She made me register, too, although honestly, I mostly did it for the homework pass. It’s not that I don’t care about my civic duty or whatever; it’s just that it feels a little like getting excited about a glass of water while the whole building burns.
Alyssa pokes me in the arm with the back of her charcoal pencil. “Sit up. You’re messing up my angle.”
I oblige, trying to find the same position I was in at the beginning of the assembly. Alyssa and I have been friends since her family first moved here freshman year and she was seated in front of me in every class. Our last names—Vizcaino and Warren, respectively—function as the alphabetical equivalent of an arranged marriage, constantly smashed up against one another on the attendance sheet through no action of our own.
As opposed to my relationship with Alyssa in real life, which is regrettably, tragically, platonic.
“But seriously, I don’t think it’s that big a deal,” I say, trying to hold as still as possible. “It’s just a stupid scholarship.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince more, me or her.
Alyssa smiles, but it’s an empty one. The kind you give a stranger who tells you to have a blessed day, or when you happen to run into your mailman at the grocery store. On the paper, Alyssa’s pencil traces the curve of my ear. “You don’t have to make me feel better, Justin. I’m okay.”
I turn to face her, trying to get a better look at her to gauge whether she’s telling the truth, but she frowns and pivots my head forward again with her hand, the tip of her pencil scratching my ear. “Stop moving so much.” Her touch sends a shiver down my spine that I hope she doesn’t notice.
“Next time, maybe you should pick a model who isn’t so ADHD.”
“Next time, maybe my model should take his medication.”
“I’m out again.”
Alyssa sighs, but knows better than to say anything more. I try to make my one-month prescriptions last as long as possible, but they always run out eventually. I managed to stretch the last one for nearly three months, hoping Mom might have managed to save up the hundred bucks needed to refill it by then. I should’ve known better.
Mr. Jensen in the guidance office has been telling me for years that I could do better in school “if we could all just sit down and figure out the right accommodations,” but that would require a mom who can regularly afford the medication, or who would ever bother to show up to a parent-teacher conference.
Besides, it’s my senior year. Seems like a waste of time to change things up now. All I’ve got to do is make it through the next eight months without flunking out of school, and I’m golden—if by golden, I mean I will live at home and work at the Dollar Tree until I die, which I guess is a pretty narrow definition, but you know. It is what it is.
Onstage, Mayor Rothman introduces the entirely predictable winner of the citizenship award, who struts across the stage like a self-important turkey, beaming as he shakes the mayor’s hand. Keeping with tradition, he will now be insufferable for the rest of the school year.
Even though the Buford County Citizenship Award is a scholarship, they always present it in the fall, since they like having the winner do things like throw the first pitch at Little League games and flip on the lights for the town Christmas tree, and these things are kind of hard to do if the winner is away at college.
Two years ago, Alyssa’s brother, Devon, won. He’s now at MIT, and will probably go on to work at NASA or cure cancer or something.
Alyssa wasn’t eligible to apply for this year’s award. You have to declare your intention to attend a four-year college to qualify for the scholarship, and Alyssa opted for a two-year art school in New York. Her parents have not been thrilled. It was a whole Thing.
I, on the other hand, disappointed exactly no one by not applying for the award, because no one in my life is dumb enough to think I will ever win anything more significant than Employee of the Month at the Dollar Tree.
I mean, I haven’t won yet, but I feel like my time is coming. Pete Arnold can’t win every month, can he?
Also, I’m not going to college. When I told Mr. Jensen, he just shrugged and said, “I figured.”
I couldn’t decide whether that was unprofessional or just realistic. On the one hand, isn’t it supposed to be his job to encourage me to follow my dreams or whatever? But on the other, if he didn’t arrive at that conclusion, he’d be really bad at his job. After all, he’s supposed to get to know the kids at this school, and anyone who’s met me for more than three seconds can tell you I’m not college material.
So it’s a draw, is what I’m saying.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask Alyssa, trying my best not to move, which only makes the task seem more daunting. From the waist up, I think I’m doing a decent enough job, but from the waist down, my leg jitters to a silent beat, determinedly signaling the H in ADHD to the rest of our row like a manic cheerleader. I catch dirty looks from the kids on either side of us. Stupid conjoined seats.
Alyssa shrugs. “Sure, whatever.” Which is Alyssa-speak for let’s not talk about it. “Are we going to the pep rally tomorrow?”
I recognize a pointed subject change when I hear one, but that doesn’t stop me from groaning. “It’s at Dave’s house. I don’t want to give up my Saturday night to go to Dave’s.”
It’s my own fault for speaking too loudly, but Dave swivels in his seat again and glares at me. “You’re not invited, Bore-en.”
I ignore Dave’s stupid play on my last name, Warren, which has been following me around with varying degrees of popularity since sixth grade, despite being painfully unclever.
“Everyone’s invited, Dave. It’s a school event.”
Town safety codes wisely prohibit the setting of giant fires on school grounds, but instead of doing the reasonable thing and, you know, not having a massive bonfire, the Buford County School Board has been skirting the code for decades by hosting the fall pep rally on private property instead of at the school.
I have a hard time believing that this isn’t also violating some sort of code, but it would appear that as long as it’s not technically on government property, no one cares. Plus, I guess the optics of having a massive inferno on the front lawn of a school that’s named after a couple who burned to death in that school—making me, their grandson, a morbidly twisted version of Buford County royalty—are not great.
Anyway, tomorrow night, Dave Derrin’s family is hosting the Warren Memorial High School pep rally on their massive estate just north of Stone River, as they have every fall since before I was born.
Coincidentally, tomorrow night, I plan to be violently ill for a period of time that may or may not precisely coincide with the duration of the bonfire. But Dave doesn’t have to know that.
“I probably should go,” I say, feigning thoughtfulness, “since the school’s named after me and all.”
“It’s not named after you, crotchstain. Just your dead grandparents. Besides, it’s not like there’s anything special about frying to a crisp. Anyone can do that.”
You’d think that insulting someone’s dead grandparents would be off-limits for most of civilized society, but that’s what makes Dave special.