Love in the Time of Cynicism (9 page)

“Never seen it,” I lie for the pure unadulterated joy of getting a rise out of him.

And he delivers. “Oh
my God
, Cordelia Kane, we are going to watch that movie together at your earliest convenience. Which I hope is Friday night, for your sake.”

I turn to him, twirl my bluish ponytail and bat my eyelashes. “Are you, like, asking me on a date?”

“Only if you’re saying yes.”

My eyes flit over him and I can tell he’s completely serious. “I’ll go on a date with you, to watch
The Breakfast Club
and be introduced to the world of having favorites if, and only if, you let me read one of your poems. Or better yet,” I giggle – a proper giggle as if I’ve transported into a three year old girl with two fistfuls of cake – and start walking backwards to gauge his reaction, “come to our bi-weekly poetry slam at Ebony’s Friday and read one for the whole crowd.”

“That sounds like a clever ploy to get more business.”

I mock-bow. “You’ve successfully unraveled the plan of the part-time barista. You in?”

We’ve reached the flagpole and he replies, “Anything to make me a part of your world.”

“This isn’t
The Little Mermaid
, Ariel.” I smirk, turn around toward the main entrance. “See you then?”

“Hopefully sooner.”

As I’m walking away from Rhett, Sky and her current boyfriend (Chad? Brad?) dash up to meet me.

“Chaz, can you go get my books for me and meet me in first period?”
Chaz
? Seriously? Sky gives him the flirtatious smile I’ve seen her give to many boyfriends before she drops them. It’s her MO; use the boy for whatever she needs, then drop him on his ass when he least expects is.
Chaz
hikes off to find her locker, leaving the two of us alone.

Without permission, Sky yanks my bag off my back and rifles through it. This is my only friend. I think that says something about me.

“What are you looking for?” I sigh, “It’s
my
backpack, I’ll help you find it.”

“Got it already.” Sky’s holding my wallet. She rifles through it, takes out five dollars, and returns the wallet back to its location inside my bag.

“You’re taking my money?” It’s less a question than a statement. This is a regular occurrence, considering I have a job and she has a shopping problem. “What do you need it for?”

“Drugs and condoms; what do you think?” She’s going to buy lunch with it, as usual. Though her mother has cared enough about her to pack her a lunch
every single day
since kindergarten, Sky still saps a few bucks from me to buy the school’s shit food. I come out on top in this arrangement because her mom’s home cooked meals go into my stomach before work.

She pulls out her brown paper bag from her designer backpack and stuffs it into my aging one. Then she grins, waggles her plucked eyebrows and says, “I see you’re still talking with Doctor Love even after the Saturday night fiasco. Must be one helluva man to make such a woman out of you, slut.”

“First: it wasn’t a
fiasco
,” I reply as we go through the over-crowded halls of Lightfoot High, passing my ‘peers’ who’ve primped to their Monday best – no joke, there are girls in skirts and heels this early in the morning and guys in dress shirts – for their own sessions of lobotomizing conservative schooling. “Second: if you ever call him ‘Doctor Love’ again, I might punch you.”

“Might?” She rolls her eyes, constantly unimpressed by my lack of violence. “I would’ve punched me for saying it the first time. How much time have you two lovebirds been spending together anyway?”

“We had breakfast this morning but other-”

“You woke up an extra hour earlier for this boy?” She’s agog. She’s aghast. “Is Cordelia in love at last?”

“We haven’t even gone on a date yet.”

We arrive outside my first period and she smiles with pride in her eyes as
Chaz
lumbers up behind her and tosses a meaty arm around her shoulder. “I strongly suspect that’s about to change, you dirty whore. I am
so
proud of you for putting yourself out there, kiddo. Thanks for the cash.”

And then I sit down in my front corner seat and wait for the bell to ring.

