My teacher, Mr. Chase, types out a few lines to summarize what we read about the Cold War.
Mr. Chase: During the Cold War years, we had an America in an elevated state of tension with the Soviet Union. Entire generations were raised with the constant threat of nuclear attack. What do you make of that? How can you compare or contrast it with today’s America?
There is a little red hand icon that we’re supposed to click on to chat, like we’re raising our hand. There is also a thumbs-up icon if we want to let someone know we liked something they said. And there’s another icon of two hands clapping if we’re falling all over ourselves about someone’s brilliance. I never tap them.
Victor: It’s scarier now.
Mr. Chase: How so?
Zhang Min: There’s actually been an attack. On 9/11.
Amanda: Yeah. That makes us similar to the kids from the Cold War generations. We’re all waiting for something bad to happen, too.
Blue: That’s stupid. What a waste of time.
Mr. Chase: Blue, I’m all for thoughtful debate here, but remember to be respectful of your fellow students.
Blue: Sorry, Mr. Chase. But honestly, what’s the point of wasting all your time worrying about something that might never happen?
Morgan: Because that’s what people do.
Blue: No it isn’t. I don’t. That’s what crazy people do.
Okay. Seriously? What kind of a name is Blue? Is Blue a boy or a girl? I don’t even know. But I kind of wish I could smack him or her through the computer right now.
Mr. Chase: Blue does bring up something interesting. At what point does preparation or overpreparation for disaster become a counterproductive exercise?
Roberto: When it becomes all you think about. When you get obsessed.
Amanda chimes in with a thumbs-up. Blue chimes in with the applause icon. I need an eye-roll icon.
Morgan: Don’t you think it’s okay to prepare yourself for the worst-case scenario?
Blue: Worst-case scenario is that I’m dead, so why should I even bother worrying about it? There’s no point in living to just worry about dying. There’s a difference between being prepared and being afraid. You shouldn’t stop living your life just because you’re scared.
Victor: Applause.
Luke: Applause.
Zhang Min: Applause.
Amanda: Thumbs-up.
And that’s pretty much how the rest of the live session goes. It’s all hand-clapping and thumbs-ups and Blue being snarky.
I’m so relieved when it’s over.
*
I have become someone who just gets by in school. My grades aren’t what they were before. They aren’t straight A’s worthy of scholarships. Aside from calculus, my grades are just good enough. Brenda seems satisfied that I’m still trying. My mom says she’s happy I haven’t quit. But I know this isn’t what she wanted for me. I was supposed to be the first one in our family who got out. I loved English and was great at math. I took AP classes and enthusiastically participated in class discussions and essay contests. I once wrote my own Canterbury Tale for extra credit. Between my academics and swimming, it was a given that most of my college education would be financed through scholarships. My mom was counting on it. I was supposed to be the one who did something. I was supposed to lead the way for Ben.
But now I’m just good enough.
And sometimes I’m not even that.
*
I flop down on the couch and think of things while I’m waiting for Brenda. I think of Evan a lot because I can’t help it. I think of the smell of him and the way he was after we watched the surf video. That was eleven days ago. I wanted to believe he liked my company. But when the video was over and he stood up from the couch to walk to the front door, I figured I’d either said too much or too little. Because he was leaving instead of staying.
The video was only fifteen minutes long. I wished it had been longer. I wished it had been all night. When we got to my door, he hovered at the threshold. The moon was big and fat and full in the sky behind him. It lit up the whole courtyard. Music seeped out from an open window in the apartment across the way. It was something fitting for a warm night. Something I would’ve listened to before going to a party last summer. It had a lazy, strummy guitar and syrupy-sweet lyrics. It was the kind of music that would’ve made me think the night held the promise of something.
Sage, Chelsea, Brianna, and I would pull up to the curb in front of a house by the beach.
The front doors would be open.
There would be music and laughter and a crowd of people spilling out into the yard.
We’d stand on the sidewalk reapplying lip gloss and smoothing out spaghetti-strapped sundresses.
We’d follow one another to the front door, leaving a trail of various fruit-scented body washes behind us.
I’d stop at the stairs.
There would be a boy I knew on the porch.
He would have a beer and a sunburn.
He’d be leaning in a way that made me want to listen.
He would motion me over and we’d talk for hours.