Ridiculous/Hilarious/Terrible/Cool (27 page)

She is not as carefree as her clothes. While other seniors are ditching school to go to the beach, Anais is dancing at the studio. And, scooping ice cream. She started working at an Italian ice place near her home. She's learning the art of the scoop, how to serve frozen yogurt.

“I'm still not perfect at that swirly thing,” she says with a delicate turn of her wrist. She doesn't know how long she'll work this summer, probably until sometime in August when she heads off to Bloomington, to Indiana University.

Anais made her decision to attend Indiana when she flew to New York. She walked into a dance studio at NYU and just
knew
. It wasn't good enough. Arty yet not artistic. Hello, Indiana.

And yet, making the decision has not lessened Anais's stress. She has so many friends going to New York, including Maya. She worries if her decision is the right one, giving the impression that worry is something that will always be with her, like an extra bone in her foot.

Anais's ankles are stronger now, though her feet are blistered. With her sandals, the blisters are easier to see: a gaping red one on her left big toe, a nasty little one on her right heel. Anais was voted
Biggest Klutz
in the yearbook, though that was probably intended to be ironic.

“The more I think about it, the more I want to be in a company, ” she says as she slides along the hallway. Last month, Anais tried to audition for the Joffrey Ballet but was informed there were no openings. The woman told Anais she was still young, to audition next year. That was small consolation.

“Young is like sixteen.”

Timing is everything in dance. Next year Anais will audition for the Joffrey, and if they accept her she would leave college in a second. Good-bye, Indiana.

Over the weekend, Anais had her final performance with the Civic Ballet of Chicago. The Ruth Page Center auditorium was packed. In the first piece, Anais danced a classic
pas de deux
in a white tutu. In her last piece Anais wore a black one-piece with a blue stripe down the side. The piece was modern and edgy, choreographed by a professional from Hubbard Street Dance. The dancers were slithering all over the floor.

Anais stood out. She was strong, her line sure and precise, the most poised dancer except for the twenty-something professional from Hubbard Street. As she leaped across the stage, all the pain and stress melted away, and the love she felt for dance was clear. The smile on her face was radiant, so radiant it could almost fool someone watching into thinking that what she was doing was not difficult. Onstage, she had grace.

Clothes have come full circle. For boys, new faded T-shirts from Abercrombie & Fitch. For girls, an even more economical use of fabric, accessorized with wide belts, flip-flops, and fat sunglasses.

In one morning advisory, a group of girls gather in a corner to discuss the details of tonight's party.

“Is there going to
be
an after-party?”

“Sure.”

“How sure?”

Their voices grow more hushed as they figure out who will bring the refreshments. They get louder when figuring out who is going.

“Will is going!”

“Will is going?”

“Will is
going
.”

“Clare is going!”

“Clare is going?”

“Clare is . . . ”

The bell rings and the girls stream into the halls. One dips into the bathroom. She comes out a minute later but forgot something, stopping to look in the reflected glass of the trophy case to check her hair and adjust her bra strap.

Anthony sits by himself in the cafeteria. He has no arms. It takes a second to see that they are under his tan
Drunken Monkey
T-shirt, his fingers occasionally appearing at the shirt's bottom like little animals poking their noses out of a cave.

Most juniors are studying for finals. Not Anthony. He's getting an F in precalculus, an F in literature, an F in Afro American history. He has to write extra papers just to get D's, but whether or not that will happen is an open question.

Things happen
to
Anthony, not the other way around. Last week he went to a party and had a smoke and then went to McDonald's, but somewhere along the way he lost his money roll and his bus pass, so he had to talk his way onto the "L” and once he got home he realized he still had two bags of weed in the pockets of his shirt.

His father asked why he was late. Anthony made up some story, which his father didn't believe. As he hurried to his room, his father asked about the bulges in his shirt pockets, so Anthony started running. Darting into his room, his father close behind, he slipped one bag of weed into a sock, the other into a college envelope (he stashes drugs there because he figures that's the last place his parents would look).

