[SOUND] Lindsay calls out.
A few weeks ago, my mom yelled at her for
blasting her horn at 6:55 every morning,
and this is Lindsay's solution.
I'm coming, I shout back, even though she
can see me pushing out the front door,
trying to put on my coat and wrestle
my binder into my bag at the same time.
At the last second,
my eight year old sister Izzy tugs at me.
What?
I whirl around.
She has little sister radar for
when I'm busy, late, or
on the phone with my boyfriend.
Those are always the times
she chooses to bother me.
You forgot your glove, she says, except
it comes out, you forgot your gloveths.
She refuses to go to speech therapy for
her lisp even though all the kids
in her grade make fun of her.
She says she likes the way she talks.
I take them from her, they're cashmere and
she's probably gotten peanut butter on
them, she's always scooping
around in jars of the stuff.
What did I tell you, Izzy?
I say,
poking her in the middle of the forehead.
Don't touch my stuff.
She giggles like an idiot and I have to
hustle her inside while I shut the door.
If it were up to her she would
follow me around all day like a dog.
By the time I make it out of the house,
Lindsay's leaning out
the window of the Tank.
That's what we call her car,
an enormous silver Range Rover.
Every time we drive around in it at least
one person says that thing's not a car,
it's a truck.
And Lindsay claims she could go
head to head with an 18 wheeler and
come out without a scratch.
She and Ally are the only two of us
with cars that actually belong to them.
Ally's car is a tiny black
Jetta that we named Mini Me.
I get to borrow my mom's Accord sometimes.
Poor Elody has to make do with her
father's ancient tan Ford Taurus
which hardly runs anymore.
The air is still and freezing cold,
the sky is a perfect pale blue.
The sun has just risen weak and watery
looking like it has just spilled itself
over the horizon and
is too lazy to clean itself up.
It's supposed to storm later but
you'd never know.
I get into the passenger seat.
Lindsay's already smoking and she
jesters with the end of her cigarette to
the Dunkin Donuts' coffee she got for me.
Bagels?
I say.
In the back.
Sesame?
Obviously.
She looks me over once so
she pulls out of my driveway.
Nice skirt.
You too.
Lindsay tips her head
acknowledging the compliment,
we're actually wearing the same skirt.
There are only two days of
the year when Lindsay, Ally,
Elody and I deliberately dress the same.
Pajama day during spirit week because
we all bought cute matching sets at
Victoria's Secret last Christmas,
and Cupid Day.
We spent three hours at the mall
arguing about whether to go for
pink or red outfits.
Lindsay hates pink.
Ally lives in it.
And we finally settled
on black mini skirts and
some red fur trimmed tank tops we found
in the clearance bin at Nordstrom.
Like I said, those are the only
times we deliberately look alike.
But the truth is that at my high school,
Thomas Jefferson,
everyone kinda looks the same.
There's no official uniform.
It's a public school.
But you'll see the same outfit of Seven
jeans, gray New Balance sneakers,
a white T-shirt and a colored North Face
fleece jacket on nine out of ten students.
Even the guys and the girls dressed
the same except our jeans are tighter and
we have to blow out our hair everyday.
It's Connecticut, being like the people
around you is the whole point.
That's not to say that our high
school doesn't have its freaks.
It does, but even the freaks
are freaky in the same way.
The eco geeks ride their bikes to school
and wear clothing made of hemp and
never wash their hair.
Like having dreadlocks will somehow help
curb the emission of greenhouse gasses.
The drama queens carry big bottles of
lemon tea and wear scarves even in
summer and don't talk in class because
they're conserving their voices.
The math league members always have ten
times more books than anyone else and
actually still use their lockers and
walk around with permanently
nervous expressions like they're just
waiting for somebody to yell boo.
I don't mind it actually,
sometimes Lindsay and
I make plans to run away
after graduation and
crash in a loft in New York City with this
tattoo artist her step brother knows.
But secretly, I like living in Ridgeview.
It's reassuring, if you know what I mean.
I lean forward trying to apply
mascara without gouging my eye out.
Lindsay's never been the most careful
driver and has a tendency to jerk
the wheel around, come to sudden stops and
then gun the engine.
Patrick better send me a rose,
Lindsay says as she shoots through one
stop sign and nearly breaks my neck
slamming on the breaks at the next one.
