Part 1 (1/2)
Gorgeous.
by Rachel Vail
1.
I SOLD MY CELL PHONE TO THE DEVIL SOLD MY CELL PHONE TO THE DEVIL.
In my own defense, it had been a really c.r.a.ppy day.
The sun was in full show-off mode again, flattening our suburban town into a caricature of itself-rich, pretty, manicured. The lawns, the women, the girls my age: all manicured. Even many of the dads were manicured. Buffed, of course. No rough cuticles in our town. No rough anything.
”What a gorgeous day,” people kept saying, as if they were revealing a wonder, and as if the gorgeousness settled an unspoken argument about our worth. ”Absolutely gorgeous!” they agreed with one another. Mothers couldn't stop themselves from marveling out loud about the low humidity, the cuteness of each other's new sandals (and pedicures), the fact that our pools were all cleaned and opened already, weeks before Memorial Day. Can you believe it? Oh, I know-I love it! Can you believe it? Oh, I know-I love it! Knees and shoulders reemerged, fake-tanned to perfection, tulips and roses mingled condescendingly with the so-yesterday daffodils, and only a few of the puffiest, whitest clouds accessorized the sky, punching up its cornflower blue. Knees and shoulders reemerged, fake-tanned to perfection, tulips and roses mingled condescendingly with the so-yesterday daffodils, and only a few of the puffiest, whitest clouds accessorized the sky, punching up its cornflower blue.
I was finding it hard to breathe.
Beyond even the migraine-inducing falsetto chatter about the shocking fact that in these days of holes the size of Texas in the ozone layer, it could be-gasp-warm in the late spring in the New York suburbs, my fascist social studies teacher had started my day off by being a complete hypocrite and giving me a Bon my paper. I completely couldn't give a rat's b.u.t.t about grades, honestly-it is my older sister Quinn's job to bring home straight A's, not mine-but I had for once actually put in some effort, and the only comment on it at all was that I had not gotten my concept approved.
Which was a lie.
We'd submitted our concepts three weeks earlier. The a.s.signment was to write about someone who had changed the course of world history. My best friend, Jade Demarchelier, was doing Eleanor Roosevelt; Serena Smythson, who was apparently not allowed to choose to study Jade, who would obviously have been her first choice, was therefore also doing Eleanor Roosevelt. Leonardo da Vinci, Beethoven, Gandhi, and Shakespeare were other popular choices. I'd chosen to study Gouverneur Morris, a one-legged drunken carouser with multiple mad and murderous mistresses, who wrote practically the whole d.a.m.n U.S. Const.i.tution including the famous ”We the People” section, despite the fact that he thought only some some people (meaning rich people) could be trusted to self-govern. My thesis was that this ”genius exotic” won power for the people in spite of his aristocratic worldview. I still had my thesis statement paper, with the Fascist's two-word comment, the only one on that paper, in her tight-script purple ink: people (meaning rich people) could be trusted to self-govern. My thesis was that this ”genius exotic” won power for the people in spite of his aristocratic worldview. I still had my thesis statement paper, with the Fascist's two-word comment, the only one on that paper, in her tight-script purple ink: Interesting! Approved. Interesting! Approved.
So when I got back my paper on Gouverneur Morris with not one correction on it but only the words Unacceptable Thesis! B Unacceptable Thesis! B scrawled across the top of it, I was beyond p.i.s.sed. I marched up to the Fascist and said, ”Excuse me, this thesis WAS approved.” scrawled across the top of it, I was beyond p.i.s.sed. I marched up to the Fascist and said, ”Excuse me, this thesis WAS approved.”
She tried to argue, but I shoved the thesis statement paper under her beady eyes. She relented but then started arguing that there were ”other problems, too.”
She wouldn't say what, though I have a feeling she was referring to the section about his housekeeper/mistress who was accused of murdering her illegitimate child. But the Fascist said, ”End of discussion,” an expression I seem to be allergic to because it sends me into fits of rage, and that is why I ended up tearing my report on Gouverneur Morris into tiny bits and hurling them at her face.
