Teen Idol (2 page)

They’d given him a choice: auto shop or cooking class.

Scott had been the only guy in the history of the program to choose the cooking class.

Anyway, in the essay, Scott wrote about how on the first day of class, the cooking teacher had produced a butternut squash and been all, "We’re going to make this into soup," and Scott had thought she was yet another huge phony liar, like all the other adults he knew.

And then they ended up making butternut squash soup and it changed Scott’s life. He never got in trouble again.

The only problem was, he said, he couldn’t seem to stop wanting to cook stuff.

Of course, Scott’s essay, good as it was, might not have won him the post of editor in chief if Geri Lynn had been at the retreat to remind Mr. Shea—as she undoubtedly would have, Geri not being shy—that appointing Scott to such an important post wasn’t fair, since Geri’s a senior and has paid her dues, whereas Scott’s still only a junior and new to Clayton High and all.

But Geri had chosen to spend her summer at broadcast journalism camp out in California (yes, it turns out there is such a thing—and Geri Lynn is already so good at schmoozing like Mary Hart on
Entertainment Tonight
that she even got a scholarship to go there), and so she wasn’t even at the retreat.

Still, she accepted Mr. Shea’s decision pretty graciously. Maybe that’s something they teach at TV news camp. You know, how to be gracious about stuff. We didn’t actually learn anything like that at the retreat—though we did have a pretty good time making fun of Mr. Shea. Like Mr. Shea had us do this trust exercise that involved getting the whole staff over this log stuck between two trees, seven feet in the air, in the middle of the woods, leaving no one stranded on the other side (did I mention trust exercises are really, really stupid?) without using a ladder or anything, just our hands, because this giant wave of peanut butter was coming down at us.

Did I mention that Mr. Shea’s sense of humor is also really, really stupid?

Anyway, when all of us just stood there and looked at Mr. Shea like he was crazy, he went, "Is that too corny?"

And Scott was all, totally deadpan, "Actually, Mr. Shea, it’s nutty."

That was when we knew that Scott had all the necessary qualities for the job of editor in chief. Even Geri Lynn—when school started up again in the fall, and she found that she’d lost out on the job she’d wanted so badly—seemed to recognize Scott’s superior leadership abilities. At least, the first little heart in her date book appeared there only about a week into the semester, so I guess she isn’t holding a grudge about it or anything.

"I think that’d be great," was what Scott said about my idea. You know, of doing a story on the Betty Ann kidnapping.

"It’ll be funny. We could do one of those missing person’s posters of Betty Ann, like they have in the post office. And offer a reward on Mrs. Mulvaney’s behalf."

Geri Lynn stopped jiggling her soda can. When Geri’s can stops jiggling, it’s a sign everybody should duck. Because Geri’s got a temper. I guess they don’t offer any training programs about that at broadcast journalism camp.

"That’s the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she said. "A
reward
? For the return of a DOLL?"

"But Betty Ann isn’t just a doll," Scott said. "She’s sort of like the unofficial school mascot."

Which is only true because our real school mascot is so lame. We’re the Clayton Roosters. The whole thing is pathetic. Not that it matters, since our school loses every game it plays anyway, in every sport.

But you should see the rooster suit. It’s embarrassing, really. Way more embarrassing than having a Cabbage Patch doll for a mascot.

"I think Jen is onto something," Scott said, ignoring Geri’s scowl. "Kwang, why don’t you write something up?"

Kwang nodded and made a note in his Palm Pilot. I kept my gaze on my notepad, hoping Geri Lynn wasn’t mad at me. I mean, I don’t consider Geri one of my best friends or anything, but she and I do eat lunch together every day, and besides which we
are
the only girls on the paper (well, except for a couple of freshmen, but, like they even count) and Geri has confided in me a lot—like the thing with the hearts . . . not to mention the fact that Scott is this phenomenal kisser with, like, excellent suckage.

Oh, and that on Sunday mornings, he frequently bakes apple crumble.

I love apple crumble. Geri Lynn, though, won’t eat it. She says Scott uses like a whole stick of butter just in the crust and that she can practically feel her arteries hardening just
looking
at it.

