Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters (14 page)

“Yeah, like this picture today,” Lexi offers, picking up a copy of the new edition from one of the desks and opening it to the features section.
Oh, no
. Can we not employ hideous visual aids, please? “See this? Kelsey doesn’t work for the caf staff. She isn’t even wearing a vest!”

He looks at the picture, and I think his head might actually explode from trying to hold his laughter in.

“Wow.” He takes the picture and looks at it closely, and then over at me. “That is … definitely a terrible oversight. I’m sure that, uh, Kate will feel really bad about this—she does the final check of everything before we go to print. But you know, we don’t have a whole lot of time to get everything together for each issue. We’re a pretty small staff. And the file with the JPEGs is kind of a mess. It’s the last thing that gets done when we’re laying out the issue—you know, we just kind of grab stuff. I mean, if you wanted to come back, maybe you could sift through them all and try to figure out who brought the ones of you in? It might take a while, though.”

Oh, yeah, sure. Let’s set up my return appointment right now. Can’t wait.

“If it makes you feel better,” he continues, “I wouldn’t have known this was you. Seriously.” And … cue eye crinkling.

I think I’ve amused this guy enough for one day. Time to wrap it up.

“Great, well, could you just ask Kate or whoever to not put in any more pictures with me in the background? You’ll have Lexi on your staff now, so hopefully she can, you know, help with that. Fact-checking and picture, um, cropping.”
Terrific, Kelsey. Anything else you’d like to add while you’re at your most eloquent?

I start moving toward the door, which seems like the best course of action. The guy, still smiling, turns on one of the computers and takes a folder out of his messenger bag. “Right. Well, I’ll definitely pass on your message …”

“Kelsey,” Lexi offers. “Kelsey Finkelstein. And I’m Lexi.”

“Got it. Kelsey and Lexi. School paper enthusiasts.”

“What? No, not enthusiasts,” I correct him hastily. “Beleaguered, disgruntled—”

“You’ve got a pretty impressive vocabulary for a freshman,” he interrupts. “You sure you don’t want to write for the paper?”

Okay, he’s definitely making fun of me. Right?

“Just please tell her about the pictures, okay? Thanks. So, Lexi, let’s … Lex, we’re leaving now. Hello?”

I finally manage to drag Lexi off her perch on the corner of the computer table, where both she and Mr. Smiley Eyes are admiring her hair. Once we’re out of earshot, she says, “Kels. That guy is
so hot.
And he thinks you’re really smart. Come on, work on the paper with me! Musicals are lame.”

“That guy thinks
he
is really smart. And how did he know I was a freshman, anyway?” I grumble, rubbing my wounded hand. It still hurts.

“Um, maybe he’s seen, uh …”

“Oh, don’t bother. I might as well be wearing a sign.”

Lexi giggles, looking at the sheet of paper the guy gave her. “Oh, I totally know who Kate is—Molly Izzo’s older sister.”

“Seriously? Damn! I could’ve just asked
her
about the pictures instead of taking the ‘Kelsey is a nutbar’ show to the newspaper office.”

“Yeah, but it’s such a good show,” Lexi quips. I flick her on the arm. “Besides, I needed your moral support! And anyway, then we wouldn’t have met … huh. What was that guy’s name, anyway?”

Before I can respond, Cassidy shoves past us, her arms full of sheet music books. “Excuse me! Oh, sorry,
Lexi.
” She doesn’t meet my eye, not that I want to meet hers. But when did she become such a bitch?

Lexi gives me a sympathetic look. “It’s not your fault, Kels. She’ll find out about Jordan for herself and then you’ll make up.”

“Ha! Who says I even want to make up with her, anyway?” I scoff. “And I’ll tell you something else: Musicals might be lame, but I’m auditioning for this one. And I’m gonna
kill
it.”

22

The second I get home from school, I grab the
Wicked
score, head to the living room, and plunk out my song on the piano. Not bad, if I do say so myself. But after about fifteen very intense minutes of rehearsal, I get bored and decide to head over to JoJo’s for the night.

I get to JoJo’s around seven. She and her parents just finished eating, and of course JoJo is having a glass of wine, so I figure I’ll have one, too. It must be so weird having parents who don’t have any rules. I mean, awesome, but … weird.

