Dad’s studio is immaculate. Just like the rest of the house. Everything on his desk is aligned in perfect symmetry, his shelves have labels on them, and you could basically eat off the spotless red rug on the floor. He says he thrives on hyper-organization. I don’t have to be a geneticist to know how I turned out the way I did.
Most of the photos for the show tonight are already at the gallery, but there are a few still here. I immediately locate the piece that needs the caption and chuckle when I look at it. He’s right. It does look a lot like varicose veins. It also looks a lot like …
I tilt my head, getting a sudden idea.
I find a pad of sticky notes on his desk and write down my caption, smiling to myself. He’s going to love it.
I stick the paper to the framed photograph, wipe my hands, and hit the last switch on the multi-light panel as I leave.
My work here is done.
* * *
When Mom got promoted to partner at her law firm last year, she bought a brand-new Lexus SUV and gave me her old Honda Accord, which I promptly named Woody, after Bob Woodward, the famous journalist.
I love my car. Not because it has any fancy car-things like souped-up wheels or upgraded cup holders or whatever, but because I’ve made it my own. I found a really cool steering wheel wrap online that looks like newsprint and matches my phone case. I also got a custom license plate frame that says “Keep Calm and Carry a Notebook and Pen.” And my sparkly pink car charger was a gift from Laney. It was kind of a private joke between us, a combination of the facts that I hate anything pink and sparkly and that I’m always draining my battery checking emails.
I normally pick Laney up on the way to school since she doesn’t have a car, but last night she texted me to tell me she was catching a ride early with her dad so she could work on her final story for the issue. It made me smile. Laney is probably the only other person on staff as dedicated to this newspaper as I am. We should have been co–editors in chief, but she insisted I take the job and she’d be my news editor, which is just so Laney. She’s the kind of girl who’d much rather man the spotlight than have it pointed at her.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next year if I get into Columbia and she gets into UCLA. We’ll be light-years apart.
But I can’t think about that now. I have too many other things on my mind.
My usual route to school takes me right past the entrance to the Windsor Academy and, as I approach, I keep my gaze trained on the stoplight in front of me, biting my lip in anticipation.
I preemptively ease my foot off the gas pedal, hovering over the brake.
C’mon. C’mon. Turn red. Turn red.
The light flickers to yellow and I eagerly slam on the brakes, causing someone to honk behind me. They clearly thought I was going to run the yellow. But I wouldn’t do that. Because I’m a responsible, law-abiding driver.
As soon as I come to a stop, I glance out the window and take in the famous brick-and-stone sign that reads “Windsor Preparatory Academy: Grades 7–12.” My gaze wanders through the black iron gates and up the beautifully landscaped driveway, until I can just barely make out the parking lot and a hint of Royce Hall, the campus’s iconic main building, with its impressive curving brick staircase and white columns. I don’t really need to see it, though. I know what it looks like because I’ve pretty much memorized their website. And I follow the school on SnipPic, where the administration is always posting fabulous pictures of students eating lunch in the state-of-the-art student union, or peering into microscopes in one of their high-tech science labs, or swimming laps in their Olympic-size indoor swimming pool.
Southwest High doesn’t even have a SnipPic account. Because honestly, what would they post? A close-up of the stuff they try to pass off as “beef Bolognese” in the cafeteria? A snapshot of that one desk in the AP chemistry classroom that’s always broken but that I always end up getting stuck sitting in and always forget that it tips over when you lean too far to the left?
The Windsor Academy has been ranked one of the best schools in the country. The acceptance rate is in the low single digits. Sure, I applied. Of course, I applied. I’ve wanted to go to Windsor since kindergarten. I filled out an application the second I entered the sixth grade. I checked the mail every day for months, waiting for the letter. And then …
Well, it’s complicated. And I don’t like to dwell on it.
The light turns green and I take one last look at the greener-than-green grass and step on the accelerator.
By the time I get to Southwest High a few minutes later, Austin, my boyfriend, is already parked and waiting for me in front of the school.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, giving me a peck on the lips. I try to hide my wince at the scent of coffee on his breath—I loathe the taste, smell, and even sight of coffee—but he notices. “Sorry,” he says, blowing into his hands and smelling them. “I stopped at Peabody’s on the way to school.”
“That’s okay,” I say brightly, trying not to make a big deal of it. “Maybe just keep some breath mints in your car, you know?”
He makes that tsking sound with his teeth that drives me bonkers and shoots me with gun fingers. “Good idea.”