Patrick is Lindsay's on again,
off again boyfriend.
They've broken up a record 13 times
since the start of the school year.
I had to sit next to Rob while
he filled out the request form,
I say rolling my eyes.
It was like forced labor.
Rob Cokran and
I have been going out since October, but
I have been in love with him since sixth
grade, when he was too cool to talk to me.
Rob was my first crush, or
at least my first real crush.
I did once kiss Kent McFuller
in third grade.
But that obviously doesn't count since
we just exchanged dandelion rings and
were pretending to be husband and wife.
Last year, I got 22 roses.
Lindsay flicks her cigarette butt
out of the window and leans over for
a slurp of coffee.
I'm going for 25 this year.
Each year before cupid day, the student
council sets up a booth outside the gym.
For $2 each, you can buy your friend's
valograms, roses with little notes
attached to them, and then they get
delivered by cupids, usually freshman or
sophomore girls trying to get in good with
the upperclassmen throughout the day.
I'd be happy with 15, I say,
it's a big deal how many roses you get,
you can tell who's popular and who isn't
by the number of roses they're holding.
It's bad if you get under ten and
humiliating if you don't get more than
five, it basically means that
you're either ugly or unknown.
Probably both.
Sometimes people scavenge for
dropped roses to add to their bouquets.
But you can always tell.
So, Lindsay shoots me a sideways glance.
Are you excited?
The big day opening night?
She laughs, [LAUGH] no pun intended.
I shrug and turn toward the window,
watching my breath frost the pane.
It's no big deal.
Rob's parents are away this weekend, and
a couple of weeks ago he asked me if I
could spend the whole night at his house.
I knew he was really asking
if I wanted to have sex.
We've gotten semi close a few times but
it's always been in the back of his dad's
BMW or in somebody's basement or
in my den with my parents asleep upstairs.
And it's always felt wrong.
So when he asked me to stay the night
I said yes without thinking about it.
Lindsay squeals and
hits her palm against the steering wheel.
No big deal?
Are you kidding.
My baby's growing up.
Please, I feel heat
creeping up my neck and
know my skin's probably going red and
splotchy.
It does this whenever I'm embarrassed.
All the dermatologists, creams, and
powders in Connecticut don't help.
When I was younger kids used to sing,
what’s red and white and weird all over?
Sam Kingston.
I shake my head a little and
rub the vapor off the window.
Outside the world sparkles like
it's been coated in varnish.
When did you and Patrick do it anyway?
Like three months ago?
Yeah, but we've been making up for
lost time since then.
Lindsay rocks against her seat, gross.
Don't worry kid, you'll be fine.
Don't call me kid.
This is one reason I'm happy I decided
to have sex with Rob tonight, so
Lindsay and
Elody won't make fun of me anymore.
Thankfully, since Ally is still a virgin,
it means I won't be
the very last one either.
Sometimes I feel like out of the four of
us, I'm always the one tagging along,
just there for the ride.
I told you it was no big deal,
if you say so.
Lindsay has made me nervous.
So I count all the mailboxes as we go by.
I wonder if by tomorrow everything
will look different to me.
I wonder if I'll look different
to other people, I hope so.
We pull up to Elody's house and
before Lindsay can even honk, the front
door swings open and Elody starts
picking her way down the icy walk way.
Balancing on three inch heels like she
can't get out of her house fast enough.
Nipply outside much?
Lindsay says when Elody
slides into the car.
As usual, she's wearing only a thin
leather jacket even though the weather
report said the high
would be in the mid 20s.
What's the point in looking
cute if you can't show it off?
Elody shimmies her boobies and
we crack up.
It's impossible to stay
stressed when she's around and
the knot in my stomach loosens.
Elody makes a clawing gesture with
her hand and I pass her a coffee.
We all take it the same way,
large hazelnut, no sugar, extra cream.
Watch where you're sitting,
you'll squish the bagels,
Lindsay frowns into the rear view mirror.
You know you want a piece of this,
Elody gives her butt a smack and
we all laugh again.
Save it for Muffin you horndog,
Steve Dough is Elody's latest victim,
she calls him Muffin because of his
last name and because he's yummy.
She says, he looks too greasy for
me and he always smells like pot,
they've been hooking up for
a month and a half now.
