One Tiny Secret - By Adam Kunz Page 0,6
Gunnar’s too perfect. With his pristinely combed blond hair and his all-American boy fashion sense, he’s kind of like a walking Abercrombie and Fitch ad or something.
The huge grin on his face, reminds me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. It can only mean one thing: he loves the flyer.
The moment he found out I was a “Photoshop genius” (his words, not mine), I had the pleasure of designing it for him. All I did was make him look good in one picture in the school’s newspaper featuring his winning touchdown. After that, he wanted me to edit everything for him. He even went to the paper’s faculty advisor, Mr. Whitman, and requested that I be the only one overseeing the photos for the entire football team. Little did he know, I already do that. The newspaper staff isn’t really all that big, after all.
“You seem to be in a good mood, Gunnar,” I greet him.
“Yep, and it’s all thanks to you. I got your email this morning, and the flyer looks legit. They’ve already been printed and distributed. Thanks again for doing that last minute.”
“No problem. But remember, if things go south, I had nothing to do with that flyer or this party, okay?”
He lets out a little laugh. “Just as we agreed.”
“Good.”
“See you tomorrow?” he asks with inflection and a smile.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, smiling back.
As Gunnar continues down the hall, I notice a small group of girls standing off to the side next to a row of lockers, all of them glaring at me. Uh-oh, looks like my little chat stirred up some trouble in girl world.
“Hey, Dani,” I hear one of the girls, Portia, call out to me when I pass. Her voice is laced with cattiness and sarcasm. I’ve never understood girls like her.
Deciding to be the bigger person, I stop, turn to face her, and reply, “Hi, Portia.”
An odd silence falls between us, almost like she wasn’t expecting me to answer her.
“So,” I add, “are you going to the party tomorrow?”
“And what party would that be?” she drawls.
Realizing I’m going to get nowhere with this conversation, I say, “Right. I’ve got to get to class. See you later.”
“Laters,” she replies while twirling a lock of her bright red curly hair around her finger.
I hate to say it, but she fits the stereotype for every mean girl who’s ever walked the halls of a high school. I hear the chatter between the group behind me as I walk away. It sounds like a bunch of hens fighting over some chicken feed, accented by popping bubble gum sounds. Portia’s probably just irked because all it took for me to get the attention of the “it” guy at school was making a cool flyer, whereas she’s been trying everything in her bag of tricks to get him to notice her for years.
The door to Mr. Whitman’s office is closed, which is strange because he has an open-door policy. Besides, he’s usually expecting me for my independent study.
I knock and hear some scurrying around on the other side. His muffled voice sounds through the door. “Come in.”
As I open it, I see him positioned behind his desk. A woman sits in one of the two chairs across from him. She turns to look at me and smiles when I enter the room.
“Ah, Dani. Perfect timing. This is Mrs. Summerton. She’s the head of the journalism department at Blackburn University,” Mr. Whitman says, motioning in her direction.
Mrs. Summerton stands and reaches her hand out for mine. “Mr. Whitman’s told me so much about you, Dani. To be honest, he’s been talking my ear off,” she says playfully as I shake her hand.
Mr. Whitman laughs. “Guilty as charged. Dani is one of my best pupils, and I honestly believe she’s a perfect fit for your program, Gloria.”
“I have no doubt, Harry. I can’t wait to read her admissions essay.” She sends me another smile. “Especially if she’s as good a writer as you’ve built her up to be.”
“Oh, she is, I assure you,” Mr. Whitman replies.
“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Dani. I look forward to hopefully sending you an acceptance letter.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Summerton. I look forward to receiving that letter,” I say, reciprocating her smile.
As she begins to leave the room, I turn to Mr. Whitman with a look of surprise plastered across my face. He beams with delight, and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing I am.
“You’re a shoo-in,” he