I let out a sigh and check the inbox on my phone. There are two new emails from Eric at My Friend the Printer, letting me know that he received my two new emails, but still nothing from Horace about the graphics or the IT guy about the server issue. I feel my grip tighten around the phone.
I hate thinking about all those files just sitting there on the hard drives. Anything could happen to them. An electromagnetic pulse could wipe out every computer in a five-mile radius. Hard-drive pirates could break in and pillage the school. A freak flash flood could …
“Rough morning?” Austin asks, interrupting my paranoia spiral.
I pocket my phone and take a deep breath. “Yes.”
“What parallel universe was Frankie in today?” he asks as we walk through the front doors.
I laugh. “One where there are no showers.”
He chuckles. “Classic.”
I can’t help but smile. Austin knows me so well. That’s why we’ve been together for the past three and a half years. Because we’re totally, absolutely, one-hundred-percent in tune with each other.
“So are you coming over tonight?” he asks.
Huh?
I stop midstep in the hallway. Tonight? Did we make plans? I don’t remember making plans. I quickly pull my phone back out and click the calendar app. The only thing on my schedule for today is Drop Dead night at the newspaper and then Dad’s exhibit at the gallery. “What’s tonight?” I ask.
He looks a little hurt. “They’re releasing the new season of How Is This My Life? on Netflix, remember? Eight new episodes are releasing at seven!”
I sag in relief. Thank God. It’s only that stupid comedy special he loves so much. To be honest, I really don’t know why. It’s not even that funny. The comedian, Tom Something-or-other, just makes really lame fart jokes the whole time. I mean, c’mon, fart jokes? For a whole hour? Isn’t that a tad bit lazy?
Anyone can write fart jokes.
Frankie can write fart jokes.
Okay, maybe not. Frankie would probably just go off on some tangent about nitrogen and cows raised for beef and global warming.
“Here comes the big one,” Austin is saying in his best impression of the comedian. “Here comes the whaaaaammmy!” Then he busts up laughing, even releasing a tiny snort. “God, that guy is good.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, trying to sound torn up about it. “I can’t come.”
His face falls in disappointment. “But it’s my favorite show. And stand-up comedy is more fun when you watch it with other people!”
“I know,” I say, instantly feeling guilty. “But it’s Drop Dead and then I have my dad’s gallery show tonight.”
Okay, so I know this sounds bad, but I’m secretly relieved that I have these big important plans and can’t sit around all night watching Tom What’s-his-face anthropomorphize bodily functions. It’s not that I don’t like hanging out with my boyfriend. Obviously I do. It’s just that he insists on binge-watching the entire eight-episode season the second it releases. And when you don’t find it funny to begin with, eight hours of the same stupid jokes can pretty much make you want to guzzle a bottle of toxic newspaper ink.
When you’ve been together for as long as we have, it’s natural for you to find differing interests. I mean, it’s not like we have to agree on everything.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Austin again, noticing he still looks disappointed. “I would be there if I could!”
This makes him smile. “I know. It’s all good.”
We arrive at my locker and I dial in the combination and pull on the handle. It doesn’t open. It doesn’t even budge. Not that this is anything new. It never opens. The lockers at Southwest High are about a million years old and I don’t think they’ve ever been cleaned or repaired. They were probably once a lovely shade of turquoise, but now they’re all this ugly sludge/rust color.
I sigh and try the combo again, yanking hard on the lever. Still nothing. I let out a groan. “I hate this stupid thing!”
“You gotta push in, then pull up,” Austin says, scooting me aside. He dials my combination and tries his technique, to no avail. He sets his backpack on the ground, rolls up his sleeves, and makes another attempt. This time he shakes the lever so hard, the entire row of lockers bangs around. Finally, after he pounds his fist against the metal three times and kicks it twice, the door pops open.
Do I seriously have to do that every time I want to open my locker? I should just risk scoliosis and carry all of my books around in my bag.
The Windsor Academy doesn’t even have lockers. They removed them two years ago when they initiated their new high-tech education system called the Windsor Achiever. Everything is completely digital and synced across all devices. I read about it on their website.
I empty my bag of everything except my notebook for the newspaper and the book I need to return to the library.
“Gotta run,” Austin says, leaning in to kiss me, but then he remembers his coffee breath. “Right,” he says, pulling away. “Breath mints. I’m on it.”
I slam my locker door shut. It bounces against the latch and then breaks off entirely, clattering to the floor near my feet. I sigh dramatically and just walk away.
At least it’ll be easier to get my stuff this way.