After her parents go upstairs, we lounge around in the living room, flipping through channels. I take a sip from the bottle of Skyy vodka JoJo brought from the kitchen—it’s not so bad on its own, actually. The taste reminds me of how nail polish remover smells, which I’ve always sort of liked. Besides, I’m starting to feel buzzed.

JoJo is sprawled in front of the TV, thumbing through DVDs. She asks, “Do you want to watch something funny or serious?”

“Whatever, I don’t care.”

“We could watch my parents’ pornos. They’re
hilarious
.”

I practically choke on a mouthful of vodka. “Um, thanks, but I’d rather just chew my arm off. How about a nice slasher film instead?”

“Suit yourself … but you never know, Kelsey, you might learn something. Which could come in handy next time you and Keith—”

“Okay—that will be all, thank you,” I interrupt hurriedly. “As you may recall, he’s not ready for a ‘comitment.’ Thank God—I have enough to deal with as it is.” Ugh. Keith Mayhew. That’s an error in judgment I won’t be making twice. I decide to swiftly change the subject.

“So,” I say slyly. “How’s my former friend Cassidy doing, anyway? I shared a
lovely
moment with her in the hall today….”

JoJo gives me her patented raised eyebrow. “Kelsey, I’m not having a Cass-bashing session.”

“I didn’t say anything mean!” I protest. “I just asked how she was!”

JoJo chugs a few swallows of vodka, then says, “She’s okay. Yes, she’s still dating Jordan, and no, she doesn’t believe you about Lori Soler.”

“Didn’t you
tell
her it was true?”

“Well, I didn’t see them together like you did … and anyway, I don’t want her to be pissed off at me, too. She asked him about it and he said it was a lie. So … she believes him. But I think she feels bad about what went down with you guys,” JoJo explains.

Ah, excellent. The wonderful, wonderful vodka is loosening JoJo’s previously impenetrable tongue. I push on. “Please. If she feels so bad about it, how come she parades around school acting like I don’t even exist? It’s beyond childish.”

“Childish? Like … trying out for a play you couldn’t care less about just to try and make her feel bad?”

“Um, that is a totally different situation! And I do so care about the play. I told you months ago, this is the year I’m going to mark up … I mean,
make
a mark! I didn’t say it
had
to be through soccer, you know. I’ve been seerearching—researching—wait, hang on.” I take a swig from the bottle and pass it back to JoJo. Man, that stuff burns the throat.

“Look, you can’t
totally
blame Cassidy,” JoJo says. “I mean, yes, she was a jerk for lying about Jordan. But why didn’t you make a move on him yourself? You’re hot! You’re awesome! You could’ve just gone for it. So … what gives?”

“JoJo, you have made some excellent points, especially the part about how Cassidy was a jerk, though I think, really, I’d classify her more specifically as a—”

“Don’t make me switch back to my neutral status!” she warns, lifting that eyebrow again.

Arrrgh. Must proceed with caution. “Fine. So, what was I supposed to
do
? It’s not like I was going to walk up to him in the hall and be like, ‘Hi, Jordan, feel like making out today?’”

“That’s probably what Cassidy did.” JoJo giggles. “You
should’ve
done that. I bet he’d’ve said
‘Hells yeah!’
and given you the J. Rothman special. Maybe you could try it on someone else. Maybe a certain cute newspaper guy? Lexi told me during last period that some dude was totally flirting with you.”

“Come on, get real.” Now I’m starting to get the alcohol spins—just the early stages, when they feel really good. Tra la la laaaaaa …

“
You
get real!”

“
You
get real
first
!” I scoff. “Blech. Boys are stupid.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she agrees. “Frankly, I don’t know why you bother with them at all.”

I don’t say anything, wondering if maybe she’ll finally expand on the topic. I ready myself to be reassuring and enthusiastic about her sexual awakening … but instead she pulls out her battered Connect Four game from under the TV and starts setting it up.

Am I imagining this whole gay thing? And where is that vodka, anyway?

Why, oh, why is Connect Four so fun when you’re drunk?

And hey—why is Lexi telling people that that guy was flirting with me? He so wasn’t! He was just enjoying the sound of his own voice, that’s all.

He was cute, though. For an egomaniac, that is.

Five games later, JoJo claims her championship title. I console myself with another big swig from the vodka bottle. As I tilt my head back, I accidentally smash the lip of the bottle against my mouth with a THUNK.

Shit. Shit!
Ow-ow-ow-ow!