The day dredges past me until my fourth period Anthropology class, the only forty five minutes during the day worth paying attention to. Basically, it’s an elective where we go around and watch other people, then make up stories about them. Also it’s the only class that isn’t taught by a horrendous douchewad. Dr. Sullivan is the opposite, in fact. He’s young for a teacher, early thirties I’d guess, with short cropped hair and a hook nose. He constantly wears suspiciously patterned short sleeved dress shirts which should’ve been outlawed before the twenty first century and striped colorful socks you only notice if you’re looking. The man doesn’t own a cell phone but if you have one out in class he’ll ask you what the time is. Once he spilled glue on an old copy of
Catcher in the Rye
and made a modern art sculpture out of it, which he hung on the ceiling and it remains there to this day.

Truth be told, he’s amazing.

As a Freshman, he taught my World Literature course and scrapped the majority of the curriculum so we could argue about
1984
and
The Great Gatsby.
Sophomore year, I transferred into his debate class just to soak up his commentary on current events. He’s one of those teachers so smart and well-versed they have him teach the classes nobody else wants. Now, as a Senior, he’s my Anthro teacher and I’m loving every minute of it. I’ve been his favorite and probably most intelligent student for three years.

When he strides in with a mug of tea (three tea bags in a cup that has a compartment on the bottom to hold cookies) and sits down on his desk, I snap up from my doodling and pay attention. Before the bell rings, it’s normally the two of us, but today there’s a third party.

You guessed it.

Rhett Tressler, devilishly handsome and scribbling in his notebook, has walked in and sat down diagonal from me so it isn’t obvious he’s watching me. Somehow, the boy has ended up in my favorite class with my favorite teacher and is currently making me more nervous than ever. This class is my one escape, the place where I can feel superior to the Harvard-pledged asshats simply by being myself, and now I’m worried I’ll have to compete with Rhett. It’s irrational, I know, but I can’t help it.

Dr. Sullivan takes a big gulp of his tea, swallows, and give me a look. Then he asks, “Kane, can I see you up here before class starts?”

Rhett sends me a mocking glance and mouths
Kane?
before I stand up and meet Sullivan at his desk. He holds up an essay I wrote a few weeks back. It wasn’t for class; for three years we’ve been giving me assignments because he thinks I should pursue anthropology, which is, of course, horrible advice for a teacher to give because there are approximately zero jobs in anthropology.

Anyway, the paper was thirty pages single spaced on a lonely lady who spent my entire Saturday shift curled up in a chair with a cup of black coffee it took her the entire time to drink. She’s the first person who sat there for too long I haven’t asked to leave, until Rhett, I guess. She was – and is – the saddest person I’ve ever seen.

“What’s up, doc?” I ask, then cringe. Common, emerging theme of my existence, this regretting things right after I say them.

Sullivan laughs, luckily, and holds up the essay. “This was
amazing
, Cordelia. Honestly the best paper I’ve ever read.” The man’s been hounding me three years to get serious about writing and journalism, but I really have no idea what I want from my life yet. I’d be happy to put that off until I have to choose a major in college.

“Thanks. I worked hard on it.”

He nods seriously and tucks the paper back into his desk. “I’ll be keeping it, to show off to my teacher friends and brag. Business as usual.” Then he leans in and instructs, “I want your next project to be a collaboration, with anyone you want. And I want…shall we say
stylized reality.
The truth with a fictitious feeling to it. Got it?”

“Um…” I stammer, “Word count? Due date?”

“Decided upon by the two of you.” Sullivan runs a hand through his hair and smiles. “I do hope you’ll pick someone with more to offer than your usual Twin Rivers kids.” He nods his head at Rhett, who’s watching the two of us like it’s a tennis match. “Especially someone who’s nearly as good of a writer as you are. Got it?”

