At Face Value (2 page)

“Fine.” Wendy nods. “You’ve got a point. So move—go sit where no one has to look at you.” She thumbs to the back of the auditorium. “We want to sit here,” she says again. Her crew—known in my mind at the PBVs (pretty but vapids)—wait expectantly.

But I continue talking as though she hasn’t said a word. Around us, people settling into their seats begin to listen. “The thing is, Wendy, you
want
to be able to deliver clever slander, but the truth is, you lack the brain power to finesse the defamation.”

“Big word, big word, blah blah blah.” She cocks her hip so far out I worry she’ll topple onto my lap.

I stand up so that we’re face to face, nearly nose to nose. “Exactly. Blah blah blah. That’s you in a nutshell.” Leyla tries to pull me back down, to settle my rising emotions, but it doesn’t work. I don’t raise my voice, but try instead to keep my face steely and focused right on Wendy’s. “Someday, I’ll look back on this day and it’ll be just another day when some pathetic attempt at viciousness tried to do the obvious thing and point out that my nose is, in fact, large.” Wendy’s half-smile fades as I go on. “I’ve had lots of days like this. Yep, it’s big.” I touch my nose, grabbing it with my whole palm for a good show as more students watch the interchange. “But you’ll look back on this day and realize that no matter what happens, you’ll always be this shell of a person. Half bitchy and half …” I pause for dramatic effect. “Nothing.”

Wendy swallows so big that it’s audible. Her discomfort echoes through the room. Then her hip finds its way back to a normal position, and, wordlessly, she swivels with her group and herds them back to the back of the auditorium, where the cool crowd can gossip without the principal’s wrath.

I sit back down in my seat, my heart thumping, satisfaction spreading through me like butter on warm toast. I flip through my notebook, pretending not to notice the people in the surrounding rows and the words they utter. “Harsh.” “But true.” “But too cruel.” At first I think they’re talking about Wendy, but they’re not.

After she clears her throat, Leyla finally speaks. “Remind me never to pick on you.”

I want to explain, to open my lips and justify the mini-slaying to Leyla, but I don’t. Wendy started it. I was just defending myself. She’s the mean one. Fight fire with fire. Mess with the bull, you get the horns. I shake my head at myself, realizing I’ve just referred to myself as the bull: a giant lumbering animal everyone wants to avoid.

“You look nice today,” Leyla says, breaking the tension. She feels the thin merino wool of my pine-green sweater. “That color really brings out your eyes.”

“You mean it takes away from my nose?” I say, trying to downplay the prior scene.

“I never …” Leyla catches my grin. “Oh—you’re kidding. I get it.”

Leyla Christianson. Her classic rock name can’t disguise her plight as a more-than-slightly tongue-tied member of the
Weston Word
staff, interviewed and “hired” last year (though we don’t pay, our high school paper is the second-best in the state, so we have standards that would make
The New York Times
proud) by none other than myself. Even though I’d balked at the idea of having one of the PBVs on staff, having Leyla around has been better than I expected. Once she joined, she semi-retired from PBV status, and—not coincidentally—became my friend.

Leyla was a member of that group that exists at every high school—the ruling class. There are different factions of it: the nicer girls, the bitchy ones, and then the überpretty but mentally vacated ones (the ones who can spend an entire forty-five-minute lunch block discussing the textures of gloss versus lipstick, but can’t seem to muster one intelligent thought in World Politics or American Civilization or even Home Ec—how hard is it not to singe the turkey meatloaf beyond recognition?). Now Leyla treads the precarious line of half-in, half-out of Wendy Von Schmedler’s crowd. Sometimes I can tell she feels split, trying to manage the balance between me (and the
Word
) and the PBVs.

But despite her swag of perfect hair (light brown with natural strands of gold woven through, with a sheen so high it’s like she has those model reflectors on her at all times), despite her tall-but-not-so-tall-as-to-scare-off-potential-suitors body, despite her C-cup breasts and sweet smile, Leyla is not entirely vapid. She just doesn’t believe it yet.

I turn to her in the now slightly stuffy auditorium. “Do you mind covering the second speaker?”

