So Much Closer

  My standard procedure for enduring these I’m So Disappointed in You lectures is to tune out and let whatever adult is on my case talk at me. I’ve perfected the technique after tolerating way too many speeches from my mom. And my old teachers. And assorted administrative types. Like it’s some big crime to choose how you want to live your life while you’re in high school.

  I can’t believe I have to hear all of this crap again. It’s bad enough when kids have attitude in class just because I’m the only one who understands what the teacher is talking about or I remember some random piece of information from a reading. It’s not like I’ve ever flaunted any of this. It’s just the opposite. Life is so much easier when you get along with people, when you can fit in instead of being labeled as a freak. And once teachers know the truth, they expect tons more from me. The last thing I want to do is a bunch of extra work. So I’ve always downplayed my talents. Like when we took those IQ tests in eighth grade. April told me her IQ, but when she asked me what mine was I reduced it. By a lot.

  “I’m doing okay in your class,” I remind him.

  “True. But I’m guessing that’s because my class has a creative aspect to it that motivates you to work harder.”

  He’s right, of course. Not that I’m admitting anything. In an interrogation, saying less is always best.

  “So here’s what I want to know,” Mr. Peterson says. “Why aren’t you doing the kind of work that everyone knows you can do with half your brain tied behind your back?”

  I don’t know why, but my determination to tune out during another speech on how much I’m disappointing the world is crumbling. If I have to sit through one more of these, I swear I’m going to lose it. It’s really annoying how Mr. Peterson went poking around in my file, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Why can’t he just leave me alone?

  “The work,” I explain, “is part of a system with which I do not agree.”

  “Which system is that?”

  “The public school system.”

  “Ah.” He nods up at the ceiling. “It does have a lot of problems, doesn’t it?”

  Wow. That’s the first time I’ve heard a teacher come even remotely close to admitting that the system majorly sucks.

  “What’s the main problem, in your opinion?” he says.

  “There are so many. But I think the biggest problem is that schools offer this dimwitted curriculum that couldn’t be more boring and then teachers get mad when students aren’t interested in their classes. It’s so stupid.”

  “I’ve noticed that problem as well. That’s why I created Outside the Box.”

  “This is the only interesting class I’ve ever taken. Classes like this didn’t even exist at my old school.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Schools teach to the test and then they make these sweeping judgments about students based on their answers to a few pointless questions that they’re just going to forget after the test anyway. And they have the nerve to call that an education. They’re doing it wrong.” I should probably shut up, but my rage is boiling. “How is force-feeding us stuff that we don’t care about making us smarter? And why should I be forced to become part of something I don’t believe in? Like, what, just because I’m capable, it automatically means I have to play into a corrupt system? I know you’re disappointed in me, but I’m disappointed in the quality of education we’re being offered. Doesn’t that matter?”

  The expression on Mr. Peterson’s face is hard to read at first. But then I think I recognize it.

  It’s respect.

  For the first time in the history of us, talking to April is hard. Talking to April shouldn’t be anywhere near hard. I can’t figure out what’s wrong. When I moved we promised to talk every day, which we did for the first couple of weeks. Then things shifted. There wasn’t any dramatic change or anything. It was probably imperceptible at first, already happening before I noticed. But today, it’s obvious.

  The weirdness starts when I ask April if she thinks Candice will ever talk to me again.

  “I don’t know,” April says.

  I wait for her to continue. She doesn’t.

  “Well, is she still insanely mad at me?” I ask. “Or just kind of mad?”

  “I’d say she’s still insanely mad.”

  “Does she talk about me?”

  “You really need to stop asking me about Candice.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not fair to put me in the middle.”

  “But you see Candice every day. I moved away, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. Maybe you should remember, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Remember how Candice liked Scott? And how you knew that but you went after him anyway?”

  “But that was so long ago! And he didn’t even like her back!”

  “It doesn’t matter. You knew that she liked him and you went after him anyway. How did you think that would make her feel?”

  “Are you on her side or something?”

  April sighs. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m just saying.”

  “Because it sounds like you’re on her side.”

  This is so ridiculous. Candice got mad because I followed Scott here. I get that. But is she going to stay mad forever? How long will it take before we can move on?

  As if my day wasn’t stressful enough. I’m still pissed at Mr. Peterson for getting in my face. I guess it could have been worse, though. If I’d vented my anti-corrupt-system opinions to any other teacher, they probably would have suspended me. It feels so good to be not only understood but also listened to. It really seemed like Mr. Peterson sympathized with what I was saying. But then he said that if I don’t get my average up to 85, I’d be kicked out of tutoring.

  “It’s the rule,” he threw down.

  “Some rules are meant to be broken,” I countered.

  “Nice try. You have three weeks to get your average up or you won’t be tutoring with us anymore.”

