Surviving High School (8 page)

For the rest of the day, Emily rushed from class to class, and swim practice after school went so late that it was dark by the
time her dad drove her home. She wasn’t able to decompress and rehash the day’s events with Kimi until right before bedtime, when they met online.

At Thursday’s practice, Emily set a personal record in the 200-meter freestyle. Her dad smiled as he showed her his stopwatch and made a note on his clipboard.

“See?” he said. “Our work is finally paying off.”

Our work?
thought Emily, catching her breath as her father waddled back to his office, which adjoined the pool, to answer his phone. Her fastest time ever—she should have been ecstatic. So why did she feel so… nothing? It was as if she had just watched somebody else swim an amazing race, like she was a ghost watching her own body cut through the water.

She remembered a story Sara had told her once, on a rare occasion when their parents had gone out and Sara was watching over her: When Alexander the Great had conquered the known world and reached the farthest sea, he’d stared out at the water and wept. According to the legend, it was because he had no battles left to fight and no enemies left to stand against him. But what if it was because of something else? What if it was because there was no one standing next to him to share his victory? Now that Emily thought about it, she realized Sara had told her that story just a few nights after she had set the record in the backstroke. Her sister had also taken Honors History.

At the other end of the pool, the girls were squealing and
looking out the huge glass window by the side of the pool. Through it, Hector Alonzo, a popular older guy, was hoisting a sign that read
AMANDA, WILL YOU BE MY HOMECOMING DATE?
Amanda had run up to the window, breathed hot air against the glass so that it fogged up, and coyly written
YES
. Maybe she was a little more clever than everyone gave her credit for.

Isn’t that dance still more than a month away?
Emily thought. Not that it mattered: She wouldn’t be going anyway.

As Amanda skipped happily to the pool and jumped back in, the other swimmers surrounded her, offering their congratulations.

“Jealous much?” asked Dominique from the next lane over. “Or are you just planning on going to the dance with your girlfriend, Kimi?”

“Maybe I’ll go with your—uh—dad,” said Emily, immediately regretting the comeback as soon as it exited her lips.

“Ew,” said Dominique. “But I’ll let him know you’re interested. I’m
sure
you two will have much more fun than me and Ben.”

“You’re going with Ben Kale?” asked Emily, trying to hide her sudden panic.

“Of course,” said Dominique. “He just doesn’t know it yet. But don’t worry, after he sees what I’m wearing to his party this Friday, he’ll be begging to take me to homecoming—and to do a whole lot more after the dance. I hope that’s not a problem, sweetie. I kind of got the sense the other day that
you
might have a little crush on Ben, too. I hope little Swimbot won’t get her feelings hurt. Or do you even have those?”

As Dominique swam away, Emily quietly boiled with anger, so much so that she half expected the water around her to turn to steam.

Later that night, Emily texted Kimi:

For the past 812 straight days, Emily had followed her sleep schedule. Whether it was summer vacation, her birthday, Christmas, or New Year’s Eve, she went to bed at ten thirty each night and woke up at six thirty the next morning, her circadian rhythms so exact that she no longer needed an alarm clock.

According to her dad, Emily’s perfect sleep schedule allowed her body near-superhuman powers of recovery. As she slept, her torn muscles sewed themselves back together, stronger than before, and the weariness in her bones slowly evaporated into the night air. While her classmates and competitors might wake up groggy, Emily opened her eyes each morning as awake as if she’d just downed three pots of coffee. Not that she’d ever had coffee—her dietary regimen would never have allowed so much caffeine.

For 812 straight nights, Emily had put on the old oversize T-shirt Sara had given her for Christmas one year, downed a warm glass of milk, and fallen asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. Until tonight. Tonight, a cold Friday in October, she looked at her bedroom clock and, for the first time she could remember, read
10:31
.

She tried to lift an arm and immediately felt pain in her aching biceps, sore from hours of weight lifting in the gym after school. By the last few reps, she’d barely been able to curl twenties, and involuntary spasms had flowed through her muscles as if she were holding onto an electric fence. If she got out of bed now, her muscles wouldn’t have their usual rest. She’d be sore tomorrow and sleepy for the 10K morning run her dad had added to her usual schedule.

If she went to bed now, she’d keep up her 812-day streak: 813 tonight, 814 tomorrow, 815 the day after that. And on and on until she was too old to go after medals anymore. If she got out of bed, the streak would reset back down to zero.

But if she stayed in bed tonight, Dominique would be all over Ben at the party. Emily pictured Dominique showing up in a skimpy black dress, walking up to Ben, and sitting on his lap. She pictured Dominique quietly leaning over close to his ear and whispering something—

Emily threw off the covers. She was going to this party.

As quietly as she could, Emily slipped out of bed and crept slowly to her door, double-checking to make sure it was indeed locked. She jiggled the handle and felt it catch. Okay, no unexpected parental check-ins. Unless, of course, they
knocked. But that would never happen, right? Her dad cared way too much about keeping her on her sleep schedule to wake her. The house could be burning down, and he’d just quietly break through the door and carry her to safety through the flames before he’d dare interrupt an REM cycle.

She took a breath. It would be okay. Just as long as she hurried and didn’t make any noise as she crawled out her window. First things first, though: She needed an outfit.