Since Geri was already mad at Scott for having agreed to do what she considered such a stupid story in the first place, the fact that he assigned it to Kwang just made her madder.

"For God’s sake," Geri said. "It was Jen’s idea. Why don’t you let Jen write it? Why are you always stealing Jen’s ideas and giving them to other people?"

I felt a wave of panic, and shot Scott a look.

But he was totally calm as he said, "Jen’s too busy with the layout."

"How do you know?" Geri snarled. "Did you ever bother to ask her?"

I went, "Geri, it’s all right. I’m happy with my position on the staff."

Geri snorted like she couldn’t believe me. "Puhlease."

I couldn’t say what I wanted to, which is that doing layout is fine by me. That’s because I do a lot more for the paper than just that.

Only no one’s supposed to know that. Well, no one but Scott, anyway, and Mr. Shea and a few school administrators.

Because one of the other things that had happened on that retreat over the summer was that Mr. Shea had approached me and asked if I’d be willing to take on one of the most sought-after—and secretive—positions on the staff . . . one that for years has traditionally only been held by a senior, but which Mr. Shea felt I was uniquely qualified for, even though I’m only a junior. . . .

And I’d said yes.

Ask Annie

Ask Annie your most complex interpersonal relationship questions.

Go on, we dare you!

All letters to Annie are subject to publication in the Clayton High School
Register
.

Names and e-mail addresses of correspondents guaranteed confidential.

Dear Annie,

Help! I’m in love with a boy who doesn’t know I’m alive. Of course, he has actually never met me, seeing as he lives 2,000 miles away and works in the entertainment business. Still, when I see him on the big screen, and gaze into his blue eyes, I know that we are soul-mates. I am not sure how much longer I can go without him. But I don’t have enough money to buy a plane ticket to L.A., nor do I have anywhere to stay when I get there. Please help me figure out a way for me to meet my love before he leaves for New Zealand, where he’ll be filming his next movie
.

Crushed

Dear Crushed,

There is a fine line between celebrity worship and stalking, and you sound ready to cross it. Surrender the fantasy and start concentrating on what’s important – finishing school and getting into college
.

Besides, you are clearly talking about Luke Striker, and I hear he is still heartbroken over the whole thing with Angelique Tremaine. So get over it
.

Annie

A
ctually, I wasn't
too surprised when Mr. Shea asked me if I’d be the
Register's
new Annie. That’s because for my whole life, people have always come to me with their problems. I don’t know why. I mean, it’s not like I
want
to hear about Geri Lynn and Scott’s love life.

But seemingly since birth I've been cursed with being everybody’s confidante. Seriously. I used to think I was a weirdo magnet or something, because it seemed like I could never go anywhere without random strangers coming up to me, telling me all about themselves, like about their hammer collection or their sick ferret or whatever.

But it isn’t just random strangers, it turns out.
Everybody
does it. Trina was the first one to put her finger on why. It was her twelfth birthday, and Trina decided to have her birthday party at the Zoom Floom, this giant water slide over in Ellis County. Only on the day of the party, I got my period. Since I was scared of tampons (when you’re twelve, those things can be scary. And it wasn’t like I had figured out yet to buy the special teen ones—"Petal soft and pinky slim!" I was still trying to jam those super absorbency plus ones of my mom’s up in there, and, let me tell you, it wasn’t quite working out for me.), I had no choice but to stay home.

But Trina, whom I’d expected to be sympathetic, was anything but. She was all, "I don’t care if your stupid pad comes out from under your suit and floats away! You are coming to my party! You HAVE to! You’re the mayonnaise!"

I didn’t know what Trina was talking about. But it turns out she was more than happy to explain.

"Because you get along with everyone," she told me over the phone that day. "Like mayonnaise. Without mayonnaise, the whole sandwich just falls apart. Like my party’s going to if you don’t come."

It did, too. Her party, I mean. Elizabeth Gertz accused Kim Doss of copying her because they both ended up wearing identical red J. Crew swimsuits and French braids, and Kim, to prove she had a mind of her own, pushed Elizabeth into the deep part at the base of the waterslide, and she chipped a tooth on the pool’s cement floor.

