At Face Value (6 page)

“Whatever. Couldn’t you
infer,
from that, that you are a person who kind of likes dressing up, or the idea of romance?”

I blush as soon as she says “romance.” Not so much because the word is inherently embarrassing but because I immediately connect romance with Eddie, and that whole thing is definitely blushworthy. I’m just not the crush kind of person—at least, I haven’t been. “Sure. Romance would be nice.”

“So, that’s one point for going.”

“Night of Knights is hardly romantic—I mean, you’ve got the pom-pom squad gowned like Maid Marian, the theater crew doing their Shakespearean over-the-top drama. When you combine that with the potential for indirect injury …” I trail off, distracted by the memory of Eddie bashing my
magnus nasus
and the picture in front of me (having given into my yearbook-drooling urge). I stare at two-dimensional Eddie, in lust and love.

“Can I just tell you my last reason?” Leyla asks. Her dad yells in the background for her to get off the phone. “I gotta

“Wait—just give it up—what’s the last push, your final selling point for what is sure to be a thrilling evening of high school high jinks?”

“I’ve got a big-time secret. If you come with me to Knights, I’ll tell you!” Leyla is a master of this kind of thing, garnered from her days cheerleading with the Gossips and their queen, Wendy.

“If you think I’m going to fall for some lame …”

“You know you’re a sucker for a scoop—think of this as the big headline for fall.” Then Leyla screams, “Just a second!”

“I take it that was meant for your dad … listen, I’ll think about it, okay? But I’m not making any promises.” We hang up without a formal goodbye. I tuck my legs up to my chest and close the yearbook. Even without Eddie in front of me, I can still see him. And I can still see my retro red clock, which tells me it’s late and time for bed.

In the morning, my dad brings me breakfast on a tray and leaves it outside my room. He knocks twice to let me know the food’s there. It’s not that he treats me like his little princess or anything, it’s that he owes me breakfast delivered to my door for the entire semester. This past summer, he made the colossal mistake of betting me about meaningless musical trivia. Dorky though my recall for artists, release dates, and cover versions may be, it’s still a strength, and even Dad knew it was a slight risk.

We were out at the Beach Shack (which is, oddly, a lakeside restaurant), and over the outside speakers came “Always Something There to Remind Me.”

“I love this song!” I said.

“This is way before your time,” Dad said. Mom nodded as she munched the salsa and chips. “I was in grad school when this came out.”

“You mean, when this cover version came out.”

“This is a cover?” Mom asked. Despite liking music, she has no interest in who sings what or the name of songs or even getting the lyrics right.

“This is Naked Eyes,” I said, pressing my point.

“Right. The original artist,” Dad said. “I remember because it was all New Wave and one of the teaching assistants thought it was drivel and I agreed.”

“Well, you don’t have to like it, but you have to admit it’s a cover. Burt Bacharach wrote the original.” I locked eyes with him. “Not a cover.” My voice gets steely when I’m sure of something, when I’m about to engage in verbal combat.

Dad shook his head and reached for a chip, and then the waitress brought my root beer in the bottle. Trying to be casual, I put the bottle to my mouth. But because my nose sticks so far out, it’s really hard to drink like that. I usually ask for a straw or look around for a wide-mouthed cup, but I’d forgotten. Maybe Dad felt bad for me, or maybe he really didn’t know as much musical trivia as me, but he flagged down the waitress, got a straw, and handed it to me. Then he said, “I bet you’re wrong.”

“I’ll bet you,” I said. I didn’t mention I’d just, coincidentally, put the original song on a summer mix for Leyla. “But don’t bet big, Dad, because you’ll surely lose.” I tried not to insult him—or at least I didn’t want to, but the words slipped out. “I mean, you may be a lot of things, but a musical maven isn’t one of them. You’re too old to play this game.” Once that last sentence came out, prickles of regret started piercing by neck. “I mean …”

“I admire your confidence, Cyrie,” Dad said, at least feigning immunity to my words. He rolled his shirtsleeves up. “But you’re in for a solid month of dishes.”

“Raise the stakes—live big, Dad.” The regret eased as he challenged me. My voice went right back to combat zone. “How about a whole fall of dishes?”

