Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,37

glue, “that tape is the clincher.”

One week later at the holiday assembly, immediately after the choral concert, in the fevered final moments before the start of Christmas vacation, Principal Laughlin ventured to the microphone, awards in hand. After commending the entire student body for its unprecedented display of “esprit” despite the harsh reality of the austerity year, and after thanking Mrs. Quivers and her janitorial staff in advance for the task of dismantling the displays, he explained that the day’s winners would receive 250 Spirit Points to add to their Spirit Point account. Spirit Points would one day be transferred into dollars—one day, when there was money. So far the junior class, our class, held the distant lead—1,750 points as compared to 175 for the sophomores, 50 for the freshmen, and none for the seniors.

Laughlin waited for complete silence, then he cleared his throat. “And now, according to a unanimous decision by our distinguished panel of judges composed of administrators, faculty, parents, and local business leaders, the junior class has won! Again!”

We flew out of our seats and rushed the aisles, jumping and hugging and screaming so loudly that no one heard the dismissal bell. All the former sports stars joined in too. Mike Stern and L. B. Strickland and Peter Palumbo raised Denny onto their shoulders and carried him around in wild, tipping circles.

But in May of the second term, a budget was approved for the following year. Sports programs were to be restored; austerity was over. Ironically, cuts for the humanities persisted—the board’s excuse was that the arts had done perfectly well without financial support. To some, the end of austerity meant the potential recovery of former glories and an opportunity to enhance college applications. To others, it meant a return to chronic disappointment and systemic inequity—no more oneness, no more euphoria, no more spirit.

Marty was finishing his yearbook address. Hands clapped flatly, lightly, like damp fins. Marty was okay. Maybe he wouldn’t win baseball trophies or volunteer for the Air Force or anything, but he seemed very mannishly determined about his ambivalence, and that counted for something. It takes courage to remain on the periphery, and you had to admire Marty for that, even if you couldn’t imagine having sex with him.

I’d joined the yearbook by accident in freshman year. I’d intended to go to a newspaper meeting, but I got lost. By the time I figured out I was in the wrong place, I’d been put in charge of Faculty Fun Facts. I was soon transferred into the photo department. At first I felt embarrassed, since everyone said the Yearbook Club was for losers, but when June arrived and a fragrant wind swept through the open school doors, and kids sat on the floors clutching one another’s books, flipping through the pages to see what had been written, I felt okay.

People would rap my arm. “Evie, I can’t believe you put that picture of me in there.”

When asked for my signature, I always chose the yearbook staff page because there was an unwritten rule that the place you selected had to have meaning, either factual or invented. You could sign the picture of someone you had a crush on, or you could sign near Mr. Schwab if you hated trigonometry. Every year Jack signed Troy’s book on the page with Miss Herbst, because once in freshman year Troy got food poisoning and busted out of typing class with a massive diarrhea attack.

Though I’d agreed to join the yearbook, I had not agreed to befriend the staff, yet that’s what ended up happening. Suddenly I belonged to a group, which was weird. You couldn’t help getting to know people when you worked with them under deadline, when you were stuck together all winter, pasting up copy and developing photos, listening to “Muskrat Love” and “Copacabana,” going, Do you know how much we could be getting paid for this shit? I would become cognizant of a staffer’s acne or excessive weight or hair oil or hand-me-downs only when I happened to be talking to them in the hallway and “popular” kids would pass and stare. This put me in a difficult predicament, because I was fourteen at the time. When you’re fourteen, pretty much everything puts you in a difficult predicament.

A worldview is a busy view, engrossed and industrious. To the world you are no more than you appear to be at the moment of appearance, which is frequently unjust. But in fact there are infinite subtleties to