morning. There’s a zero percent chance for an on-time arrival to third period. I’m hustling, but I’m also in a weakened state. I would eat a cupcake off the floor right now.
I’m navigating through hordes of kids in the D corridor when I round the final corner and run right into Ms. Randolph.
“Georgia! You startled me!”
I give her a big hug. Ms. R is probably my favorite teacher. As usual, she’s wearing a pencil skirt with a white blouse. Her glasses creeping to the tip of her nose. Hair in a tight bun. It works—she is straight-up teacher chic.
“How was your summer?” she asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
“Oh, the perils of high school love. It will never be so urgent, it will never be—”
“Did you read the article about Syria in the New Yorker last month?” I ask, both testing her and changing the subject.
“I did indeed. It made a few good points. Did you read the piece in the Atlantic?”
“No,” I admit. She’s always going to win this game. When will I learn?
“It’s your last year here, Georgia, and the Hillcrest Reporter has become more important than ever—”
Ms. Randolph is advisor for the Hillcrest Reporter, a weekly newspaper published by the journalism club. She’s been trying to recruit me to write for years. First off, the paper needs a new name. The Hillcrest Reporter? And, last time I checked, only thirty people follow them online. That’s not a paper; it’s a sad blog.
And most importantly, I’m not going to abandon an image that took three years to build. I’m the cheerleader with the funny stories, the cheerleader who dates football guys, the cheerleader who has a pretty good shot at homecoming queen. What would people think of me if I started writing exposés about the cafeteria food?
I cut her pitch off. “Sorry, Ms. Randolph. I am so busy with football season . . .”
“We don’t publish articles about the cafeteria food, Georgia.”
How does she know my thoughts?
“You can write about anything you want.”
Oh boy, she’s not going to make this easy. “I’m a reader, not a writer. I’m a cheerleader of words!” I do a couple small rah-rah-rah motions to really drive my point home.
“Georgia, the great storyteller, the spinner of tall tales. It’s a shame that you’re going to sit on the sidelines of life. And why? Because you’re afraid to write a story that’s true?”
“The truth is boring,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Especially if it involves Hillcrest High.”
I wave and take off down the hall. Ms. Randolph yells out one last attempt. “Just come to the meeting after school today, Georgia!”
I turn around and say, “Nice running into you! Let’s do lunch!”
Ms. R has clocked me correctly—I do want to write. After I finish reading an amazing article, I like to imagine what it would be like to research a story, interview people, and then type furiously on my computer all night—as my editor paces behind me—until, against all odds, I make the deadline. Then I win the Pulitzer, the Nobel Peace Prize, and all the other prizes, no big deal.
This obsession with journalism is my dad’s fault. My earliest memories are of him napping on the couch surrounded by newspapers. Even now, there are always rapidly growing stacks of magazines and newspapers around the house. It gives the place a real hoarder feel.
Dad didn’t push reading on me, I just picked up a newspaper one day and haven’t put them down since. There’s nothing like reading an article that broadens my horizons or whatever. So yeah, it would be cool to write something like that. Just not now.
None of my friends know about my secret dream—it’s way too nerdy.
I push open the door to Advanced Calculus and immediately spot Pony in the front row. This is our fourth class together. How is that possible? In a school this big, that kind of schedule alignment is nearly impossible. Fate much? I walk past and act like I don’t even see him.
PONY, 12:07 P.M.
Here I am, living my dream life, eating lunch in my car. I’ll make friends eventually, but I’m dining solo today. I’m fine with it. I’m listening to my favorite movie podcast. It’s the one that tells the behind-the-scenes stories of iconic movies. This episode is about one of the funniest movies ever, The Princess Bride.
I packed a sandwich stuffed with last night’s brisket covered in BBQ sauce. I’m taking my first huge bite when my phone stops the podcast and starts ringing. It’s my sister.