B00B9FX0MA EBOK (2 page)

I glanced back and forth at their applications as I took another bite of my sandwich. I paused at Jess’s application. She was good. Kayla was not. But in the end, it came down to Slacker versus Backstabber.

Slacker
, I decided, ripping up Jessica’s application. Yeah, I’d pretty much have to do Kayla’s job to ensure the junior section didn’t suck, but I wasn’t afraid of hard work.

Whoever said it was lonely at the top was right
, I mused as I pushed my chair back and headed out of the cafeteria to make an appointment with my college advisor. I saw a few seniors walk in carrying Zoomie’s milkshakes. They were laughing and hanging off one another, as if they were extras in some face wash commercial about how awesome it is to be a teenager. Meanwhile, I felt like I was an overworked, underappreciated corporate attorney.
It would be worth it.

I pushed open the heavy oak door to the guidance suite, relaxing as the door clicked behind me. Set in the center of school, the brightly lit guidance office was large, airy, and a million times more inviting than the dark and claustrophobic cafeteria. At one end of the room was a glass-topped conference table, where ten or so freshman — including Keely’s sister, Laurel — were in the mandatory Intro to the Guidance Office meeting every new student had to attend. Laurel widened her eyes at me. I looked away and hurried toward the secretary desk at the opposite end of the room.

“Hi, Miss Marsted,” I said politely to the sixty-year-old secretary who co-owned the pie shop downtown with her sister. A
lot of kids only came to the guidance office because they hoped for a snack. Today, a strawberry-rhubarb pie and an apple tart were sitting on the counter alongside a stack of paper plates.

At the sight of me, Miss Marsted’s doughy, wrinkled face broke into a smile.

“Miss Westin, how lovely to see you,” she said warmly, as though I were an unexpected houseguest. “Now, I know you’re probably falling down busy on your first day back, but you
must
have a piece of pie and you
must
tell me all about your summer. It’s your favorite kind.” She bustled to the front of the desk to cut a thick slice of the strawberry-rhubarb.

I shook my head, ignoring the vague rumbling of my stomach. I was well aware that Laurel and a few of her friends were watching me curiously, and I didn’t want the next generation of Bainbridge students to think I was the weird girl who was BFF with the guidance office secretary.

“Are you sure?” Miss Marsted asked, the knife still poised above the lattice crust.

“Yes, thank you. I just need an appointment with Mr. Klish. As soon as possible. It’s in regard to my Ainsworth application.”

“Oh, of course.” Miss Marsted bustled behind the desk. “I can schedule an appointment tomorrow morning before first period. Will that be all right?”

I nodded, feeling strangely grown-up. I could so clearly imagine myself in ten years as an attorney at a law firm, trying to set up a time to meet with a partner. I’d wear a charcoal suit, just like the one I always wore to debate tournaments. My dark brown hair would be pulled back into a low chignon, and my lips would be a sexy, subtle coral color that I was never able to
master with my current makeup bag of drugstore cosmetics. It would be great. No, it would be better than great. It would be perfect.

“Seven forty-five all right?” Miss Marsted asked.

“Of course.” I pulled out my pink Filofax and wrote down the appointment, noting the tiny blank squares that were all about to be filled with obligations, deadlines, and interviews.

“You still write on paper. Just like me!” Miss Marsted enthused loudly. I heard a few giggles emanate from the corner. Awesome.

“I don’t believe in computers,” I said tightly. She beamed back at me, oblivious to my abrupt response, which only made me feel worse. I spent so much time telling myself I didn’t care what other people thought of me. I just wished it could be a little more true.

“All right, see you tomorrow, Miss Westin. And if you want any pie, well, you know where to find it.”

“Right,” I mumbled. I knew that a full schedule would fulfill me way more than a full stomach would.

A
ll right, so let me announce the new
Spectrum
executive board.” My voice cracked, and I quickly took a large sip of my coffee. I noticed my hand was shaking, but I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or caffeine jitters.

