When I get home from Val’s, I get to work. I print off dozens of pictures of Bari and Derek from Facebook, and using the glue and scissors I must’ve had since elementary school, I cut out their heads and paste them into bridezilla’s doomsday wedding scenario. There’s Bari and Derek posing by a gazebo at sunset! There’s Bari in a wedding dress with a burgundy-and-orange bouquet! There’s Derek slipping a ring onto Bari’s finger underneath a wicker-and-floral—but rainproof—canopy! Bridezilla’s thought of everything. I wish all arts-and-crafts projects were this enjoyable. A smile overtakes my face—a genuine, gleeful smile, not one used to cover up something else.
Even if this gets Bari and Derek to break up, I know it will just be using a squirt gun on a forest fire. Relationship zombies will still rule my school. Why can’t all couples just admit to the charade? Then people would stop getting hurt, and we could all get on with our lives. The rush of frustration courses through me, just as it did last January at the Snowflake Dance.
I had spent the past month tending to Diane’s broken heart and hearing my parents stress about losing wedding deposits. I was excited for a night of fun and dancing with Val. It was like a night off.
And at first it was. The cafeteria had been transformed into a winter wonderland of fake, fluffy snow. Great music, decent eats, a packed dance floor. Val loved dances because they had this anything-could-happen aura, and as the music blared, I could feel it, too.
But during the last hour of the dance, kids went from having fun to having a mission: hooking up. All school dances must be sealed with a kiss, apparently. The dance became a game of tag, but neither Val nor I were it. Nearly every song played was a ballad and the circles of dancers morphed into couples swaying to the music. And one by one, they began making out for everyone to see. I probably sound like some eighty-year-old nun, but in my experience, kissing is fun to do, but not to watch.
Val and I were relegated to the far reaches of the dance floor, next to the stack of unused cafeteria chairs. Val’s face drooped into this despondent, dejected look. It was like I’d never left the house. And to top it off, before the final song, the principal announced Huxley and Steve as the Snowbirds—the dance’s version of king and queen chosen by the planning committee. (They are like the Meryl Streep of dance royalty elections. Spread the wealth, people!) We had to stand in a circle and watch them slow dance and stare into each other’s emotionally vacant eyes before other pairs joined in. The night was everything my life wasn’t, and I left the dance so ready for a new day.
That Monday at school, I realized I was not alone. I overheard different girls in different groups—girls who usually would never say two words to each other—complaining about the same problem: couples. One girl bitched about the friends who abandoned her at the dance to hang out with their boyfriends. Another claimed her friend turned into a demon monster whenever her boyfriend was around. I was not alone.
Hearing the discontent simmering in the halls and between desks gave me the assurance I needed that this school could use someone to level the playing field. A relationship Robin Hood. A week later, I scribbled my ad on a bathroom stall.
I had my first client forty-eight hours later.
Long story short, that’s how at six forty-five in the morning, I find myself walking down the deserted halls of school, gripping the modified binder in my hand. I scan my surroundings when I reach Derek’s locker. Just the hum of the heating vent and the stiff smell of the floor buffer accompany me. Diane had given me a master key for all V56 locks she received when she was a camp counselor, and it has been the greatest gift. All locks used on school grounds must be V56, in case the principal ever wants to do a locker search. I empty out Derek’s folder labeled “SGA” and replace the papers with what’s in the wedding binder. For the cherry on top, I pull out a crisp, white envelope from my pocket, tape it to the binder’s inside sleeve and shove everything back inside.
Dear Derek,
I did some brainstorming. What can I say? I’m a planner. Why wait for tomorrow when you know what you want today :) I can’t wait to see you at the assembly!
Love, Bari
My footsteps echo in the hallway, and I just keep wondering if all people enjoy their jobs as much as I do.
I don’t know why the principal doesn’t see it. Assemblies are a waste of time. It takes the school twenty minutes to file in and sit down for a fifteen-minute assembly that only delivers three minutes’ worth of useful information. Val wanders away from her class to sit next to me. She looks at her phone, trying to will an email to populate.
“No response yet?” I ask. We both know the answer, but it’s an excuse to let her talk about Ezra some more.
Val shakes her head no. I want to smack Ezra for not instantly asking Val out.
“What’s my percentage?” she asks.
“What?”
“What’s the percentage chance of Ezra responding?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-five?”
Val’s face drops. “Twenty-five?”
“Or thirty-one.”
Her eyes expand even farther. Two gumballs gawking at me. “That’s all? Not even above fifty?”
I can’t tell if she wants me to be honest. But as my friend, she deserves my moderated gut reaction. I want to cushion the blow in case Ezra doesn’t pan out. “Well, it’s more like twenty-one. You haven’t spoken in person yet.”
“Right, right,” she says, uninterested in cold, hard facts.
“I’m not saying that twenty-one can’t change.”
She appreciates the encouragement, but she remains serious. “Beck, I think I may actually break through with this one. I think there could be something here. I feel it in my bones.”
“Maybe that’s just osteoporosis.”
One of the French teachers shushes me. The principal takes the mic.
“Students, thank you all for coming today. We have an exciting announcement. We received some incremental funds from the school board, a nice figure. And after meetings with the SGA, we’ve created a plan for using these funds to benefit Ashland in the best way possible.” He waits for applause that doesn’t come. It’s not like we’re getting the money personally. “Your SGA president Derek Kelley will walk everyone through the exciting features coming your way over the next year!”
“Thank you,” Derek says, all power and poise on stage. He rests his accordion folder on the podium. “My fellow students, as a result of these funds, we will be building a brand-new, state-of-the-art TV studio and launching a morning news show anchored and run entirely by students. The feed will be hooked up to all classroom TVs.”
Silence. I may have just heard a pin drop one town over.
“Welcome to the nineties,” I whisper to Val.
“Pretty cool, right?” Derek unwinds the cord around the accordion folder and reaches inside. “We anticipate the project will be completed by early May, so even though I’m headed for Princeton—early decision—this fall, I and my fellow seniors can experience this new step forward for Ashland High. I have all the details in this binder.”
In a miracle of obedience, the auditorium remains quiet while Derek opens his binder. I watch closely as he reads the letter taped inside, then flips through the pages.
“Come on!” a kid shouts, but Derek ignores him. He keeps flipping.
Whiteness drains his face of color. By the look in his eyes, you’d think he was looking at photos of POWs—not matrimonial bliss.
“Derek?” The principal motions him to keep talking, and for probably the first time in his life, Mr. Future Politician is completely speechless. He throws the binder in his book bag and runs into the wings. Everyone goes back to talking at full level.