Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters (13 page)

“Oh, nooooo!” Em exclaims, breathing into her hands for warmth as we walk. “She didn’t believe you about Lori?”

“Not so much, no. And not only didn’t she believe me, but now I think she actually hates me! Which is incredibly ironic, if you want my opinion.”

“Come on,” JoJo says, always the optimist, “you guys are just having a moment. Like when my dad hit his second drummer in the head with a guitar and they didn’t speak for, like, six years. It’ll blow over.”

“Thanks, JoJo. That’s … very reassuring. But honestly? I think I’m done. I mean, hello? She betrayed
me.
And I still tried to be a good friend! And what do I get? Nothing!”

“Kels, you know I decided to stay—”

“I know, I know—you’re staying neutral. Everyone is neutral. Well, then, you guys can buy me some pizza. Because guess what?”

“What?” Em opens the door to Antonio’s and a delicious wave of cheese and warm bread hits us.

“I’m not a goalie anymore! I’m free! The nightmare is over!”

20

Winter break slides by in a blur of holiday shopping with my friends, reminding Lexi that she could wear a garbage bag and still look amazing at the upcoming winter formal, sleeping in, consoling Em when James doesn’t respond to her e-mails, wondering what is happening in the Cassidy-Jordan-Lori love triangle, being harassed by my parents for not helping them clean out the basement, and eating way too much pie. Before I even blink, school is upon me again. How does that happen? Infuriating.

On the morning of our first day back at school, I’m walking down the hall to class when I see a new sheet on the activities board. It’s audition sign-ups for the spring musical.

Auditions are going to be held in two weeks, and the show is
Fiddler on the Roof.
Which is a pretty uninspired and stodgy choice, if you ask me. What, does the costume department have a giant pile of head kerchiefs lying around and that’s what they based their decision on? I remember watching the movie at Hebrew school in, like, fifth grade, and I was not impressed. I mean, not to disrespect my people, but what’s so interesting about a bunch of Jews dancing around with bottles on their heads?

I take a closer look at the flyer. There’s only one name on it so far—N
ED
G
ARMAN
, in block letters. Evil Cassidy will be all about this; she’s been waiting for the spring musical since day one. The wheels in my head start turning in a most devilish manner. What if … what if I audition, too? And what if I get a part and she doesn’t? That would definitely give her a tiny taste of the pain she’s caused me this year. Which would totally serve her right.

Oh, petty revenge! Don’t knock it till you try it.

But do I even want to be
in
a play? Could I actually get cast? I’ve never been in one that wasn’t enforced as part of a ridiculous school requirement, i.e., dressing up as a ladybug and reciting “Ladybug, Ladybug, Fly Away Home” during a second-grade assembly. (I was excellent, if I do say so myself—it was an extremely moving performance.)

What if I’ve been sitting on this untapped well of theatrical talent for years and didn’t even know it? What if said talent is just waiting to be unleashed amid a group of singing, melancholy Jewish villagers? I mean, I
can
sing—at least in the shower. I know I’m not tone deaf, since I wasn’t one of the kids asked to lip-sync in elementary school choir.

So maybe I could get a part as one of the daughters or something. Of course, it’s more likely that only the upperclassmen will get parts—seriously, high school is the most ageist place in the universe. But what if I auditioned and got a lead role, out of nowhere, and all the drama geeks—including their oh-so-cool leader, Ned Garman—would be like,
Really? Kelsey Finkelstein?

Maybe JoJo and Em will audition, too, and we can all be in it together. That would be so fun! The longer I stand here thinking about it, the better this idea sounds. The only real cons I can come up with are that, one, being in a show with Cass would be even more awkward than just being at school with her (not to mention sharing a couple of best friends), and two, I don’t know any songs from musicals to try out with except “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” from
Oklahoma
. Which I don’t think would do anything so much as annoy the hell out of Mr. Zinner, the drama teacher (whom I’ve never spoken to but have seen going in and out of the theater building. One word:
combover
).

The bell rings, and I quickly scribble my name on the list. Why not? I can always change my mind.

