Pretenders (11 page)

It’s kind of hard to journal in a crouched position but Ms. Silver said writing calms the nerves so I’m trying it. Not that I don’t think I’ll make the team. I’ll make Freshman for sure. But I really want Varsity. Then I can travel and

I’m back. Ran drills. Did shooting lines. Suicides. Apes. Coach Bammer liked me because I didn’t block out. I didn’t ball hog, either. Coops said I had game face without looking too intense. This is good. Now I wait. I hate waiting.

Feeling = LeBron never has to wait.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

The Homies (Blake, Hamilton, Legend, Wendi, Maple, Sylvie, and me) had plans to see
My Afternoons with Margueritte
at the Independent. I had to cancel because my Brit Lit essay is due on Monday and I’m only two paragraphs in. Not because it’s hard. Nothing about Noble is hard. Mom used the ninth-grade curriculum guide when I was in seventh, so I’ve been coasting. It’s my Mac that can’t keep up.

I hit “save” after every sentence because my hard drive is old and forgetful. But every time I hit “save” I get the spinning wheel. Then it freezes. That’s how I’m able to journal and write a paper on
Great Expectations
at the same time. I write during reboots.

Reboot successful.

Back to the essay.

Rebooting again.

I have been saving for a new laptop since 2008. I got $1,018.00 for my bat mitzvah. My parents made me donate half of that to charity ($509) and put another $250 into Israel Bonds. This left me with $259. If you take inflation into account it’s more like $237.62. Recycling cans at the grocery store would have been more lucrative.

I earn $25 for every A+ (again, cans would be easier) and only have to donate $5 of that to charity, which helps. Now, two years later, I am $150 away from a new computer.

My parents can afford to buy me one but they think saving will teach me the value of a dollar. This makes no sense. International markets, inflation, fiscal and monetary policy, fixed rates, floating rates, political instability, fluctuating demand, surpluses, and deficits determine the value of the dollar. Not my ability to save for a MacBook Pro.

Back to the essay.

Rebooting again.

I met the Homies through a national organization that introduces homeschooled kids so we can have friends too. Ironically,
I had more of a social life when I was stuck at home. Must research ways to fit in. Noble has been kind of tough in that area. I’ll do that after I finish my essay.

I haven’t seen the Homies since I went Pub. Which is tragic because we were tight. Blake, Hamilton, Legend, Wendi, Maple, Sylvie, and I used to meet for gelato every Wednesday. Even in the winter. We took music, soccer, and art classes at the community center. We had (supervised) coed sleepovers and giggled about our CNN anchor crushes. Legend’s dad, Maverick Lustig—yes, THE Maverick Lustig, four-time X Games champion, pro rider, spokesmodel, and owner of Lord’s Boards—taught us to skateboard. That’s like having Stephen Hawking as a science teacher.

When Blake heard I couldn’t go to the movie today, he bailed too. He said he had a migraine, but GPS tells a different story. According to Find My Friends, he’s at the mall. Probably meeting Trike on his lunch break. I bet Trike is pirouetting through the fountains because I’m not there. If he knew how many girls check Blake out at school, he’d flip his 40 percent off chambray trilby lid. Especially if he saw the way Vanessa looked at Blake in the cafeteria the other day.

Why Trike would flip his 40 percent off chambray trilby lid is the part I don’t get.

As females, we pose no threat whatsoever. Blake says Trike is possessive because his father walked out on him when he was four, leaving him with a bitter mother and heinous abandonment issues. I’m not heartless. I understand how that would mess a guy up. But jealous of girls?

Whenever I ask Blake why he puts up with Trike’s possessiveness he starts to wheeze. He says I’ll understand when I’m in love, and then changes the subject. I want to tell him I am in love and I still don’t understand. But I’m not ready to tell him about Duffy. So I say, “You’re probably right.”

Rebooting.

I haven’t told Blake about Duffy because he, along with the other Homies and the entire Bader-Huffman clan, expects me to marry Seth Cohen from
The O.C.
Not Adam Brody, the actor who played Seth Cohen. The actual character. They think this because:

And then there’s Andrew Duffy: the anti–Seth Cohen. He is an all-American athlete. Honey-blond hair. Green eyes. Minimally
expressive. Angst-free. A typical male. The boy next door. Conventionally handsome. Quirk-less. Lactose tolerant. Normal.

As a Jewish Homie with a gay best friend, five worn-out skateboards, a passport stamp from twenty-two different countries, dial-up Internet, and a wardrobe that doubles as flu-wear, I am drawn to “normal” like Odysseus to Sirens. I am over having a life that only six people can relate to. Simply put: I don’t want abnormal to be my normal anymore.

I want to go to dances and forbidden house parties. I want to cheer for my boyfriend from the bleachers. I want to hold his hand after the game. I want to have unintellectual, stilted, benign conversations. I want to stop using words like “benign.” I want to share non-kosher snack foods with him. Snack foods that are full of preservatives and additives. I want to see formulaic horror films at a multiplex. Films that are called movies. Movies that are not remakes of a foreign version that was far superior. I want Duffy to kiss me on that patch of narrow grass between our houses. I want to build a wobbly wood plank and set it between our windows so we can sneak into each other’s rooms after bedtime. I want to get caught and lectured. I want to shout about not being understood. I want to get grounded. I want Duffy and me to find ways to be together anyway. Most of all I want him to like me because he thinks I’m just like him.

Back to my paper.