The New Guy (and Other Senior Year Distractions) Part 8

"I, uhhh, I sit here?" He slides right into a chair and starts plowing into a taco. Maybe he doesn't know this is serious business or maybe he's a jerk. Right now it's hard to tell.

CHAPTER TEN.

I drive to Sadie's after my short top-level-staff-only meeting for the Crest after school. It's meant to be when we lock down final articles and layout, but if the meetings have run smoothly all week during fourth period, there's rarely a lot left to accomplish after school on Fridays.

It should have felt like sending the paper off to the printer so quickly was a victory. But thanks to TALON, it just feels like one more sign what we're doing doesn't even matter.

Sadie and I already had plans, which were to consist roughly of ordering huge amounts of food, probably rewatching all the Chaos 4 All videos, and definitely talking about all the things that just a week ago I never expected to experience my senior year of high school.

But while we're browsing online menus we're definitely not talking about attractive eyebrows or parked-car kissing or how your brain just knows how to churn out love-type feelings when you were pretty sure you wouldn't have to worry about it for years.

"He can't think things are actually fine, right?" I ask. "He was acting like he wanted me to think he thought that. But he couldn't actually think that. Could he?"

"Boys can think a lot of things," Sadie says. "But Alex seems very sincere. I seriously think he has no clue. So I'm leaning toward Thai, but I could do sus.h.i.+."

"You know I hate the idea of delivery sus.h.i.+," I say. "Thai is fine, as long as we can compromise on spice level."

"Mild," she says immediately.

"For the millionth time, mild is not a compromise! It starts out mild."

"No," Sadie says, gesturing to her iPad screen, "it starts out with NO SPICES AT ALL. And you know it's not my fault! It's genetics."

I've never actually told Sadie that I hate talking about genetics, so I don't hold it against her. I even let her select mild for the seasoning in half the dishes we order. My own genetics feel like such a wild card, though. I'm more of a project than a person, really. Darcy's egg, Mom's uterus, and some stranger's... stuff. I can barely think about Mom's uterus, so hopefully it's all right to think of the rest as just stuff. Mom and Darcy swear that his profile was basically the man version of Mom (Italian and Irish ancestry, shorter than average, above-average intelligence, lover of dogs and the New Yorker-I still don't believe that his profile actually was specific enough to list the New Yorker, but I know it's all part of the fairy tale they tell of my beginning, so I let it slide). I don't want to meet the provider of the stuff, but I do wonder about him sometimes. It seems to me like normal well-adjusted guys have better things to do with their stuff.

"Can you tell Justin not to be friends with Alex?" I ask, though the second it's out of my mouth I can hear how crazy that sounds.

"No," she says. "What if Justin told me not to be friends with someone? You'd kick his a.s.s. Or at least throw another book at his legs."

"Are you guys going to be in here all night?" Sadie's little brother, Jon, walks into the room carrying a tall stack of Blurays. He's only fourteen, but he's been obsessed with kung fu and other martial arts movies for years now.

"Yes," Sadie says. "Watch those in your room."

"My screen is too small!" he says.

"That sounds like a personal problem," she says.

I'm so glad I'm an only child.

By the time our food shows up, we've struck an agreement with Jon that he can have the family room until ten. Sadie and I arrange the food on the kitchen table. When we were younger, we read an article online about how to properly order a Thai meal. So even though it's just the two of us, we have tom kha soup, chicken satay, a seafood salad, two different curries, pad see ew, a mountain of sticky rice, and another mountain of mango and coconut milk with more sticky rice.

"Remember how much food we ordered when I broke up with Milo last year?" Sadie asks. "And we weren't even trying to respect a cuisine's traditions."

"I'm not sure I can say I broke up with Alex. It's not like we were in an official relations.h.i.+p," I say.

"It counts," she says.

"I thought he liked me," I say.

"I think he did like you," Sadie says. "I mean, DOES like you. He's just being stupid about TALON, as if it wouldn't mean anything to you."