  Like I care. Tutoring wasn’t something I wanted to do anyway. I just joined to get Sadie off my back. So what if I get kicked out? There are plenty of other people who could help John. Okay, maybe not plenty, but there has to be someone.

  “I’m sorry if you feel like you’re stuck in the middle,” I tell April. “I’m just trying to ask about Candice.”

  “Well, don’t. When she’s ready to talk to you, she will.”

  I’ve been cleaning my room the whole time we’ve been talking. My bag is a mess. I turn it over on my bed and shake everything out. Then I find his note.

  “Oh my god,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I think Scott wrote me a note. I just found it in my bag.” But reality sets in when I realize that my name isn’t written in his handwriting. I don’t recognize the writing at all.

  “What does it say?”

  I open it. My heart sinks. I was still hoping it could be from Scott.

  “It’s from Espresso Boy.”

  “From the coffeehouse?”

  “Yeah. He must have snuck it into my bag yesterday when I got up for a snack. He put his number in it.”

  “Are you going to call him?”

  “I don’t think so. No. Calling him to say I like someone else would be cruel. It would be worse than not calling. Don’t you think?”

  “Are you sure you don’t like him?”

  “Um, I moved here for Scott?”

  Silence. April and I would normally analyze some boy liking one of us for hours. But things are so tense that I can tell this part of the conversation is over.

  “So,” I say. “What else is going on with you?”

  “You know, same old around here. Everyone’s totally over school and it’s not even October. I don’t know how we’re going to survive until June.”

  “It’s like that here, too.”

  “Is it? I thought your new school was so much better.”

  “It is. But the kids act
pretty much the same.”

  “What happened today? You said some teacher made you stay after ... ?”

  “Oh, yeah. Mr. Peterson.” I tell April what happened. “Can you believe he’s making me do actual work?”

  “He’s not making you. You could always quit tutoring, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m considering it. But then Sadie would get on my case again and I really don’t need the stress.”

  “Why do you care if some girl is bothering you about tutoring? Just say you don’t want to do it.”

  “I tried that. She’s relentless. And Sadie’s not just some girl. She’s my friend.”

  More silence.

  “You still there?” I ask.

  “This might be a good thing. Doing work, I mean.”

  “Why? You know I don’t agree with the system.”

  “Yeah, but why does that mean you can’t take advantage of it?”

  “Like how?”

  “Like rocking your transcript so you can go to a good college.”

  “I think it’s too late for that. We have to start applying soon.”

  “Too bad you wasted all those years,” she says. “You could have gone to Harvard or Yale.”

  “What for? I don’t even know what I want to do with my life.”

  “No offense? But maybe it’s time you started figuring that out.”

  “You know it’s not that simple.”

  “You want to hear something simple? You could have had straight As with like no effort. You could have been valedictorian. But you threw it all away, and for what? To make some kind of radical statement no one’s listening to? To prove some point no one’s benefiting from? Wake up, Brooke. No one cares.”

  April’s never been like this. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it.

  “Where’s all this coming from?” I ask.

  “Do you have any idea how hard it is for the rest of us? Every college I’m interested in wants me to be smarter or more involved in activities or more unique or just ... more. If I had what you have, any one of them would take me with no problem. You have this amazing gift and you’re totally wasting it.”

  I’ve heard this countless times before. From my mom, from teachers, from guidance counselors, from pretty much every adult who feels like they have a say in the kind of person they think I should be. But coming from April, the message has a whole new meaning.

  Unbelievable. April is one of them and I didn’t even know it.

  Or maybe she only started feeling this way after I left. People can get a little crazy when someone they care about leaves. Even if she’s been feeling this way for a long time, keeping it bottled up inside, there’s a reason it’s coming out now. She doesn’t seem worried that what she’s saying is hurtful. Which concerns me. Because what if the distance between us is bigger than our friendship?

  How do you stay best friends with someone when you’re living in two different worlds?

  Fifteen

  The small group that Sadie tutors in English just received a fresh batch of warm fuzzies. Sadie was working on them while we were on the phone last night. She called me for help with a calc problem and then we just kept talking. Sadie said how she wants everyone she tutors to be encouraged (if they’re struggling) or rewarded (if they’re improving) by a sparkly, personalized warm fuzzy. Watching Sadie hand them out, it’s obvious that everyone thinks they’re the cutest things ever.

  John and I are at our usual table. Since it’s raining, there’s no High Line for us today. John threw a minor tantrum over it. He hates when we have to stay in. Even his shirt is angry. It has a stick figure throwing a tizzy fit and underneath it says: IT’S ALWAYS SOMETHING.

  “Why does it have to rain today?” he complains. “Out of all the possible non-tutoring days to rain. It’s so unfair.”

  “The High Line will still be there,” I assure him.

  “That’s what’s so frustrating. It’s out there taunting us with its existence.”

  One of the girls in Sadie’s group squeals. She gets up and hugs Sadie.

  John glances at them. “Wonder what that’s about.”

