Authors: Anna Davies
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To the NYC crew:
For always keeping me on the right side of sanity
I
paused for a moment outside the royal-blue doors of Bainbridge Secondary School. Around me, groups of kids were buzzing about lakeside bonfires, evenings spent driving around town, and thankless summer jobs whose only benefit came in the form of cute coworkers. Even though I’d gone to school with these kids my whole life, I hadn’t seen any of them since I’d left for the summer debate intensive at the University of New Hampshire.
But I wasn’t looking for a catch-up session. Instead, I pressed my back against the ridges of the oak tree outside the door, pretending to be supremely interested in examining my senior year schedule as Keely Young, Ingrid Abramson, and Emily Hines walked across the parking lot toward the entrance. Once my best friends, they’d pretty much ditched me midway through freshman year, when I quit the field hockey team to concentrate on my grades. Ever since, they’d made it clear through sideways glances and snide comments that I’d made the wrong decision.
Among the kids streaming into the entrance, the three of them stood out. Keely’s highlighted blond hair and glowing skin made it seem like she’d breezed in straight from a Nantucket beach. Ingrid was now sporting a tiny silver stud in her nostril, most likely obtained during her two-month-long backpacking trip through Europe. I’d read all her Tweets about it, but seeing
her in person — the way the stud glimmered in the light, the way her scarf was perfectly draped around her neck, the way her shoulders were held back in stark contrast to Keely’s signature slouch — I felt a wave of betrayal.
It should have been me.
In eighth grade, she and I would spend hours clipping articles from travel magazines and dreaming of trips we’d take when we were older. We’d even made a list of everything we’d do: getting as many piercings as possible, being driven through Paris on a Vespa, meeting a hot boy on a train (her), and being mistaken for a native Parisian and being kissed by any boy at all (me).
Jealousy knifed through my stomach. I couldn’t help but wonder what else she’d crossed off the list.
“So I think this year I’m only going to date guys from the U,” Emily said in a vapid voice that made it clear her main extracurricular of the summer was watching way too many episodes of
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
. She was wobbling on five-inch heels as if she were a baby deer nursing a shin splint. “I think that dating high school guys when you’re a senior is kinda pathetic, you know?”
“Eh, it depends on the guy. You know what I think is even more pathetic?” Keely asked in an actress-y voice that forced me to look up despite myself. We locked eyes and I immediately glanced away, but not quickly enough. Keely was about to go on the attack, and I was going to be the victim. “Girls who don’t date at all in high school. Like, they think a guy will wreck their GPA.”
Emily snorted. “Or they make up a boyfriend and put him all over Facebook. I think
that’s
even worse.”
“Seriously, I’m done with Facebook anyway.” Ingrid sniffed. “It’s so … insular. Everyone who’s anyone uses Instagram.”
“And then uploads the pictures on Facebook. Besides, I saw you just posted your new Europe album, so don’t even talk to me about quitting,” Keely said. “Although even the losers are joining,” Keely hissed as she walked by me. I lowered my head until I heard the fading echo of Emily’s heels clicking on the ground, surprised that another insult hadn’t been lobbed in my direction. Keely’s assertion wasn’t entirely correct. Because while they certainly thought I was a loser, I definitely wasn’t on Facebook. They’d made sure of that back in ninth grade.
Once they were a safe distance away, I walked through the double doors of Bainbridge Secondary School. The lobby smelled the same as it always did: a combination of Lysol, floor wax, and Axe body spray, courtesy of the freshman boys. To me the scent was as welcoming as apple pie or the perfume-filled air of a department store. It was the scent of home. The nostalgia caused my shoulders to drop and my gaze to lift. Here, I didn’t have to worry about snarky comments and former best friends.
To my left was the Bainbridge trophy case, where no fewer than ten different plaques chronicled my achievements:
HAYLEY WESTIN: OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT IN PHYSICS. HAYLEY WESTIN, SCHOLAR-ATHLETE OF THE YEAR. HAYLEY WESTIN, NATIONAL MERIT SCHOLAR
. I smiled to myself as I looked at my name etched in metal. I tried not to think about the fact that I had more awards than friends. After all, these awards had led me to my Ainsworth scholarship nomination, which was all I’d wanted since freshman year. The Ainsworth was a big deal, a scholarship for ten students nationwide that paid full college tuition and room and board, as well as a $5,000-a-year travel
stipend. I had to win it. It was the only way my mom wouldn’t have to worry, where I wouldn’t have to choose the major that promised the most money upon graduation. The Ainsworth didn’t ask that their nominees be oboe-playing phenoms or Olympians. All the Ainsworth asked for was excellence. The plaques all proclaimed that was what I had. I just hoped that the nominating committee would agree.