I yelp, “Oh my God, JoJo, I think I just broke my face!” The bottle, meanwhile, is on the rug where I dropped it, and the remaining vodka is glugging out all over the floor. JoJo is half freaking out about the rug, half hysterically laughing at me. I curl into the fetal position on the couch, clutching my mouth, while JoJo mops up the puddle of vodka with her orange hoodie.

The intense pain in my lip finally starts to fade, as does JoJo’s totally unsympathetic cackling. She tips the bottle into her mouth and polishes off the last drops.

“See, Kels,
in
the mouth is the idea.” She plops down onto the couch next to me. “Were you held back in kindergarten for poor hand-eye coordination, by any chance?”

“Hardy har, you are hilarious,” I say, scowling at her.

JoJo blinks and her mouth actually drops open.

“What?” I demand.

She just gapes at me like I have three heads, and then starts to grin.

“What?”

She goes, “Look in the mirror, that’s what.” And dissolves in another fit of giggles.

I sigh, figuring if I have to get up anyway I can at least grab some snacks from the kitchen.

I stumble a bit heading into the kitchen. Once there, I grab a couple of Cokes from the fridge and a box of Oreos from the snack cabinet. Then I go to the hall mirror and look at myself. I look totally normal, if a smidge bleary eyed. No blood or anything. A little puffy redness on my upper lip, but that’s it. What the eff?

I shout toward the TV room, “JoJo, what is your prob—”

The second I start talking, I see it. Half my front tooth is
gone
!

Oh my God. I look like the scary witch lady from
The Princess Bride
! All I need is some dirt on my face and a big cane made from a tree branch. This is not going to go over well with the folks back home, methinks.

I race back into the living room, shouting, “What am I gonna do? I look like a—”

JoJo is practically having a seizure, she’s laughing so hard. She wheezes, “An old-timey hobo? A ‘before’ picture at the dentist’s office? A vic— A vic-vi-victim of the beatdown?!” She can barely squeak out her last piece of creative genius, as her air intake appears to be constricted by mirth.

“JoJo! What am I going to do?! This is really, really bad—much worse than the time you dyed my hair purple. At least that washed out!”

But there’s no talking to her. She’s rolling around on the vodka-soaked carpet, snorting “victim of the beatdown,” whatever that means. I may have to smother her with a couch cushion. No court in the world would convict me.

I decide that, since I do not have direct access to dental insurance, the only thing to do is call home and explain. It’s only midnight, after all. Maybe my mother will not be her usual oppressive self and will instead intuit that I am at a time in my life where things are changing, and that I need the freedom to experiment with alcohol and boys without worrying about silly things like consequences and repercussions. Yes! She will realize that her best course of action will be to offer unconditional love and understanding. Perhaps she will even reflect upon the memory of a similar time in her own life (about eight thousand years ago) when she and my dad probably sat around dropping acid and twirling their love beads and wearing John Lennon sunglasses or whatever.

It could totally happen.

I call my house. My mom picks up, sounding sleepy, and mumbles, “What’s wrong?” (Why does she
always
answer the phone that way? So annoying.)

Deep breath. Must try to sound completely sober. “Mom, don’t freak out. I froke—I
broke
my front tooth—it’s, um, sort of totally chipped in half.”

I can practically see her snapping to attention and sitting up in bed. She now sounds completely awake, and hollers, “
What?
How the hell did you do that?”

Moment of truth.

“Well, JoJo’s mom got these awesome old-fashioned root beers for us, you know, the kind in the glass bottles? And JoJo was telling me a really good joke, and I guess I laughed too hard because, um, I hit the bottle right into my tooth. And it just chipped off!”

Shockingly, and despite JoJo’s dancing on the couch and making faces at me, Mom totally buys my lame excuse and even agrees that coming to pick me up right now would be unnecessary. And really, lying in this specific instance is the right thing to do—I mean, there’s no need to worry her. After all, she’d just have a conniption and ground me for the rest of my life, which would stunt my growth as a person. Plus I’d probably develop an allergy to Nancy the Cat from being home all the time, which would mean Travis would have to give her up and then
her
growth would be stunted by depression and the whole domestic unit would fall to pieces. So as much as I hate lying, I’m doing it for the good of my family. I am so proud of myself for being unselfish that after I hang up, I treat myself to a thousand Oreos. Yum.