I nod, take my seat. Sullivan ushers the rest of the class in and I immediately get to work on a game plan. How am I going to go about asking for Rhett’s help? Then, more importantly, how I am going to sneak around enough to actually get something done? It’s a tricky balance to maintain, being this punished and this motivated at the same time. Three weeks minimum and, apparently, never allowed to see Rhett again. Fantastic. More lies. As much as I can’t stand Michael and Amanda and what my mother’s become, I don’t like lying to them constantly. A few here and there, fine. But this is going to become a full time job, one I’m not sure I’m completely prepared to undertake. And especially not for someone I barely know.

The day passes as a Monday generally does.

Painfully slowly.

I fail a science test and ace a math test. The halls are too crowded and people make out in inappropriate places. The gym teacher tells us not to be such ninnies because
come on, girls, it isn’t that cold in the pool
as she zips up her sweatshirt.

The day goes on and on until I’m sitting in seventh period lunch with the usual crowd. By crowd, of course, I mean Sky’s friends who I don’t like and her rotating cast of boys who dote on her. It’s a table where between eight and eleven of the twelve chairs are invariably filled every day, the only room being the seat next to mine where I keep my backpack because, frankly, if any of Sky’s friends (male or otherwise) tries to speak to me, I feel like socking them in the jaw. Normally, I’m lucky to get a word in edgewise with my best friend.

Today, though, the pressure’s on.

Because of Rhett.

He’s taken one more stab at shaking up my every day routine by plunking himself on my backpack’s seat and getting comfortable. To top it off, he’s the last one to arrive after everyone’s settles into their usual spots and Sky, center of attention she needs to be, has begun a speech on the injustices of being docked points on an essay for improper use of the word ‘literally’. (I read the essay for her; the teacher would’ve been an idiot not to take points off).

“Doctor Love,” Sky drawls out, “fabulous to make your acquaintance.” Rhett glances at me, obviously wondering who in the hell the crazy chick is, before she continues, “I’m Sky, Cordelia’s best friend extraordinaire. When you screw up, I’ll be the first person to hear about it. And I will mess you up.”

“Good to know?” He gazes over at me hesitantly because he can’t believe this pygmy pageant girl is my best friend. I laugh. “Should I, like, get your blessing?”

Sky quirks an eyebrow in my direction. “Does that mean my favorite prude has agreed to date you?”

“I’m not a prude just because I haven’t had sex with as many boys as you, Sky.” This is a constant argument between us.

She eyeballs
Chaz
a moment before turning back to me. “The curse of being a woman. Isn’t it grand? If you’ve done it, you’re a slut and if you haven’t, you’re a prude.”

“Way to perpetuate stereotypes with a line from
The Breakfast Club
,” Rhett says. “And by the way, yes, she has agreed to date me.”

“Conditionally,” I clarify as the rest of the group watches us intently.

But when lunch ends and the end-of-day bell rings, it’s clear the school has decided Rhett and I are an item. Because that’s when the looks start.

As I rush out of the cafeteria to catch my bus, leaving friends and slight acquaintances behind, Rhett touches my elbow (in a very appropriate and polite gesture, I might add) to get my attention. He starts chatting about how cool Dr. Sullivan is and his first day at the high school and such, but I’ve already been caught off guard by my peers.

At first, I chock it up to paranoia. When my eyes glaze over the prep-dressed students lining the hallways, it seems like they’re turning away the second my eyes would meet theirs. Then, when Rhett leans in closer, pressing a hand to my shoulder and asking if I’m okay because I look like I’m a little bit out of it, the phenomenon becomes more obvious. There’s hidden pointing and veiled glances from snooty girls as well as laughter muffled by palms from the princes of Southern douchebaggery, the gestures obviously saying
what is she doing with
him
?
Right now, though, I’d rather be on Rhett’s side than theirs, strangely enough.

“You need a ride to work?” Rhett’s voice pulls my attention back.

I smile at him, an honest smile for the first time in a while. “You have a car?” Even though the truck’s still in his driveway, leaving it behind will give me an excuse to return to his house two more times.