Elody's the most experienced of any of us,
she lost her virginity sophomore year and
has already had sex with
two different guys.
She was the one who told me she
was sore after the first couple
of times she had sex which made
me ten times more nervous.
It may sound crazy but I never really
though of it as something physical,
something that would make you sore
like soccer or horse back riding.
I'm scared that I won't know what to do,
like when we used to play basketball in
gym and I'd always forget who I
was supposed to be guarding or
when I should pass the ball and
when I should dribble it.
[SOUND] Muffin, Elody puts a hand
on her stomach, I'm starving.
There's a bagel for you, I say.
Sesame, Elody asks.
Obviously, Lindsay and
I say at the same time.
Lindsay winks at me.
Just before we get to school
we roll down the windows and
blast Mary J Blige's no more drama.
I close my eyes and think back to
homecoming and my first kiss with Rob,
when he pulled me toward
him on the dance floor and
suddenly my lips were on his and
his tongue was sliding under my tongue.
And I could feel the heat from all
the colored lights pressing down on
me like a hand.
And the music seemed to echo somewhere
behind my ribs making my heart flutter and
skip in time.
The cold air coming through
the window makes my throat hurt, and
the bass comes through the soles
of my feet just like it did
that night when I thought
I would never be happier.
It goes all the way up to my head
making me dizzy like the whole car is
going to split apart from the sound.
Popularity: an analysis.
Popularity is a weird thing.
You can't really define it and
it's not cool to talk about it.
But you know it when you see it,
like a lazy eye or porn.
Lindsay is gorgeous, but
the rest of us aren't that much
prettier than anybody else.
Here are my good traits,
big green eyes, straight white teeth,
high cheekbones, long legs.
Here are my bad traits, a too-long nose,
skin that gets blotchy when I’m nervous,
a flat butt.
Becky DiFiore’s just as pretty as Lindsay,
and
I don’t think Becky even had
a date to junior homecoming.
Ally's boobs are pretty big, but
mine are borderline non-existent.
When Lindsay's in a bad
mood she calls me Samuel.
Not Sam or Samantha.
And it's not like we're shiny perfect or
our breath always smells like lilacs or
something.
Lindsay once had a burping contest with
Jonas Sasnoff in the cafeteria and
everyone applauded her.
Sometimes Elody wears fuzzy
yellow slippers to school.
I once laughed so
hard in Social Studies, I spit up vanilla
latte all over Jake Sommer's desk.
A month later, we made out in
Lilly Angler's tool shed, he was bad.
The point is, we can do things like that,
you know why?
Because we're popular, and
we're popular because we can get away
with everything, so it's circular.
I guess what I'm saying is,
there's no point in analyzing it.
If you draw a circle, there will
always be an inside and an outside.
And unless you're a total nutjob,
it's pretty easy to see which is which.
It's just what happens.
I'm not gonna lie though.
It's nice that everything's easy for us.
It's a good feeling knowing you can
basically do whatever you want and
there won't be any consequences.
When we get out of high school, we'll look
back and know we did everything right.
That we kissed the cutest boys, and
went to the best parties,
got in just enough trouble.
Listened to our music too loud.
Smoked too many cigarettes.
And drank too much and laughed too much
and listened too little or not at all.
If high school were a game of poker,
Lindsay, Ally,
Elody, and
I would be holding 80% of the cards.
And believe me, I know what it's
like to be on the other side.
I was there for the first half of my life.
The bottom of the bottom,
lowest of the low.
I know what it's like to have
to squabble and pick and
fight over what's left of the leftovers.
So now, I have first pick of everything,
so what?
That's the way it is.
Nobody ever said life was fair.
We pull into the parking lot exactly
ten minutes before first bell.
Lindsay guns it toward the lower lot,
where the faculty spaces are scattering
a group of sophomore girls.
I can see red and white lace dresses
peeking out under their coats and
one of them is wearing a tiara.
Cupids, definitely.
Come on, come on, come on.
Lindsay mutters as we pull behind the gym.
This is the only row in the lower
lot not reserved for staff.
We call it senior alley,
even though Lindsay's been
parking here since junior year.
It's the VIP of parking at Jefferson and
if you miss out on the spot,
there are only 20 of them.
You have to park all the way in
the upper lot which is a full 0.22 miles
from the main entrance.