Mom clapped her hands. “Oh—that sounds good. Do that, Dan.”

My father nodded. “And on the slim chance I’m incorrect? What do I have to do?”

I thought about it. I thought about what wouldn’t be so bad that I’d feel guilty, and what would make my senior fall feel special. “Breakfast at Any Time Now, every day,” I said, knowing he’d never go for it.

“I’m not spending your future college tuition on muffins,” Dad said. “How about breakfast brought right to your door—it’ll give you extra time to sleep or primp or whatever you do in the mornings.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

We finished our dinner, and I went home to show him just how correct I was. And since the Tuesday after Labor Day, it’s been a steady tray of eggs, waffles, bagels, cereal and bananas, and even my favorite, chocolate chip pancakes. I suspect that the novelty will wear off soon and by mid-fall he’ll drop a box of Rice Krispies outside my door, but I’m enjoying my winnings so far.

Today my breakfast bounty (or cornucopia) is a bowl of fruit salad with yogurt and granola. Go health!

I spoon in a mouthful and read my emails.

Hey Chief,

Just checking in to make sure you’re really really okay after my klutzy move the other day. I think my sweatshirt’s permanently stained, but I think it gives the article of clothing character—like I play rugby or something. Anyway, I have a bunch of leads for the auction, so we should probably set up a time to meet. Are you free tonight?

Rox

Even though he signs it Rox, I respond with:

Eddie
—

From a legal standpoint, you’re safe. My lawyer told me I could sue you for damages, but I won’t—I’m just that nice.

Glad to hear my injury and loss of blood has given your Weston sweatshirt its much-needed character and charm. Always glad to help.

Tonight’s fine—I’ll be working on my essays (and that lab assignment) at home after dinner, so you can come by then.

Cyrie

I press send before I can reread it too many times, checking for signs of giving away my feelings. I think it was safe enough, and hope that telling him to come over doesn’t sound too much like asking for a date. Then I remember that he was the one suggesting we get together, so I won’t worry.

It’s little things, like these emails, that make me want to tell Leyla about my old-fashioned crush on Eddie, just so I can talk to someone and get another perspective. I could tell Hanna at Any Time Now (she’s fairly removed from possible secret-spillage) or even my dad, but part of me feels like if I tell someone, all they’ll say is what I already know—that it’s just wishful thinking, and nothing more.

The first part of the day passes without much of note—except that when I have downtime in the corridors, when I’m swapping one text for another at my locker, my mind drifts to what, if anything, Leyla might be keeping from me. What could her “big secret” be, aside from making the honor roll, which (though I support her in her quest for higher brainage) I don’t think she’s pulled off quite yet. Then again, it could be something more scandalous—like the rumors her old flame Josh spread. (According to him, when Leyla was a cheerleader she was lot more interested in seeing him take off his sports uniforms than in watching the games.)

The morning comes and goes, and then it’s post-lunch, that time when a sleepy haze wafts over all of us. To make the lethargy worse, I have study hall.

Sitting next to Sarah Jensen is the only time I feel totally outpaced while studying—especially in study hall, a place that defies its name since most people feel free to do nothing. While many of them choose to pass notes, whisper, or even nod off, Sarah is efficiently completing all her homework and—from the looks of it—all her college essays.

“Early decision—Harvard,” she says to me without my even asking. We have an unspoken respect, based primarily on our GPAs and, I suspect, a little on our lack of social status. But while she is cloistered off—an academic ace but a complete loner, in Latin club and so on—I’m different. It’s like I’m in the social scene, but just on the outskirts—close enough to know exactly what’s going on, but aware that the people, parties, and hook-ups are still an arm’s length (or other body part) away. “What about you?”

“Huh?” I look at Sarah’s even hair-part and her careful printing, and I can’t imagine what she’s writing in her Harvard application unless it’s something like
Why I’m Perfect
or
It’s difficult being the top-ranked student at my school.