It was seven a.m. the next morning, and I’d already drank a sixteen-ounce coffee at home and was halfway through my second oversized thermos. Two years ago, Principal O’Neill had come up with the genius idea to have most clubs, including Yearbook, meet during zero period. And since most people preferred sleep to saturating their college resumes, membership had declined sharply. Even our faculty administrator, Mrs. Ross, was nodding off in the corner of the room, occasionally emitting a snore that sounded like a high-pitched teakettle.

“Shouldn’t you wait a few minutes? Make sure that everyone is here?” Jess asked from her seat directly opposite me. Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, but I understood the subtext: Attendance was sparse and the majority of people in the room were freshmen.

I took a deep breath. The past
Spectrum
editors in chief had made running a meeting seem way easier than designing a layout or editing a story. After all, they just had to stand up, talk, and assign. I was used to making speeches in front of strangers through debate. But this was different — and I was reminded of that every time I looked over at Jess. Her unblinking stare
made me feel like I was on a tightrope. One wrong sentence could cause everything I had worked so hard for to topple.

“No, I think we’re fine. We have a lot of ground to cover today,” I said firmly, arching one eyebrow in her direction. One of the techniques taught at debate camp was that raising an eyebrow is one of the key gestures that will make your opponent realize that you’re in charge.

I looked down at the list, willing myself to stop letting Jess undermine me. I might not have been as charismatic as Jon Keselica, our editor in chief last year, or as pretty as Meg Smith, the editor in chief from two years ago, but I’d gotten the job. I deserved it. No matter what Jess thought.

I smiled at Libby Dorn in the front row. Also a senior, she’d been on Yearbook since freshman year. She smiled back. She was nice enough, but I barely knew anything about her, beyond the fact that she had four sisters and hoped to be a poet when she grew up. She hung out with the slam poetry kids and the other artsy hipster types who tended to spend lunch in the atrium by the auditorium. I wasn’t one of the creative kids, and it wasn’t as if Libby had ever invited me to eat with them, anyway.

“All right, so our freshman editor is Dominick Jenson. Congratulations, Dominick.” I nodded in the direction of a skinny ninth-grader with bleached-blond hair and thick glasses. He turned beet red and beamed, then threw his hand in the air and waved it.

“Yes?” I asked nervously. Jess’s previous question had thrown me off balance.

“Can I call my mom and tell her?” he asked excitedly.

Laughter erupted from the back corner of the room. I was so relieved to no longer be the center of attention that I didn’t
bother to stifle a smile as I nodded. Truth was, I was thankful for his enthusiasm, even if he had been the only one to apply. All he had to do was interview other frosh, about how they were adjusting to pep rallies, what they thought of high school, and what they kept in their lockers, and with a little help, he’d do all right. I added
Figure out freshman section
to my mental to-do list.

“Sophomore-class editor is Christina Jenner,” I said, locking eyes with a beaming, glasses-clad girl whose cello case was propped against her desk. That had been an easy decision. She’d done a decent job as freshman-class editor last year.

Just then, the door opened and Matt Hartnett sauntered in. A hush fell over the room as everyone, including me, turned to stare. Even though he was wearing jeans and a button-down — the unofficial boy uniform of Bainbridge — he stood out. He was taller and more built than most guys, but it was beyond that. He seemed wholly comfortable in his own skin. He never gave the impression that he tried to be anyone else. Even though Keely, Ingrid, Emily, and half the female population of Bainbridge seemed to follow him around, Matt had never had a serious girlfriend. I sometimes wondered if he, too, realized there was more to life than high school.

“Yo, Hayley. Mad sorry I’m late,” he said sheepishly.

“That’s fine, just have a seat.”

“Cool.” He waved his way between desks, oblivious to the stares that followed him. He’d been the sports editor since freshman year, and even though I often had to rewrite his stories so his sentences contained more than four words, he was pretty diligent. He’d once told me that he wanted to be a sports reporter after college. I liked that about him. Platonically, of
course. But it was nice to see that he had aspirations beyond prom king or winning soccer sectional finals.