Emily opened her closet and examined the jeans and T-shirt she’d selected earlier. They had seemed like a fine choice when she’d laid them out on her bed an hour ago, but now, next to the image of a party populated by pretty girls with short skirts, immaculate makeup, and magazine-perfect hair, the outfit suddenly seemed uninspired and average.

She flipped through the other clothes in her closet, mostly identical T-shirts and jeans. Emily frowned, thinking,
If a stranger looked through my clothes, she’d think I was a boy.

Finally, as she reached the far edge of the closet, Emily’s hand brushed against taffeta and lace and, as if selected by fate, the dress fell from its hanger into her arms. As she looked down at the frilly bridesmaid’s dress she was holding, she remembered her cousin Kelly’s wedding last summer, where she’d first worn it. All day after the ceremony, the other guests had commented on how pretty Emily was.

“You look like an actual girl,” said one aunt who’d had a bit too much to drink.

Can you wear a bridesmaid’s dress to a party?
Emily wondered.
Probably. A dress was a dress, right? And she’d looked good in it. Why would her parents have made her keep it if she wasn’t supposed to wear it again? She wished that she could ask her mom what the rules were fashion-wise, but that would entail telling her mom she was going to a party. Not a chance.

She turned the dress over in the moonlight. The strapless top took attention away from Emily’s broad shoulders, and the flared pink-and-white layered skirt accentuated the slight feminine curves of her otherwise boyish frame. It was the kind of dress a princess would wear to a ball in a Disney movie. And didn’t those girls always get their Prince Charmings?

She gave the jeans and T-shirt one last glance, then slipped the dress over her head and opened her bedroom window. The cool night air brushed against her exposed collarbone. For the first time in a while she felt good—even, she had to admit, pretty.

“Nice—dress,” said Kimi, a puzzled expression on her face. “Isn’t it kind of poofy?” She pulled at the pink fabric of Emily’s skirt as the two of them walked down the street and away from the house.

Emily frowned and said nothing. She quickened her pace and walked a few steps ahead of Kimi.

“Hey—forget I said anything,” said Kimi. “It’s not like you need fashion advice from someone who dresses like a
Realtor
, right?” Since Dominique and Lindsay had accused
Kimi of looking like a real estate agent on the first day of school, the popular girls had made sure the label stuck, never mind that Kimi hadn’t worn anything remotely similar since that first day. Nonetheless, last week Kimi had arrived to find a fake Century 21 ad taped to her locker with her face Photoshopped in.

“Sorry,” said Emily, feeling bad. “I didn’t mean to get all passive-aggressive on you. And don’t say that about yourself. You look really cute.”

“I hope so,” said Kimi. “Who knows what you’re actually supposed to wear. But I say we
both
look hot. We’re going to
own
this thing!” She adjusted her bra, which appeared to be more padded than usual, and smiled. Kimi was wearing a vintage-looking halter-top dress with polka dots, and she explained to Emily that she was going for an Asian Zooey Deschanel look.

As they got to the end of the street, the girls approached a red sports car that was blaring music into the otherwise quiet neighborhood. The car sat low on its axles and had a blazing phoenix detailed on the hood. The windows shook with each drumbeat and bass note blasting from the stereo.

“Not bad, eh?” asked Kimi. “I got Phil to drive us!”

A sudden feeling of panic filled Emily’s chest. Was she really riding with Phil to Ben’s party? And in
this
car?

“Uh, is something wrong?” Kimi put a hand on Emily’s shoulder.

“Just—uh—I thought maybe your dad was driving us or
something,” said Emily. “Or—maybe we could walk. Or ride our bikes?”

“Em—Ben’s place is, like, ten miles from here. And I’m
not
getting a ride to my first high school party from my parents.”

“Kimi, you know I don’t like driving with—”

“I know. I know. But please, Em, just this once. Suck it up and get in. For me—and for yourself. For Ben Kale. Take a breath, get in, and close your eyes. In ten minutes, we’ll be there.”

Kimi opened the rear door and slid into the backseat. She gestured for Emily to come in.

Room for one more
, thought Emily, recalling a ghost story about an elevator crash. She felt her breathing accelerate and wondered if she’d be the first teenager of all time to pass out
before
a party.

Just ten minutes and then you’re at Ben’s house. Just ten minutes. Just ten minutes.

She slid into the back of the car.

“Nice of you to join us,” came Phil’s voice from the front seat. Emily looked up to see him at the wheel next to his buddy Marcus Jones, who had been elected the hottest guy in school according to several anonymous polls in the girls’ locker room. Marcus was six foot four, with dark skin, green eyes, and thick black hair. He was also rumored to be Denzel Washington’s nephew. Emily blushed as she realized she recognized him from an underwear ad in the Sunday paper.

But as Phil turned the key in the ignition and the engine
roared to life, all thoughts of hot boys fled Emily’s brain and sheer instinctual terror took over. She gripped the handle above her head, her knuckles white.

Phil turned back to look at her and smiled.

“Don’t stress,” he said. “I’ll get you there safe.” Emily willed her hand to let go, but it was no use. Phil shook his head and laughed. “Have it your way, but I’m telling you, with your arm like that, you
kind of
look like a dress on a clothes hanger.”