  “Sadie’s giving out warm fuzzies.”

  “Warm what now?”

  “They’re these little notes that are supposed to make you happy. Sadie’s giving them to everyone in her group.”

  John’s mouth falls open. “How come you never give me any warm fuzzies?”

  “I didn’t know you wanted any.”

  “Consider yourself notified.”

  “Well then, I promise to deliver.”

  As usual, it’s a challenge keeping John focused on work. I can tell that he really wants to improve, it’s just hard for him to concentrate on any one thing for more than a few minutes. Especially when we’re working inside. Out on the High Line, the buzzing city energy seems to soothe him. Which I totally understand because I’m the same way.

  “How can you be so extraordinary in every single subject?” John wants to know.

  “Trust me, I’m not.”

  “Uh, yeah you are. You’re like the academic polar opposite of me.” He picks up his history test again, miserably shaking his head at it. The red 61 scrawled on top glares back at him. “I’m sure you’ve never gotten a D in your life. Or even a B.”

  “Actually, I’ve gotten lots of them. Even zeroes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “But ... why?”

  “You got a D, too. Ds happen.”

  “But they shouldn’t happen to you. You can ace anything you want.”

  “Key word being want. I don’t want to live in some bubble, doing homework and studying and caring about classes. It’s not my style.”

  John is agog.

  “What?” I go.

  He doesn’t say anything, just miserably shakes his head some more. It’s so weird. First Mr. Peterson, then April, and now John. Did they somehow plan to gang up on me?

  After we do some trig, John’s like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  More miserable head shaking.

  “Why?” I ask. “Do you?”

  “Of course,” he informs me in a duh tone. “I’m going to be a social worker so I can help kids like me.”

  John is the last person I expected to have such conviction about his career path. I assumed he’d slack off at some community college for a while, if that. Now I’m embarrassed that I judged him so harshly.

  I’m actually kind of jealous. I’d love to have that same certainty, that same “I’m going to be,” which is even more solid than the typical “I want to be.” I hate not knowing what I want to do.

  I want to know. I just don’t know how to know.

  I came here for you.

  We belong together.

  You’re just starting to know me, but I’m already in love with you.

  Ways to tell Scott why I’m here constantly invade my brain. They keep me up at night. They won’t shut up until he knows the truth about us.

  It’s time.

  Ever since our sandwich-shop interlude, it’s been obvious that Scott and I have a connection. He must feel it, too. Because if two people have a real connection, how can it only be apparent to one of them? Another thing is that Leslie might be out of the picture. I saw them together after school the other day and she did not look happy. More important, neither did he.

  After tutoring, Sadie asked me to go with her to Strawberry Fields tonight, that place in Central Park she was telling me about. It sounds very New York, so of course I told her I’d go. John overheard and said he wanted to come, too. I love how kids are so spontaneous here. Back home, everyone planned stuff way in advance. Here, the city is our playground and we can play whenever we want.

  Okay, maybe not whenever we want. Other people’s parents don’t always let them go out. My dad hasn’t said no to anything yet, though. He’s usually not even home when I want to go somewhere, so I just leave
him a note and go. Since he doesn’t know how to do the parent thing, he’s kind of treating me like an adult. Which I know I shouldn’t complain about. But even though I’d never admit this to anyone, it’s comforting to have rules sometimes.

  I walk home down Scott’s street, the way I usually go if I’m not doing something with Sadie after school. Every time I pass his building I look up and wonder which window is his.

  This time he’s sitting on the stoop, eating pretzels.

  My heart slams against my chest.

  “Hey, you,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What’s up?”

  “Not much. We’re going to Central Park later.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and Sadie and John from tutoring. Do you want to come?”

  “You’re just going to hang out, or ... ?”

  “There’s this place where people get together and play Beatles songs. It’s right across from where John Lennon lived.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. It sounds cool.”

  “It does sound cool. I’m in.”

  “Sweet,” I say, hoping that I’m acting casual. This is huge. Scott’s coming with me. We can walk home together after. Then I’ll finally tell him.

  If I can avoid throwing up.

  At six, Sadie and John are already waiting at the subway stop.

  “Scott’s coming with us,” I tell them.

  “Scott who?” John says.

  “Scott Abrams. You probably don’t know him—he’s new.”

  “I know who he is. Isn’t he from New Jersey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t he from the same town you’re from?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “Hey, guys,” Scott says, crossing the street. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not,” I tell him.

  John stares at us.

  “Let’s go!” Sadie says, pulling on John’s arm.

  Strawberry Fields is too awesome for words. It’s this little clearing surrounded by trees and benches. At the center there’s a tile mosaic on the ground that says IMAGINE. Bunches of flowers are scattered around it. People are everywhere—singing along with some guys playing “Hey Jude” on their guitars, posing next to the Imagine mosaic while their friends take pictures, or just passing through, absorbing the scene.