Finally, he perched on the radiator in the back of the room. I hoped the relief wasn’t evident in my voice. But seeing him was the feel-good equivalent of an A-plus on a test, a sign that everything was
fine
.

I smiled broadly and squared my shoulders back, allowing my gaze to fall straight on Jess. “And junior-class editor is … Kayla McDonough,” I said, realizing before her last name left my mouth that she wasn’t even there.

Silence hung in the air. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting. Maybe Jess to yell, or immediately complain to Mrs. Ross. But instead, she stared silently down at her desk. I noticed her knuckles were white from clutching her travel mug. It was a gesture I knew all too well myself, something to focus on to stop any tears from forming. I looked away.

“And senior-class editor is Libby Dorn,” I said, smiling at Libby. “So we’ll have a special class editor meeting next Tuesday morning to brainstorm stories. But for now, since the cover is due to the printer by next month, we need to come up with a theme and title for the book.” I glanced over at Jess, but her head was still bowed low, making it impossible to tell whether or not she was upset.

“What are you thinking, Miss Westin?” Mrs. Ross prompted.

“Of course. Well, I was thinking, um …
Ever Upward
, I guess. I mean,
Ever Upward
,” I corrected.
Um
and
I guess
weren’t confident.

“I hope everyone here will agree that it’s fun, it’s inspirational, and I think it exemplifies the high school experience on a few levels. Plus it’s classic. If we do something from a song or a movie,
it dates the book too much. What do you guys think?” I asked. I’d already worked on a few preliminary sketches to go along with the theme. I liked it. It was simple, yet direct, and wasn’t one of those cringe-worthy ones like
Teenage Dream
or
Dancing Queen
that people are guaranteed to make fun of at all future reunions.

Immediately, Jessica’s hand shot up. Her eyes flashed at me, and if she’d been close to crying a minute ago, she certainly wasn’t now.

“I don’t like it. What does it mean? It sounds so cheesy. Like, seriously, if I had to show a yearbook called
Ever Upward
to my college roommate, I’d be really embarassed,” she said, not even waiting for me to call on her.

Of course Jess doesn’t like it. You knew she wouldn’t,
I reminded myself as I felt my heart lurch from a canter to a gallop. Ten minutes into my first meeting and Jess had messed with my mind. I needed to put a stop to it. I couldn’t let it seem like she could bully me. And I couldn’t seem threatened. I took a deep breath, exhaled through my nose, and focused on the spot right between her eyebrows. “What’s your idea?”

“Well, I think it should be more like
That’s What Friends Are For
. Or maybe
Lean on Me
. You know, something that has a message about friendship. What people want is a title that exemplifies the high school experience. And isn’t that what it’s all about, Hayley?” she asked pointedly. “Won’t the biggest thing you’ll miss after graduation be your friendships?”

I froze. All eyes were on me, and I felt blood rushing to my face. I turned toward the board so people couldn’t see me blushing.

That’s What Friends Are For.
I wrote with a shaking hand. And then
Lean on Me
.

Unbidden, my mind drifted back to when Keely, Ingrid, Emily, and I were a foursome. We called ourselves HIKE after our initials. In middle school, we’d even gotten permission to leave gym class for HIKE club meetings. We’d managed to convince Coach Ervin it was an official group led by our Earth Science teacher, and had managed to spend half a semester gossiping during gym before he’d caught on. That was around the time that we realized HIKE could also be a contraction for Hot Guys We Like. We’d write pros-and-cons lists on each of them, contemplating their kissing potential and whether or not we should date them now or wait until the end of high school, when the romance was likely to last longer than a month. Of course, I’d known even then that none of the guys on the list would have actually dated me. Not in ninth grade. And definitely not now.

They were drawn to Keely’s confidence; Emily’s short skirts and long, mermaid-like hair; and Ingrid’s sense of adventure and ability to flirt. None of the boys cared about my math skills or ability to quote Shakespearean monologues from memory. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t compete with Emily, Ingrid, or Keely. And the worst part was that I could never figure out what I was doing wrong or how I could change.