If I had been there, I totally would have intervened before anyone got hurt.

So, you know, it wasn’t this huge shock when Mr. Shea handed me the Ask Annie position. Because the person who holds it has to give the people who write in not only good advice but also advice that the school counselor, Ms. Kellogg, will be able to endorse and stand behind.

Which isn’t easy. Because Ms. Kellogg is a freak. She is all into yoga and biorhythm and feng shui, and always wants me to tell the people who write in that if they’d move their bedroom mirror so it isn’t facing a window or door, they’d stop losing so much karmic energy.

I’m not kidding.

And this is the person who is supposedly going to help me get into a good college someday. Scary.

But Ms. Kellogg and I actually have a pretty good relationship. I listen to her drone on about her macrobiotic diet, and she’s always willing to write me a note so I can get out of volleyball in RE. or whatever.

Anyway, the thing about Ask Annie is, the person who is Annie is supposed to be this huge secret, on account of Annie isn’t supposed to have any biases toward certain peer groups, as Ms. Kellogg calls them. Like Annie can’t be "known" to be a member of any particular clique, or people will think she can’t relate to, like, the problems of someone unpopular like Cara Cow or a jock like Kurt Schraeder or whoever.

Plus, you know, if people knew who Annie was, they might not be willing to write to her at all, since she might guess who the author of the letter was, and spread it around. People don’t really do that good a job of disguising their identity when they write to Annie. I mean, maybe they try, but you get people like Trina, who writes to Annie at least once a month about whatever is bugging her (usually it’s something about Luke Striker, the love of her life). Trina doesn’t even attempt to disguise her handwriting or use a fake e-mail address.

Another reason for the anonymity of Annie is that she is privy to a lot of people’s deepest, darkest secrets.

So I have this totally fab position on the paper, but I can’t tell anybody about it. I can’t even tell Trina or my mom, because they both have the biggest mouths in the entire state of Indiana. I just have to go along, letting them all think I have this very integral role with the paper’s layout. Whoopee.

Which is fine. I mean, it’s not a big deal. I’m easy.

Except when it comes to people like Geri Lynn. I’d like to tell Geri Lynn. Just so she doesn’t keep on thinking Scott is taking advantage of me.

So, anyway, being Annie and all, I get called to Ms. Kellogg’s office a lot. She always wants to talk to me about who I think might have written some particularly disturbing letter or e-mail.

Sometimes I know. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I tell her. Sometimes I don't. I mean, you have to respect a person’s right to privacy unless, you know, the person is seriously disturbed.

And fortunately, there are enough people who
want
Ms. Kellogg and the rest of the administration to know their business that they don’t really have time to poke their noses into the business of the people who don't.

Like Cara Schlosburg, for instance. Cara totally doesn’t care if the whole world knows about her problems. Cara writes
tons
of letters to Annie. I answer all of them, though we don’t print them in the paper, because even if we didn’t include her signature (she signs each and every one of her letters), everyone would know they were from her anyway. Like a typical one is:

Dear Annie,

Everyone calls me Cara Cow, even though my name is Cara Schlosburg, and they all moo when I walk by them in the hallway. Please help before I do something drastic.

Only Cara never has done anything drastic yet, that I know of. Once this rumor went around that she had cut herself, and she was out of school for three days. I was really worried she had slit her wrists or something. So I asked my mom to find out what had happened for me, because my mom and Mrs. Schlosburg are in the same aquasize class at the Y.

But it turned out that Cara had given herself a home pedicure and shaved too much dead skin off the soles of her feet and accidentally removed fresh new skin and couldn’t walk till it grew back.

That’s the kind of thing that happens to Cara. A lot.

It’s also the kind of thing that makes my mom go, "You know, Jen, Mrs. Schlosburg is really worried about Cara. She says Cara tries so hard to fit in, but it doesn’t seem to do any good. The other kids just keep making fun of her. Maybe if you took her under your wing?"

Of course I can’t tell my mom that I
have
taken Cara under my wing. I mean, as Ask Annie.