But, of course, I know too well that those titles leave out a certain aspect of life—like having one. My freshman and sophomore years, I swear all I did was study. I earned straight A’s and extra credit on top of those grades, thought about going out for track (I’m a decent long distance runner) but wound up choosing tennis, joined the Italian club (after Latin, romance languages come easily), and even tried my hand at studio art (I suck), and could technically list eighteen extracurriculars on my pre-college list. I was so busy I didn’t really notice my lack of friends, my utter lack of romantic potential, and the general void where a life beyond school-work would normally be.

It wasn’t until the end of sophomore year when, from my place in the bleachers at graduation, I realized I didn’t know even a fifth of the seniors. I’d never see these people again, even the ones who made fun of me in the lunchroom, and yet I felt like I missed them. I missed knowing names and faces and kidding around with people (kidding takes time, and I never had time between classes and courses and credits). Watching the other sophomores in their best-friend pairs, I had to admit I was jealous. The first step to getting a friend and a life, I figured, was scaling down my crazy activity roster.

Cutting back was easy, actually. The
Word
was by far the place I felt happiest. The stories came fluidly, I enjoyed the research, and the staff (even the jocky kids who spelled “you are” as “your” rather than “you’re,” or the semi-mean girls who were nice to me when they needed help with a lead sentence, then trashed my nose or sweater later) were all okay. I let my clubs and committees slide; this year, I even let tennis go. But I always kept the
Word,
determined to become editor.

I announced to my parents that I was drastically reducing my level of frantic.

“We’re so proud of you,” Mom said, trying to flap her arms and breathe in a pattern that was supposed to help her abdominal muscles. “Damn these things,” she added, and stopped the DVD she was mimicking. “I’m going back to old-fashioned running.”

“Careful of your knees,” Dad said to her. Then he stared at my face in careful consideration. “This is monumental, Cyrie.”

“Oh yeah?” I tapped my foot—I was glad to have a good relationship with my parents, but I couldn’t stand being a part of their weird Sunday afternoon yoga/newspapers/carrot juice recap of the week, not to mention their odd tendencies toward cardio workouts and rearranging the furniture.

“Yes,” Dad said. “It’s a big deal when you realize your limitations.”

“You have it totally wrong there, Dad. This isn’t about me not being able to keep up with all this. It’s just that …” Outside the house, a carload of Weston students (Westies, as they are sometimes known) honked, music blaring. “I’m ready for more, actually. Just not clubs and classes.” Mom stood up and stretched. “I’m going to get a social life.”

“I stand corrected,” Dad (ever the lawyer) said, feeling his weekend beard. “But it’s still a big step for you, Cyr. And I think I speak for the both of us when I say we’re happy for you, and …” (he looked at my mom) “… it’s about time!”

So when Sarah Jensen asks me where I’m applying for early decision, I can answer her without feeling bad about my strategy. Once I’d realized I was using extracurriculars and my straight As as a cover (a cover not just for my nose, but for my general shyness in the social arena), I felt even more solid about freeing myself. It’s not like I went from nothing to Prom Queen, but I now know people’s names. I’ve become part of the social fabric at Weston. And since meeting Leyla, I kind of have a best friend—or whatever the word is for a best friend who is technically in a totally different social group than you.

“I’m not applying early,” I tell Sarah Jensen. She looks like I’ve just announced I’m a slug trapped in human form.

“Why not?” She allows her pencil to stop moving across the page, and sets her pointer finger on her open textbook to mark her place while she recovers from my shocking news.

“You know, I’m just not sure I could commit completely to one school. What if there’s another one I’d rather go to? I mean, it’s not a sure thing no matter what I do, but I’d like to feel like I have choices. Come April, I just want to feel like
I
made a decision, too, you know?”

“But you’ve been planning on Columbia, talking about it forever,” Sarah says. Something in her mouth makes her look sad, like I’ve hit on something maybe she’s thought about, too.

“I know, I know. And I would probably love it there. And maybe I’ll get in—and maybe I won’t.” I look around at all the people studying, the seniors who will all be dispersed across the country at college, or taking a year off, or in Eddie’s case maybe going to Oxford. It’s hard to think beyond high school when you’re in it, but I try to explain my point of view to Sarah. “Making choices is part of what makes us different from animals, right? We not only know how to feed ourselves, but we decide what to eat and when and how much. What’s something you like?”