“So, then, we ended up having this
epic
party at this house share in Nantucket? It was, like, all these college guys?”
As I turned the corner, my reverie was ruined by the uptalky conversation between Hilary Beck and Rachel Martin. Both juniors, Rachel and Hilary always hung out at the Ugly Mug coffee shop after school. Because I’d worked there, and because their voices were so loud, I was intimately familiar with Rachel’s boy drama and Hilary’s acne problems. I shuddered. Even though I’d miss the paycheck, quitting the Ugly Mug to focus on winning the Ainsworth was worth it.
As long as I won.
“Ugh, really? I’m so jealy! I wish I’d done that instead of going to stupid Greece with my stupid parents. We went on a stupid cruise. Hello, did they never see
Titanic
? Plus, the rooms were, like, the size of my closet,” Rachel huffed, drinking the dregs of what I instantly recognized as the Espresso Yourself Icy Frozen Blend. I knew it well, having made approximately one billion over the past three years, about half of which were ordered and drunk by Rachel.
I whirled around and caught Rachel’s eye, but she gazed through me, as though she’d never seen me before. As if that was even possible in the Ugly Mug–mandated orange-and-purple apron and hat.
“Everything will be worth it,” I whispered under my breath as I hurried up toward the math and science wing. It was my mantra whenever things got tough.
Quickly, I slid into one of the side desks in the AP Calc classroom. It wasn’t until I’d already settled and had pulled out my notebook and pen that I realized I’d plopped down right next to Adam Scott.
“Hayley.” He nodded curtly in my direction as though we were two opposing lawyers sitting in front of a judge instead of two classmates who’d known each other for twelve years.
“My favorite seatmate.” I smiled tightly. Adam and I had been frenemies since kindergarten, when he came in after winter break announcing he could read chapter books. I’d immediately gone home and demanded to my mother that she help me sound my way through
Jane Eyre
. And ever since then, the rivalry for number one had been intense.
“How was your summer?” Adam asked, pulling out his iPad and setting it on his desk.
“It was all right. Lots of work, not so much play. The usual.” I couldn’t help but notice that he looked good. His shoulders filled out his blue button-down more than I remembered last year, and his curly brown hair had grown out so it was a teeny bit shaggy, a nice change from the buzz cut he’d sported for at least the past decade.
“How was debate camp?” he pressed. I glared at him. Yes, we were in AP Calc, aka the varsity squad of nerds, but did he have to say
debate camp
quite so loudly? Besides, it wasn’t like he cared. The question was clearly his not-so-subtle attempt to suss out whether or not I had an upper hand when it came to the Ainsworth application. So I decided to mess with him a little.
“Why? Worried your foreign field trip wasn’t academically rigorous enough?” I teased. Ingrid wasn’t the only Bainbridger to have passed the majority of her summer in Europe. Adam had spent six weeks in a language immersion program in Aixen-Provence in France while I’d labored away in the cinder-block dorms of UNH. He’d been able to enjoy evenings in cafés drinking espresso while I’d listened to monotone professors discuss policy. He’d had the opportunity to explore the world. And I’d spent another summer being a type-A overachiever.
“France was cool. I had fun. But I worked hard, too. In any case, I’m sure the experience will give me plenty to talk about with the Ainsworth committee,” Adam said with a smirk.
“Great.” I shifted in my chair. Sure, Adam wanted it. But he didn’t
need
it the way I did. His dad was a Harvard legacy and corporate lawyer and his mom was the provost at the U. He lived in one of the fancy houses up on the Ridge, and his family would have no problem getting into — and paying for — any school he wanted. Realizing that brought our rivalry up a few notches beyond good-natured competition, and I couldn’t help but feel that, for the time being, I shouldn’t be as friendly as I’d been in the past.
At that moment, Dr. Osborn strode in, wearing a chalk-covered corduroy blazer over a T-shirt that read
WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE MOBIUS STRIP
? Behind me, Jake Cross, a thirteen-year-old who took high school classes, chuckled so hard he snorted.
“First rule of Calculus, and it’s an important one. Never drink and derive,” Dr. Osborn boomed. He looked hopefully around the room, but his only response was another high-pitched snort from Jake.
