(I’m open to going to counseling, though.)
Mallory takes some big strides away from him, as though she’s trying to ditch him.
That’s right, girl. Walk this way. Come to your new daddy.
“Hey, um, you! Mallory! Liam! Real quick—who was better? Tupac or Biggie?” Stephen calls after them.
Mallory curls her lip and replies, “Ohmigod, you’re such tools. You need to get a life.”
Stephen retorts, “Yeah? You need to get a sandwich.”
Liam frowns at Mallory and says, “Take it easy, Mal.” He turns to me and Stephen and says, “I’m sorry, guys. She’s not really a morning person.”
I reply, “Hey, Liam. ’Sup?” I’m extra nice because he would kick my tiny ass from one side of campus to the other if he knew how heavily his girlfriend factored into my active fantasy life. “It’s okay. I’m not even worried about her. Would you say that’s a vote for Biggie, then?”
Mallory huffs audibly and says, “I can’t even,” before dashing off and Liam hustles to catch up with her. His movement is quick but stiff, like there’s some pain associated with having to run.
The next four students vote “Um, who?” and one says “They’re Drake’s parents,” before a music teacher walks past us in the same tweed and leather patched blazer he wears every day, toting a briefcase and a battered old plaid thermos.
“Mr. Conroy, Mr. Conroy! Settle an argument—who was better? Biggie or Tupac?” I ask.
Mr. Conroy removes his bifocals and rubs the bridge of his beaked nose. He has two cottony puffs of comma-shaped hair clinging tenuously to either side of his head. “Hmm...that is a puzzler, indeed it is. I would have to say...my goodness. Such a question and I’ve not even had my first cup of Earl Grey. If I had to choose, I would opt for...Mr. Shakur.”
Stephen begins to bounce on his heels as Mr. Conroy speaks.
Mr. Conroy says, “Admittedly, Mr. Wallace had the better flow, particularly when you break down his rhyming sequence vis a vis his sense of humor. Pairing birfdays and worst days and thirs-tay? Cheeky. He let you in on the joke, that was his power. That was his appeal. With Mr. Shakur, there was something more lyrical, more complex. Heartfelt. Poetic. I feel as though Biggie showed us his personality, he invited us to the party. However, Tupac touched us with his soul and that is the telling difference. Tupac is my decision. Yes. Westside, if you will.”
Stephen proves to be a poor winner. He struts around the quad, high-fiving random freshmen, hooting and “throwing up the ’dub,” which is a W-shaped gang sign made by splaying the palm and crossing the middle and ring fingers. We learned the gesture together from watching Ice Cube and Da Lench Mob on old episodes of Yo, MTV Raps on YouTube, but one of us has enough sense not to do in public.
I mean, dude...no.
He carries on for three solid minutes before he returns, beaming, his brow damp with perspiration, to where Simone and I are standing. His grin has taken over his entire face and I can’t even see the whites of his eyes. I’m torn between being embarrassed for him and wanting to punch him in his smug face.
The celebration is cut short when we hear the quick bleat of the Metra train’s horn, followed by increasingly plaintive pulls, and then the squeal of air brakes applied too late, the sound of metal on metal as the train grinds uselessly against the rails for purchase.
No.
Not again.
Owen
7:19 AM
need investment advice
That Jasper
7:19 AM
bonds?
Owen
7:19 AM
stock
That Jasper
7:20 AM
position?
Owen
7:20 AM
GO LONG
14
OWEN
The note read, We’re so proud of you!
Proud of me.
Riiiiiiight.
I took the fifty that was attached to the note and stuffed the bill in my pocket. Then I wadded up the Post-It and tossed it in the recycle bin. If my folks were truly proud of me, they’d have shown up to my screening last night. Mine were the only parents who weren’t there out of all the student filmmakers. Why didn’t they come? Wouldn’t have taken more than half an hour of their day. I taped the flier about it to the fridge weeks ago. They grab skim milk out of there for their coffees every morning; they didn’t notice? I even set reminders in their phones. I’m supposed to believe that this thing just snuck up on them and there was no way they could rearrange their schedules? Last month, they promised they were going to be there and then...
Two empty reserved seats, right up front.
I mean, Simone’s parents were there. They showed up. They were all enthusiastic, too, gave me a standing O when it was over, shouting “Bravo, bravo!” I’m nobody to them, just some random who’s crushing on their daughter.
My parents tell me they’re working so hard for me. How can that be true when they miss everything that’s important in my life? They say one thing, but their actions deliver an entirely different message. They never made an appearance at my lacrosse games, either. Wonder if I’d still be playing if they ever actually came and cheered me on?
So I pulled the money out of my pocket and I examined the bill, front and back. Ulysses S. Grant was sitting there with this look on his face like he’d just been goosed. Was this cash supposed to make me feel better?
It didn’t.
But I knew what would. Like Bob Marley says, “Herb is the healing of a nation.” In this case, I’m a nation of one.
Jasper Gates meets me under the railroad trestle. His parents are legit billionaires so he’s the least likely weed dealer you’ll ever meet. ’Course, his forest green corduroys with the white embroidered pheasants are kind of pimp, so I guess that counts. Wait, pimps are for hookers, not drugs.
Whatever.
I asked him once why he dealt—he’s not exactly hurting for spending money. He replied that being an entrepreneur runs in the family, which seems as good an explanation as any. I heard his parents spend all their time on philanthropic causes around the globe now, which is badass. But I wonder if Jasper would be dealing at all if they were home more.
The railroad trestle’s not far from the school, so it’s our usual meeting point. “What’s shakin’, Kosher Bacon?” Jasper asks as he strides confidently down the embankment. I grudgingly admire his balance. How’s he’s not slipping all over the place with the dew-damp grass under his slick-bottomed loafers? Guess that’s just Jasper for you, everything under control always, not a hair out of place, all gelled back like Gordon Gekko’s character in Wall Street. There’s a whole pack of guys named Jasper at our school, but he’s the Jasper, the one all the other Jaspers aspire to be, kind of like Heather Chandler in the movie Heathers. “Thought you were going soft on me. Where you been, man? You haven’t texted in a while.”