It is unclear who was the most shocked person in the cla.s.sroom as the flakes of my report fluttered down over the Fascist's head. The Fascist seemed pretty shocked. She may actually have been in in shock, judging from how she froze, other than a slight tremor throughout her body. Or it could have been Jade, who would never ever talk back to a teacher, never mind throw stuff at one, and who stood there staring at me like I'd just sprouted a second head. But I think it might have been me, honestly, especially when the Fascist didn't scream or send me to the princ.i.p.al's office or anything. She just sat there, shaking slightly, allowing the sc.r.a.ps of my report to cling decoratively to her frizzy hair. shock, judging from how she froze, other than a slight tremor throughout her body. Or it could have been Jade, who would never ever talk back to a teacher, never mind throw stuff at one, and who stood there staring at me like I'd just sprouted a second head. But I think it might have been me, honestly, especially when the Fascist didn't scream or send me to the princ.i.p.al's office or anything. She just sat there, shaking slightly, allowing the sc.r.a.ps of my report to cling decoratively to her frizzy hair.
It was almost festive.
When the Fascist turned to talk with one of the nicer kids, I walked toward the cla.s.sroom door. I could see Jade turning to whisper to Serena. I swallowed hard and kept walking, out into the hallway.
”You okay?” a girl named Roxie Green asked me.
”I hate everything,” I answered.
”Let's cut second period,” she suggested.
”Okay,” I said.
She didn't look surprised at all. I myself was by then totally blown sideways. And not just because I'd never cut before.
We walked out the back entrance of the high school and wandered around a bit. We didn't really know each other that well, Roxie Green and I, so we didn't have much to talk about. She had moved out to our lovely suburban patch of h.e.l.l from New York City over the summer. She lived on my street, down a bit toward the corner, in two houses-one of which, supposedly, was being converted into a rec house: indoor pool, squash court, yoga studio, the works. The rumor was that her family was the richest in our town, which is saying a lot. Some people said Roxie had been a model in the city and the real reason they moved out was that her parents wanted to get her away from the wild life of clubbing and drugs. She looked like a model, that was for sure-tall, thin, and gorgeous. Jade and Serena and I had been eyeing her all year for signs of wildness, critiquing her hair (strawberry blond, very straight, jagged edges), makeup (lots of black eyeliner), and clothes (kind of out-there, weird combinations of pinks and reds, and lots of bracelets).
If she noticed n.o.body was really talking to her, Roxie didn't show it. She didn't seem to care. She didn't seem to give a c.r.a.p about anything.
”There is really nowhere to go here, is there?” Roxie murmured.
”Absolutely nowhere,” I agreed, checking around and behind us. I wasn't sure if maybe there were security officers, watching for cutters. But even worse, if Jade saw me cutting second with Roxie Green, she'd definitely give me the silent treatment.
”You live down my street, right?” Roxie asked.
”Yeah,” I answered. ”Welcome to the neighborhood, belatedly.”
”Thanks. It sucks.”
”You noticed,” I said. ”You must miss the city.”
”You have no idea how much.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead with her pinky and thumb. ”You know why we moved?”
”No,” I said, kind of telling the truth. What I knew was only rumor. ”Why?”
”Can you keep a secret?”
”Absolutely,” I said. ”It's the only good thing about me.”
”It's kind of embarra.s.sing,” she warned, watching my face. When I didn't flinch, she whispered, ”My parents had a sudden urge to garden.”
”Ew,” I said. ”How hideous.”
She looked at me with her head c.o.c.ked, and then nodded. ”Beyond hideous. Let's have a pool party.”
”Sure,” I said. ”When?”
”Today,” she answered, pulling out her phone. ”You know Tyler Moss?”
I'd had a crush on Tyler Moss since September. Once, just before February break, while pretending to look for my sister Quinn in the tenth-grade hall but actually stalking Tyler, I impulsively said h.e.l.lo to him and he hit me with his mitten. I was psyched out of all proportion.
Kind of pathetic, I admit. Jade knew I loved him, but n.o.body else did. Not even Serena, who would've told the whole school.
”Swim team?” I said, trying to sound blase. ”Dark hair?”
”That's him,” Roxie said. ”Bring a few friends,” she said, and texted at the same time. Alison Avery and I are having a hard day. Come cheer us up. Alison Avery and I are having a hard day. Come cheer us up.
”It's two L's,” I told her, feeling like a dork. ”A-L-L-I-”
”I thought you needed a nickname,” Roxie said. ”Alison for short. Do you already have a nickname? Allie or something?”
”No,” I said. ”Well, my mom called me Allie Cat a couple times when I was little, but I hated that. My dad calls me Lemon.”
”Why?”
I shrugged. ”Sour personality?” She looked horrified, so I added, ”He means it in a loving way, I'm pretty sure.”
”Oh.” We kept walking. ”How about Alison with one L?”