We checked one time and now whenever we
talk about it, we have to use the exact
distance like, do you really wanna
walk 0.22 miles in this rain?
Lindsay squeals when she sees an open
space, jerking her wheel to the left.
At the same time,
Sarah Grundel is pulling up
her brown Chevrolet from the other
direction, angling it into the spot.
Hell no, no way.
Lindsay leans on the horn, even though
it's obvious Sarah was here before us,
then presses her foot on the accelerator.
Elody shrieks as hot coffee
sloshes all over her shirt.
There is the high pitched squeal of rubber
and Sara Grundel slams on her brakes
just before Lindsey's Range Rover
takes off her bumper.
Nice.
Lindsey pulls into the spot and
throws her car in park.
Then she opens her door and leans out.
Sorry sweetie, she calls to Sarah.
I didn't see you there.
This is obviously a lie.
Great, Elody is mopping up coffee with
a balled up Dunkin Donuts napkin.
Now, I get to go around all day with
my boobs smelling like hazelnut.
Guys like food smells, I say.
I read it in glamour.
Put a cookie down your pants and Muffin
will probably jump you before homeroom.
Lindsay flips down the rearview mirror and
checks her face.
Maybe you should try it with Rob, Sammy.
Elody throws the coffee stained napkin
at me and I catch it and peg it back.
What?
She's laughing, you didn't think I'd
forget about your big night, did you?
She fishes in her bag and the next thing
that flies over the seat is a crumpled up
condom with bits of tobacco
stuck to its wrapper.
Lindsay cracks up.
You're pagans, I say,
taking the condom with two fingers and
dropping it in Lindsay's
glove compartment.
Just touching it gets my
nerves going again, and
I can feel something twist
at the bottom of my stomach.
I’ve never understood why condoms
are kept in those little foil wrappers.
They look so clinical,
like something your doctor would prescribe
for allergies or intestinal problems.
No glove, no love, Elody says leaning
forward and kissing my cheek.
She leaves a big circle
of pink lip gloss there.
Come on, I get out of the car
before they can see I'm blushing.
Mr. Otto, the athletic director,
is standing outside the gym when
we're getting out of the car.
Probably checking out our asses.
Elody thinks the reason he insisted
his office be right next to the girl's
dressing room is because he rigged up
a camera feed from his computer to
the toilet.
Why else would he even need a computer,
he's the athletic director.
Now every time I pee in
the gym I get paranoid.
Move it ladies, he calls to us.
He's also the soccer coach which
is ironic since he probably
couldn't run to the vending machine and
back.
He looks like a walrus,
he even has a mustache.
I don't want to have to
give you a late slip.
I don't wanna have to spank you.
I do an impression of his voice
which is strangely high pitched.
Another reason Elody thinks
he might be a pedophile.
Elody and Lindsay crack up.
Two minutes to bell,
Otto says more sharply.
Maybe he heard me I don't really care.
Happy Friday, Lindsay grumbles and
puts her arm through mine.
Elody has taken out her cellphone and is
checking her teeth in its reflective back,
picking out sesame seeds
with a pinky nail.
This sucks, she says without looking up.
Totally, I say.
Fridays are the hardest in some ways.
You're so close to freedom.
Kill me, now.
No way.
Lindsay squeezes my arm.
Can't let my best friend die a virgin.
You see, we didn't know,
my first two periods, art and AHAP,
American history advanced placement, AHAP,
history's always been my best subject.
I get only five roses.
I'm not that stressed about it,
although it does kind of piss me off that
Eileen Cho gets four roses from
her boyfriend, Ian Dowell.
It didn't even occur to
me to ask Rob to do that.
And in a way, I don't think it's fair.
It makes people think you've
got more friends than you do.
As soon as I make it to chemistry Mr.
Tierney announces a pop quiz.
This is a big problem since one,
I haven't understood a word
of my homework in four weeks.
Okay, so I stopped trying after week one.
And two, Mr. Tierney's always threatening
to phone in failing grades to
college admissions committees.
Since a lot of us haven't
been accepted to school, yet.
I'm not sure whether he's serious or
whether he's just trying to
keep the seniors in line.
But there is no way I'm letting some
fascist teacher ruin my chances of getting
into BU.
Even worse,
I'm sitting next to Lauren Lornet,
possibly the only person in the class
more clueless about this stuff than I am.