By the end of the next day, I notice the sign-up sheet for the play has filled up pretty substantially. Cassidy’s name is on there, of course, and a lot of people I don’t know at all. The auditions aren’t far off, so if I’m going to do this thing, I guess I’d better figure out my strategy.

I grab Em, who I convinced to try out as well to distract from her broken heart, and we head over to the school library. The plan is to get sheet music for something we can sing at our auditions. It turns out there are about ten thousand musical scores back there, most of them dog-eared and marked up. Who knew our school was so well stocked with that sort of thing?

Apparently I’m not the only one with the brilliant idea to try the library; I hear some low talking and peer through a bookcase to the other side of the section. There’s a group of kids sitting at a round table, surrounded by pages and pages of music, and of course Ned is holding court—blissfully without Julie for once.

Ned drones on while pointing to different books, and the other kids are listening to him like he’s the Dalai Lama. “Blah blah blah choosing your song,” he says. “Blah blah your soul, blah blah show your range blah blah unsung musicals blah blah out of the box.”

Em and I start leafing through the books on our side of the shelves. I whisper, “Gee willikers, I sure hope something ‘out of the box’ will reach out and grab me.”

Em giggles and peeks through at Ned’s group again. “Hey, are they holding hands? Is it a prayer group or something?”

I glance over, and Ned and his followers are indeed holding hands in a circle around the table with their eyes closed.

“You better not have convinced me to be in some kind of cult, Kels!”

“Yeah, because I really want to join a cult. That’s priority number one for me, Em, didn’t I mention that?”

“You know, Cassidy could probably help us pick—”

“Don’t start that again.” Em has been dropping little you-guys-should-make-up hints like this since Cass and I had our last exchange at the soccer game—which was weeks ago now. “Look, I know it’s weird with us not being friends, but I’m not the one who—”

“SHHHHHHHHH!”

Yikes. A very intense-looking girl wearing even more eyeliner than Ned is pressing her face right up against the space in the bookcase and glaring at us. She must be a very good actress, because I am totally scared. Em and I quickly grab our stuff, stifling nervous laughter, and hightail it out of there.

That night, I head to my room to do some homework after dinner, and the first book I pull out is a score from the library. Oops. Guess I forgot to actually check it out when Em and I were running for our lives from the theater kids. It’s for a show called
Wicked,
which I’ve never seen but I know has something to do with
The Wizard of Oz
.

I thumb through it and it looks pretty good to me—I mean, I don’t know anything about musicals, so it might as well be this one. At least I’ve heard of it.

I go downstairs and plunk out a few songs on the piano with one finger. Good thing I had all those piano lessons, huh? Ha. I kind of like this one song, “Defying Gravity,” which appears to be the big showstopper. I guess I should see if I can find someone singing it on YouTube for comparison, but it seems really easy to sing and the words aren’t hard to remember.

So I guess that’s that.

Assuming I decide to go through with the audition, of course.

21

On Friday, three days later, the crack newspaper photographer strikes yet again. I’m in study hall when Ana Blau passes a copy of the new
Reflector
to me. It’s open to the features section. A picture in the middle of the page is circled with pink highlighter and underneath is written
Is this YOU?!?!

It’s a story about the cafeteria workers. The picture shows five of them standing together, smiling … and me. Standing slightly apart, and facing a bit sideways, but definitely in line with the group. Also, I’m not actually looking at the camera, which makes me look like there is something seriously wrong with my face.

I suddenly realize that this must have been the source of the giant flash when I was leaving the caf the day Lexi stood up to Julie for me. Ugh—that’s the thing about school papers. All the “news” is a month old, so you can’t even put horrendous moments in history behind you. Not if some kid decides to write a story about them, anyway.

I look closely at the outfit I’m wearing in the picture. Dark skinny jeans and a white long-sleeved T-shirt under a kelly green V-neck sweater. The cafeteria staff wear black pants and blue V-neck vests over white collared shirts, but in the black-and-white photo, if you just glance quickly at it … I totally look like a member of the caf staff. (Who ripped off her hairnet on her way to execute an emergency inspection of a vat of creamed corn or something. Ostensibly with her one good eye.)

Well, isn’t that a
delight
.