I’ve been trying to practice delegating some of the writing responsibilities. Even though I’m the editor, I’m not supposed to do all the work—but it’s difficult for me to back off. I admit that I’m way too involved with all aspects of the
Word,
but it’s been kind of my pet project since I convinced Mr. Reynolds, the faculty manager, that I should be able to join as an eighth grader oh so many years ago. Territorialism is what you could call it. Kind of the way you feel when you notice a new band first, when you claim their single as yours, only to find two weeks later that the cheerleading squad has chosen it for their fall bus anthem. Maybe it’s just me, but sometimes I feel like
finders keepers
should apply to all things. People, too.

“Sure,” Leyla says. “But I don’t have my books with me. And before you get annoyed, it’s a hard habit to break.”

Leyla has a reputation for forgetting her books, her bag, a pencil, her debate notes, her jacket in a blizzard, and so on. Then she pauses and looks at me. I lean in and we sing, way off tune, a couple of lines from “Hard Habit to Break,” a cheesy old Chicago song my mom had as the theme to her junior prom. Like me, Leyla is always downloading songs and making mixes, and—to her credit—she knows a lot of cool tunes. Her love of music was what first made me look past her “somewhat dim” reputation and get to know her for the person she is under her teen magazine exterior.

I hand Leyla a couple of pieces of paper and a pen from Any Time Now (my favorite place for coffee, dessert, or just sitting in the town center).

“I’m not writing,” she says, and her voice goes up an octave.

“Don’t panic,” I tell her. “I’m not saying you have to write the article—just take notes for me.”

Leyla breathes hard and bites her lip, thinking. “Fine, okay. I can do that. But don’t judge me on how good they are. You know I can’t write.”

“You can write—you just need practice,” I say.

“You’ve read my stuff. It sucks. I just don’t have a way with words. Not like you.”

“Ah, flattery will get you everywhere.” I smile at her. “Wait a sec—you’ll need something to lean on.” I search in my bag for a book. I pull out
Crime and Punishment
and hand it to her.

“I didn’t know you were taking Great Novels,” Leyla says and studies the front of the book. Great Novels is a senior course elective, but since I’ve already read most of the books, I skipped out on it.

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m just reading Dostoyevsky for fun.” I smile at her as she rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, some fun.” She writes the date, event, and location at the top of her paper like I taught her to do. It’s standard paper protocol, so you can hand in your notes with your article for the sake of fact checking. “So, you want me to write notes only about candidate number two, or all of them?”

“I’ve got the first one covered, but if you can detail all the rest …” I pretend to look busy, to cover my blushing. Territorialism on number one? On Eddie Roxanninoff? Maybe. But I keep quiet. “That way I can write up the event in general. Now, let me just check who the first candidate is …” My voice trails off as I flip through my notes, pretending to be searching for who is speaking first.

“You mean Rox?” Leyla says. She actually points to him on stage. The lights are bright up there and he doesn’t see her, thank God.

“Right. Eddie Roxanninoff.”

“Rox,” Leyla says.

“Eddie,” I reiterate. “I don’t want to be like everyone else.” I pause. That’s not entirely true. “It’s that … I just like calling him by his real name. Like a reporter.” Hopefully, Leyla can’t tell how just the thought of saying his name makes my hands shake, my heart race, my mind prone to fantasy images of us slow dancing in the moonlight (okay, I know I plagiarized that notion from any number of horribly cheesy songs, but it’s just a dream).

“Fine. Be different just for the sake of it,” Leyla says, and gets me at my own game. Everyone—from frosh up to faculty—calls him Rox. But I call him Eddie. I figure it’s one less way to blend into the crowd, and since I already stand out, I may as well carry the theme through. “Oh. They’re about to start.”

The real reason I want to shrug off part of my editorial duties in this assembly is not so Leyla can practice her writing skills or hone her journalistic ability. It’s totally crush-driven.

If Leyla writes about the other candidates, I can focus on Eddie’s speech and Leyla can write about Dave Edison (who is not the inventor of a light bulb; more like the inventor of the Weston hook-up—but more on that later), Nicole Marchese, and Jessica Lauren Bettle (who runs for everything just so she can list it on her college applications as “potential class president”).

“Yeah, make sure to write an … um … in-depth report about Dave Edison,” I say, giving Leyla Dave’s trademark sleazy wink-and-nod combo.

