come up with a witty rejoinder.
Bitch.
Hopefully, this will be our very last exchange for the rest of our lives.