"It's not just that," I say. "It's that he acted like we had a secret when it wasn't a secret. He told me about being in Chaos 4 All like it was just between us. Obviously I knew people knew, but like gossip. Not from him. Now it's the whole reference for his stupid video column? And if he actually thought TALON wasn't a big deal, why did he hide it from me?"

"I'm sorry, Jules," she says.

"And he says he's done, you know, being famous and being in the spotlight. If that was true, why would he..." I hope Sadie thinks I'm crying from the green curry sauce and not my feelings. "What if he was just telling me what he thought I wanted to hear? What if I don't even know him?"

"I'm sorry," she says again, and she holds my hand, but she doesn't tell me I'm wrong.

"This feels awful," I say. "I was right to put off boys. They're more stress than I need."

"Boys aren't some monolithic stress machine," she says. "Justin causes me very little stress. He sends me cute messages, he brings me snacks sometimes, and he's really good at kissing and everything else. I'm seriously sorry this whole Alex thing went down the way it did, but you can't blame boys."

I know Sadie's right, but I decide to mull it over instead of just agreeing with her.

The next morning, I stop off at Swork for coffee before driving to Stray Rescue. After saying hi to Tricia, I make my way down the row of kennels. But as I'm about to wave to Santiago, the person next to him turns around.

"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out all pinched and squeaky, and the dogs bark a chorus of excitement or maybe it's annoyance.

Alex shrugs, and a grin spreads across his face like it's time-released. "The same as you? Walking dogs?"

"But we're-we're not-you're-TALON-"

"I like doing this, Jules," he says, and I hate how my name sounds in his voice. It rings with an intimacy we're never, ever going to have now. "And Santiago said how they're never too overrun with volunteers, and I didn't have plans today, so..."

"Fine," I say. "Be a good person to dogs. I don't care. Dogs have no real dreams to destroy."

He kind of laughs and shakes his head. "Jules..."

"Here you go, Alex," Santiago says, bringing a Doberman mix over. "He's big but gentle, so I know you'll be able to handle him on your own."

I quickly leash up the nearest dog and glance at her name (Hildy) before rus.h.i.+ng outside. Unfortunately Alex is right with me.

"Look," he says, "I wasn't trying to... destroy your dreams. I'm not even sure how I am."

"I literally don't understand how you could think anything that happened is okay," I say, trying to hold back Hildy, who's pulling at her leash to sniff Alex's Doberman.

"Could we just talk?" he asks. "Please?"

"I don't know what we could talk about. You made me feel like the stupidest girl on the planet, and you're part of something that's going to ruin the only thing I looked forward to for my senior year." I can hear how hyperbolic my statements are turning, but Alex should know how his actions affect others. Affect me.

"I thought you'd like it," he says. "You like extracurriculars."

"Not ones that are out to destroy me."

"Fine," he says. "I'll leave you alone."

"Good!"

"Great!"

We walk the same path, though, around the same blocks. When Alex's dog stops to p.o.o.p, so does Hildy. Alex and I have to use the same trash can to throw away the p.o.o.p bags. Santiago keeps leas.h.i.+ng dogs for Alex as quickly as I can leash my own. We're locked in this constant pattern, leas.h.i.+ng and walking and throwing away p.o.o.p. Just a few days ago it all would have seemed incredibly romantic.

Now it's a battle.

The Crest comes out on Mondays. Once we're through this week and the chosen freshman have officially joined staff, they'll be the ones to spend their Monday lunches handing out papers, so the soph.o.m.ores are handling for now. It's fair because during fourth period we get to order giant pizzas from Big Mama's & Papa's, so no one's going hungry, and the whole staff is camping out in Mr. Wheeler's room. This is basically the only time all week when we don't have to panic about next week's issue. We'll enjoy these fleeting moments.