That was when I began really focusing on schoolwork. I’d always been smart, but in ninth grade, I wanted to become exceptional. Because academics made sense in a way popularity didn’t. It was an equation: You worked hard, you got a good grade. Not so with guys. I could say the same thing as Ingrid and they’d ignore me, but when Ingrid said it, they’d smile. I tried flipping my hair the way Emily did, but my hair never grew much beyond shoulder length, and too much
flipping would cause it to tangle. I’d begun to resent HIKE. I wanted out. And I’d gotten it. Keely had made sure of that.

I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the memories floating into my head. I needed to focus on now.

“So, you’re saying you feel our high school experience is best exemplified by the title of a cheesy song from the seventies?” I gripped the chalk so tightly it split in two with a loud crack.

“I think it would be exemplified by what
normal students
want,” Jessica said with a condescending smile. “Besides, I was thinking off the top of my head.
Some
people didn’t spend their whole summer thinking about Yearbook,” she said smugly.

I turned away from the chalkboard and stared around the room. The tension was electric, and I knew that the way I handled Jess in the next two minutes was key in keeping control over the rest of the staff. If everyone saw her get to me, she’d have won, and it wouldn’t matter that I was the official EIC. They’d listen to her.

“Fine, we’ll have a vote. Anyone who has a theme idea that’s as brilliant as Jessica’s, please e-mail me and I’ll have Mrs. Ross send a survey to the student body.”

“What?” Mrs. Ross jerked her head up and glanced wildly around the room. Matt gave me a small smile, and my stomach slightly unknotted.

“Not important.” I shook my head brusquely. I silently thanked debate camp’s endless practice rounds for allowing me to fake my steely resolve. “I just need you to send an e-mail survey blast to the student body. I’ll draft the text after class.”

“All right. Sounds like you have everything under control,” Mrs. Ross said.

“I do.” An awkward silence fell over the room.

Matt raised his hand. “Yo, I like
Ever Upward
. It’s cool, you know?”

“Thank you. Hopefully everyone else will agree.” I stared straight at Jess even though part of me wanted to hug Matt.

“What?” Jess said defensively. “You don’t need my approval. You’re the editor. And you don’t need to worry about setting up the survey. I can do it myself. And I already know the ropes about section pitches. That
is
what you’re about to discuss, right?” She smiled.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said uncertainly. I knew she wasn’t trying to help me. But I couldn’t figure out what she was trying to do.

“I want to.” Jess flashed me a smile before packing her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and sauntering out of the room.

The door slammed shut.

“Guys!” I clapped my hands, cringing when I realized that was exactly what Madame Wenstrom, the senile French teacher, did to call the class to order. “Guys!” I said again. “This week, I want you to think about interesting stories, and pitch them to your editor by Friday. You just need a few sentences in the pitch, and make sure to include any details that are relevant, such as event dates or photo concepts,” I said. The more I talked, the more confident I felt. I was
fine
.

When the bell finally rang, I felt like I’d run a marathon. I’d been coasting on adrenaline, and now that the room was empty, I felt wobbly and off balance and I sensed a tension headache
rolling in from the sides of my brain. School was
definitely
back in session.

As I turned the corner, I paused by the water fountain. I pulled out my economy bottle of Advil, popped two in my mouth, and took a large sip of the chlorine-y liquid. Then, I rested my forehead against the cool green tile above the fountain. I was exhausted and I hadn’t even gone to first period yet.

“So, Westin, cured cancer yet?”

I immediately whirled around and found myself gazing into Matt’s green eyes. His dark hair flopped over his forehead and his lips looked slightly chapped, like someone who spent too much time kissing. I was glad he’d been sitting in the back. Looking at those lips in the first row would have been seriously distracting.

“Huh?” My heart resumed hammering in my chest.

“I want to hear what you did this summer. So if you didn’t cure cancer, what did you do? Write the Great American Novel? Invent the new Facebook?”