had already spoken and that I might be able to take cover.
Of course, I picked wrong.
“Hey, all. Caleb,” the guy right in front of me said, in an authoritative way that made it sound like he assumed everyone already knew that. I liked his voice: confident, as sure of his place as I was unsure of mine. “I went to Tanzania this summer, which was totally cool. First my family and I climbed Kilimanjaro, and my quads were sore for like weeks. And then I volunteered with a group building a school in a rural village. So, you know, I gave back a little. All in all, a great summer, but I’m happy to be home. I really missed Mexican food.” I started to clap after he was done—he climbed Kilimanjaro and built a school, for God’s sake, of course we were supposed to clap—but stopped as soon as I realized I was the only one. Caleb was wearing a plain gray T-shirt and designer jeans and was good-looking in a not-intimidating sort of way, his features just bland enough that he could be the kind of guy who I could possibly, one day, maybe, okay, probably not, date. Not really attainable, no, not at all, too hot for me, but the fantasy wasn’t so outrageous that I couldn’t revel in it for just a moment.
The shaggy guy sitting right in front of me was up next, and he too was cute, almost an equal to his friend.
Hmm. Maybe I’d surprise myself and end up liking it here after all. I’d have a great fantasy life, if not a real one.
“As you guys know, I’m Liam. I spent the first month interning at Google up in the Bay Area, which was great. Their cafeteria alone was worth the trip. And then I backpacked in India for most of August.” A good voice too. Melodic.
“Backpacked, my ass,” Caleb—Kilimanjaro-gray-T-shirt-guy—said, and the rest of the class laughed, including the teacher. I didn’t, because as usual I was a moment too late. I was too busy wondering how a high school kid gets an internship at Google and realizing that if this is my competition, I’m never getting into college. And okay, I was also checking out those two guys, wondering what their deal was. Caleb, his climb up Kilimanjaro notwithstanding, had a clean-cut frat-boy vibe, while Liam was more hipster cool. An interesting yin and yang.
“Whatever. Fine, I didn’t backpack. My parents wouldn’t let me go unless I promised to stay in nice hotels, because, you know, Delhi belly and all. But still, I feel like I got a real sense of the culture and a great application essay out of the deal, which was the point,” Liam said, and of course by then, I had caught on and knew not to clap.
“And you? What’s your name?” said the teacher, who I later found out was Mr. Shackleman, the gym teacher SN warned me likes to stare at girls’ asses. “I don’t recognize you from last year.” Not sure why he had to point so the whole class looked at me, but no big deal, I told myself. This was a first grader’s assignment: what did I do with my summer vacation? No reason for my hands to be shaking and my pulse to be racing; no reason for me to feel like I was in the early stages of congestive heart failure. I knew the signs. I had seen the commercials. All eyes were on me, including those of Caleb and Liam, both of whom were looking with amusement and suspicion. Or maybe it was curiosity. I couldn’t tell.
“Um, hi, I’m Jessie. I’m new here. I didn’t do anything exciting this summer. I mean, I…I moved here from Chicago, but until then, I worked, um, at, you know, the Smoothie King at the mall.” No one was rude enough to laugh outright, but this time I could easily read their looks. Straight-up pity. They had built schools and traveled to foreign locales, interned at billion-dollar corporations.
I had spent my two months off blending high-fructose corn syrup.
In retrospect, I realize I should have lied and said I helped paraplegic orphans in Madagascar. No one would have batted an eye.
Or clapped, for that matter.
“Wait. I don’t have you on my list,” Mr. Shackleman said. “Are you a senior?”
“Um, no,” I said, feeling a bead of sweat release and streak the side of my face. Quick calculation: would wiping it bring more or less attention