(I actually enjoy the stressful moments too, but I'm trying to be relatable to the rest of the staff, who don't seem to crave deadlines and panic the way I do.) Thatcher is showing me his portfolio-in-progress for his art school applications when the soph.o.m.ores start filing in with leftover papers. Normally, the copies get stacked on the corner of Mr. Wheeler's desk. We've had it down to a science for years; print the right number of copies, and there's no fear of having too many wasted afterward.

But I immediately notice that the stacks look too tall for Mr. Wheeler's desk. I abandon Thatcher as well as my garlic-and-basil pizza to direct them to the table where the papers had been dropped off this morning.

The leftover newspapers cover the table. In fact, if you didn't look carefully, it would be easy to believe that we were exactly where we started this morning.

"Jules was right," Carlos says, surveying the piles. "It seems like no one cares."

"No one cares!" Kari Ellison, a soph.o.m.ore, says. "People were like, 'I don't care!'"

The whole staff begins drifting to the back of the room to survey this tangible proof of Eagle Vista Academy's disinterest.

"See?" I say. "A tradition is dying."

"We'll print fewer copies next week," Mr. Wheeler says between chomps of pizza. There's grease, somehow, on his forehead. Come on, Mr. Wheeler. If you can't inspire us, can't you at least eat pizza correctly? "It won't look so depressing then, guys."

"But it won't change the fact that it is depressing," I say. "Is TALON really that great?"

Everyone murmurs embarra.s.sed-sounding affirmatives.

"Okay, fine," I contend, "but does it have to replace us? Can't we do something?"

"Yeah," says Marisa Johnston, a junior I'm fairly certain already has her eye on the editor position for next year. "Can't we fight back?"

"I guess I didn't care about tradition," Thatcher says. "Sorry, Jules. But I do care about not letting TALON win. This means-"

"Can I say it?" I interrupt. I have always wanted a moment like this, and it's here! Maybe TALON has actually given me a gift. I get to be the underdog, and everyone knows that the underdog is the one to root for. I've been gearing up my whole life to be the underdog.

Thatcher grins at me. "Go for it. You've earned it."

"This means war."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

We'd rather get Kevin or Joramae back, but we go for Amanda Lynde first. On-camera talent probably couldn't give up the allure of the audience. Not yet, at least. Amanda is just listed as Crew. It doesn't sound alluring to any of us.

"How's TALON?" I ask, walking up to her while she's at her locker.

"Oh, it's okay," she says, glancing back at me. "Congrats on getting editor; that's cool."

Carlos appears on her right side. "It'll look really good to colleges that you're doing stuff on VidLook," he says, somehow infusing each subsequent word with more and more sarcasm.

"Well, it's a whole show," Amanda says. "It's not just VidLook. Plus we'll be building up a large following. I'll explain it on my applications."

Thatcher walks up on her left side. He doesn't do it with quite the ninja panache Carlos managed, but it's still effective. "We still need an extracurriculars editor," he says. "That sounds better than crew, you have to admit."

"We can give you more to do on the paper," I say. "With a better t.i.tle."

"Natalie'll be mad," she says.

I can't help it. "Who cares about Natalie!"

Thatcher and Carlos glare at me.

"What Jules means," Thatcher says, "is that this is about you, not Natalie, and not us. Since you'll have a better t.i.tle and more to do, you can look better to Stanford."

Amanda closes her eyes for just a moment at the mention of Stanford.

"Who knows what'll happen if you stay with TALON," Carlos says.

"Are you guys gonna beat me up?" Amanda asks in a soft voice.

"No!" the three of us shout simultaneously.

"We want what's best for you," I say. I sound like Darcy, if Darcy wasn't a sincere person.

"I'll think about it," she says.

We start to disperse.

"Wait!" Amanda says. "My little sister says she was rejected."

"We don't 'reject' people," I say. "It's just that we can't choose every single freshman who submits."

"It would be a nice bonding experience for us," she says.