“Well, of course, since you’re all underage, you wouldn’t be drinking anyway, but I’m saying this only because it’s a play on words, and it is true that derivatives must take your complete and total attention,” Dr. Osborn sputtered as he wrote an equation on the board. I hastily began copying it into my notebook. Beyond his dorky sense of humor and chalk-stained clothing, Osborn was a serious teacher who could make or break my straight-A average. Next to me, Adam was scribbling away, too.
It was good to be back.
AP Calculus, AP English, AP European History, gym, and it was finally my lunch period. Most seniors left the building at lunch. They’d either head home to hang out with their significant other while their parents were at work, or they’d drive to the strip of sandwich places on Main Street. I rarely left campus. I preferred to eat a PB and J and get stuff done that I didn’t have time to do during the day. Even though it was the first day of school, I still had plenty on my to-do list, starting with selecting the editors for class sections for the
Spectrum
, the award-winning Bainbridge yearbook. I’d been procrastinating on that project all summer, pulling out the folder, then pushing it back into the depths of my desk drawer to deal with later. No matter who I ended up picking, someone was going to get mad, and that would lead to another round of whispers and talking behind my back. It wasn’t something I’d wanted to think about in the summer. But now, I didn’t have a choice. Besides, it wasn’t like people were begging me to head out to the sandwich shop with them.
I grabbed a seat in the corner of the cafeteria, pulled my sandwich from my bag, and began to look through the applications.
Around me, scared freshmen were swarming into the cafeteria like spooked wildebeests, unsure of where to sit or whom to avoid. A small, skinny girl with owl-like eyes behind round glasses and tangled, wiry hair paused by my empty table.
I glanced up and gave her an encouraging smile. I knew how she felt. But instead of sitting down, she scampered away. I wanted to tell her that it got easier, that eventually, she’d find a place for herself, even if it was just sitting solo and doing work. That despite what you saw on the CW network, friends weren’t necessarily the most important part of high school. That, in a way, not fitting in meant you had the opportunity to stand out, in the best possible way, to teachers, college admissions officers, and scholarship officials — who were really the only people who mattered.
But I didn’t have time to give advice. I spread the junior-class applications in front of me, wishing I had a red pen or a pair of glasses to feel more editorial-official.
The first was from Kayla McDonough. A field hockey player with a surgically altered nose and a modeling agent in Concord, she clearly wanted the position to ensure that pictures of her friends were prominently featured in the yearbook. The second applicant was Jessica Adamson, an honors student who’d also applied for the editor in chief position last spring, even though she’d been a rising junior. Traditionally, the spot went to a senior, but that wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule. Luckily, Mrs. Ross, our advisor, had kept to tradition and chosen me. I was grateful, because I knew that Jess would have won by a
landslide if students had voted on the position. She hosted bonfire parties at her lakeside house and invited Hacky Sack kids and honors students. She played lacrosse in the spring and hung out at football games in the fall. She made sure to wear blue and white on School Spirit Day. In short, she lived the type of laid-back, fun, high school dream life we created in each page of the yearbook layouts. Or, rather,
I
created in each page of layouts as everyone else was actually out having fun. I did everything from ensuring that people actually showed up for
all
group activity photos that they were part of (people tried to skip Marching Band and Select Chorus photo calls for the dork factor, but not under my watch) to policing senior quotes for anything un-PC (which pretty much meant rejecting any lyric by anyone except Taylor Swift). I knew that all of my own proofreading and double-checking and editing was the reason why the yearbook always looked awesome. But this year, the recognition would be mine — something I was confident admissions officers and Ainsworth application readers would appreciate.
And as much as I hated to admit it to myself, I was a teeny bit jealous of Jess. Mostly, it was her confidence — how she could assume she even had a shot at the position when I was the one putting in hours and hours of actual work, hunching over in the yearbook edit room while she was putting blue and red ribbons in her ponytail or baking cookies to sell during halftime. She even went so far as to throw a fit when Mrs. Ross gave the position to me, citing a conflict of interest because I was also the editor of the school paper, the
Bainbridge Beacon
. It was a stupid argument, but she wouldn’t let it go, even going so far as setting up an anonymous survey online asking for my
removal. And, for once, the apathetic student body worked in my favor. No one bothered to vote. Still, that didn’t mean Jess wouldn’t make things extra hard for me this year.