I look over at Ana and mime shooting myself in the head. She makes a WTF face at me, then immediately goes for her phone. Excellent. Within minutes, my whole grade will think that I moonlight as a mashed potato scooper.

This is the last straw—S
TAFF
P
HOTOGRAPHER
, I am coming for you. And it’s not going to be pretty.

I text Lexi to meet me at the
Reflector
office the second lunch starts. I have a feeling that putting in an appearance at the caf today isn’t in my best interest—unless I feel like serving meat loaf to hysterically laughing classmates. Based on the looks I’m getting in the hall between classes, I have a feeling a few other people saw this month’s Features section as well.

Lexi is waiting for me, leaning casually up against the door frame. “Hey, Kels!” she says. “Thanks so much for offering to come with me. I know it’s silly to be nervous, but—”

“Oh, no problem! Let’s go.” I practically yank her arm off dragging her through the door. And … no one is inside. It’s just a classroom with a bunch of computers on a long table and a Xerox machine in the corner. On the walls are bulletin boards with all kinds of lists on them, probably of upcoming stories or whatever. I’m amazed there isn’t one that says “Destructive Candids of Kelsey Finkelstein Earmarked for Future Use.”

But on the wall I see a contact list. Excellent. I’ll just find out who the photographer that took those pictures is, and—

“Hey, can I help you guys with something?”

I whirl around, startled. In the doorway is a guy I don’t remember seeing at school before. He’s definitely not a freshman. He’s definitely not ugly. He’s—

“Oh, hiiiii,” Lexi purrs, slinking over to him. For someone who was so nervous about looking like a dork, she seems to have recovered extremely well. “I’m Lexi Bradley. I was wondering about writing for the paper?” She cocks her head to the side coquettishly and extends her hand. He shakes it, though I’m pretty sure he’d much rather give her a full-body search.

“Well, we’re always looking for new writers,” he says warmly. His eyes are very dark, and they crinkle at the corners when he smiles. I’d probably find that adorable if I weren’t so furious about the K. Finkelstein Series of Embarrassing Selective Photography. “You need to talk to Kate, the editor in chief. I can give you her e-mail, um … lemme just grab a piece of paper.” He takes a piece of blank paper out of the copy machine and scribbles some stuff on it. Then he glances over at me. “Are you a writer, too?” he asks.

“What? No. No, I’m here to file a complaint.” I slam the side of my hand down on the desk, much harder than I had intended. Now I’ve both made a loud noise
and
hurt my hand. I decide to pretend it didn’t happen and move on. I stealthily tuck my injured hand behind my back. “So, yes. I want to file a complaint and request that, um …”

I grind to a halt because the guy is biting his lip like he’s trying not to laugh. Also adorable, and even more infuriating. “Oh. Okay,” he says. “Well, I’m the only one here at the moment, so … I guess you can, um, file it with me? I’m—”

“She’s looking for whoever takes the pictures,” Lexi jumps in helpfully. She winks at me from behind the guy’s back and then sidles up next to him. Okay, yes, he is
very
cute. But whose side is she on here, anyway?

“Oh. Well, we don’t really have a budget for camera equipment, so people just submit stuff. But … why, what happened?”

“Well, for some reason I keep ending up in these extremely unflat—”

“Do you want some ice for that?” The guy nods in the direction of my hand, which does look a bit red, actually. Dammit.

“No, thank you. I want to—”

“Because I could get you some from the teachers’ lounge next door. I wouldn’t want you to have to file a second complaint for acquiring an injury in the newspaper office.” He grins teasingly, his eyes crinkling up at the corners again.

This guy is totally making fun of me!
I think.
Or maybe he’s flirting with me? Agh, why is it so hard to tell?

I think I hate him.

“I want to find out who submitted certain pictures of me, then,” I tell him. “How many people do you have doing that? Isn’t there a … record? I mean, I don’t know why I’d be singled out, but they’re extremely horrible and you guys need to check things a little more carefully from now on! I mean, this is the newspaper, right? Isn’t fact-checking supposed to be a big deal around here?” Why did I think this was a good idea, again? I give Lexi a look, like,
Help, please.