His father found the pot in his sock. They can't punish Anthony, though. They have his phone, his iPod. They have his driver's license, which he got last week but which is staying in his father's wallet until his grades improve.

“They've taken away all that they can take away,” Anthony says, hands jammed inside his pants. Anthony is broke despite the fact that he is still selling drugs. He runs through money
quick. A shirt, a movie, some food, then it's gone. Maybe he'll get a job.

“I want to work at Foot Locker,” Anthony says, nodding.

He also wants to get in shape. He says he's going to try out for the football team in the fall. He's going to play wide receiver.

Can he make the team?

“Yeah, that's not a problem. I just gotta get recognized.”

How good is he?

“I'm
real
good,” he continues, yawning. “I
was
real good.”

Anthony last played in eighth grade. While he talks, The Girl walks into the cafeteria and up to Anthony's table. She's wearing a tight pink and red striped shirt that cannot conceal the fact that she is very, very pregnant.

“Hi, Anthony!” She smiles, waving down at him.

Anthony makes eye contact with her but does not say a word. She stays a moment, keeps walking. A minute passes.

“We basically stopped . . . ” He doesn't finish. “I care less and less every time I see that now.” He pauses.

“The whole situation. That was tough for me. I learned a lot from that. I learned about relationships in general. A freshman guy said to me he's going to be with his girl forever. But eventually
she's
going to do something to
him
. He going to do something to
her
. Eventually, you going to
learn
.”

He yawns again. He says he is looking forward to senior year.

“I'm trying to improve upon everything.”

Another minute passes.

“This has been a long year.
This has been a long year,
” he says. Then, apropos of not much, he says, “I brought this upon myself. Ain't no point going through stuff if you can't learn from it.”

He nods and puts his arms back through his sleeves, slaps the table, and gets up to go. The situation is what it is.

JUNE

Daniel was woken this morning by his father banging a broomstick on the ceiling from the apartment downstairs. All spring Daniel has been waking up to the alarm on his Treo, when it works. When it doesn't, the broomstick.

After showering and dressing, Daniel lopes out the front door. The brick houses of the South Side stand quiet, the lawns wet with dew. The dilapidated corner store is still locked. No one is up this early except the birds. The bus trundles into view. Daniel slides into a seat in the back, stretching his long legs. Watching other commuters board in their spring clothes he murmurs, “Nothing better than wearing nice soft colors.”

Daniel himself is wearing dress pants, a striped shirt, white sneakers, and a recently purchased silver Kenneth Cole watch. Daniel was voted
Best Dressed
in the yearbook. He pulls out his Treo and starts clicking through photos from another high school's prom that he went to: Daniel and his date, Daniel and his cake, Daniel and his date eating cake. He has been thinking about his own prom too. He had been planning to fly in a girl from California whom he met while visiting Penn. It was turning into a logistical nightmare, though: how to get her hair done, her nails done, then fly her back, all in one day.

Daniel asked Emily instead. They're going as friends, that's all. The arrangement is convenient for him, as he won't have to entertain anybody.

“That's where she lives,” he says, nodding out the window as the brownstones of Hyde Park slide past.

As the bus lurches up along the lake, the skyscrapers of downtown shimmer into view, and Daniel talks about how he's been making this ride for years. Four years of high school. All the hours, all the work, all the rides, everything propelling him to college and beyond. And these are the last times he'll take this ride. It makes him nostalgic. The bus passes the lion statues in front of the Art Institute, and turns into the Loop.

Daniel gets on the subway and rides north to Division, emerging at the Dunkin' Donuts. He buys two croissants (a step up from last fall's bagel), heads west on Division Street, turns left on North Wells, and walks through the front door of school, only a few minutes late.

When he was sitting on the bus looking up at the buildings of downtown, Daniel talked about how he has changed since the fall. He thinks he's become more of a capitalist. Worrying about financial aid was a factor. Even though scholarships and his parents will pay for much of his college tuition, money remains a concern.