“Sure, stick me with the hook-up king. Fine.” Leyla grins at me. Then she realizes something, and laughs. “Oh, wait—I did bring my book bag—I’m so proud of myself.” She hands me back my book and pen and gets out her red notebook and signature pen, a ballpoint she wrapped in green silk floral tape and topped with a fake sunflower. On the one hand, it’s semi-sweet. On the other hand, accessories like that don’t help in her attempt to be (or to appear) less flakey.

Just as the lights dim, Jill Carnegie appears in the aisle to my left and leans over me like I don’t exist, the scent of her expensive perfume wafting into my nostrils (cue a joke about how I could probably smell her two states over with the size of my nostrils), to pass on some crucial social info to Leyla.

“Hey, Leyla.” Jill ignores me. “Sorry to be so …
nosey
…” She lets her dark ringlets cascade down for dramatic effect and pauses to make sure I’ve heard her attempted slight. “But I wanted to say hi and remind you that you have a life. It’s waiting for you at the back of the auditorium, okay?” Leyla nods. “Meet us for lunch today?” This last part isn’t so much a question, more a command.

Jill slithers away, her color-coordinated outfit on display as she sashays up the wide aisle without so much as a glance back at me. I’m too focused on writing my notes to deal with her “nosey” comment. Plus, it’s too lame to bother with.

Leyla turns to me as the lights go out. “Sorry about Jill.”

“Don’t be sorry
about
her, be sorry
for
her—she gives new meaning to the word translucent.”

I know that there is nothing about Jill that will last through the day, let alone make a mark on the decade or a lifetime. I flash to my own reflection. I could be one of those people who looks so different they feel the need to hide—or I could be the reverse, one of those kids who feels really different but looks average, so dresses in plaid or pierces themselves all over or, like Molly Parks, comes to school clad in a top made entirely of safety pins. (She was asked to go home and change, not so much because of the potential for skin showing but because the school nurse was concerned about pricking hazards.)

So yes, I could be that girl in the corner—and maybe part of me still is, inside. But most of the things I’m good at—tennis, editing, even writing—benefit from being around other people. For three years at Weston High, one of my saving graces was the tennis team. As a freshman I tried out for, made, and led the varsity team to victory, sophomore year was one straight win, and junior year my parents cheered me as I played in the New England High School Masters.

But this year, the start of school has not involved rackets, running court lengths, or dealing with early Wednesday dismissals for away matches. My attention has fully turned over to other activities. The only trouble is, I think that tennis served (ha—a sports pun!) as a defense, for me, against the popular set. Wendy Von Schmedler and her crew couldn’t unleash their true fury because some of those girls played on the team and needed me. Now, though, all bets are off, and more and more I’m getting the sense that my defense this year will be on the home court—otherwise known as the locker-rimmed halls of Weston High.

I still carry a tennis ball in my bag and squeeze it when I get nervous—like when I watch Eddie on stage. I turn to glance at Leyla and her note taking.

She sighs and starts writing, the sunflower pen bobbing with each letter.

“Remember not to have a bias. Just write it as it happens. You know, keep the details clear, and …” I peer over her shoulder to see what she’s written so far: mainly descriptions of the stage, the seating arrangements, and her name in bubble letters. Her handwriting is neat—round and legible—an editor’s dream. It’s the content I’m checking.

“I know, Cyrie.” Leyla nudges me off.

“Sorry.” I’m a shameful snoop. That is, I snoop and feel guilty for it—with birthday gifts stashed under my parents’ bed, with always wanting to know the details of conversations even when they’re not mine.

Leyla tucks her hair behind her ears, and looks at me a minute before starting to write again. Sometimes I think that if we could meld, we’d make the perfect person. Her looks, my brain. Well, that, but also her way of going after what she wants and my ability to problem-solve.

Principal Richards comes onto the stage and ahems into the microphone.

“Welcome, everyone, to this year’s presidential election!” I make a note about comparing the school traditions with the American government’s electoral process. Students whoop and shout, faculty look half-bored, half-excited. “Our first speaker is an athlete …” (cue to the jocks to shout out for one of their own), “an A-student” (cue to the brains—if they’d look up from their books—and faculty to clap), “and a musician …” (the rockers, stoners, and every female in the audience gushes). “Give it up for our first speaker, Eddie Roxanninoff … of course, you know him better as Rox.”