Carpe Diem, Page 3

  The ferry lurched, and we all reached out to stop the plate of fries from sliding off the table.

  With their eyes glued to mine, I whispered:

  “Blackmail.”

  “Blackmail!?” they said in unison, their eyes lighting up like the Bunsen burners in our Advanced Chemistry Lab. Denise snapped her Latin book shut. They all leaned toward me.

  “Divulge!”

  “Spill!”

  “Extrapolate!”

  The four of us met last year in the Advanced Latin Study Group. We were all able to bypass the regular Latin Study Group since we’d studied Latin in elementary school and junior high. There were four guys—including John Pepper—and one other girl: Wendy Stupacker.

  At that point, I was sick of brown bagging it alone while Wendy lunched with the Seattle Academy of Academic Excellence elite. I complained to Mom. She said I needed to “empower myself” and to be “more intentional” about whom I selected as my next best friend and that I should go about it in an organized, scientific manner—“as if you were doing it for the Science Fair or Advanced Placement Biology.”

  She was right.

  So I created this:

  VASSAR SPORE’S POTENTIAL BEST FRIEND (PBF) SEARCH

  GOAL: To select a new best friend.

  CANDIDATES: Denise, Laurel, and Amber from Advanced Latin Study Group

  DENISE

  BACKGROUND: Product of college professors—one with a PhD in Physics and the other a PhD in Kinetics. Lives in a condo overlooking the Puget Sound. Her older sister, Fran, failed to inherit the family genes and dropped out of college to sing backup in a garage band.

  EXTRACURRICULAR HIGHLIGHTS: Head of Forensics Team; Vice President of National Honor Society; fluent in Spanish and German; gaining proficiency in Japanese; Science Fair winner; MVP of mathaletes; plays French horn in the marching band.

  GPA: 4.8

  COLLEGE OF CHOICE: Harvard

  LIFE GOAL: To go into medical research and discover the cure for allergies, cavities, or male-pattern baldness. (“One of those problems that aren’t a matter of life and death, yet no one has been able to solve.”)

  CONS: Can be intimidating—impatient with the less intelligent around her. Doesn’t know how to have fun.

  MISC: Although she’ll deny it publicly, she collects hippos: figurines, pictures, stufed animals. Has hundreds of them. Adamant atheist. Her sole nonacademic goal: learn how to surf.

  PBF RATING: Good

  LAUREL

  BACKGROUND: Lives in a restored 1920s apartment above her mom’s shop—the kind that sells bunches of dried roses, hand-tooled leather journals, and vials of pheromone oil. Single mom who’s also petite and flowery—so when Laurel helps out in the shop, the customers always mistake them for sisters. Unlike me, she hates being an only child. (“Then take one of my brothers,” Amber told her. “Please!”)

  EXTRACURRICULAR HIGHLIGHTS: President of Etymology Club (three members to date); Secretary of National Honor Society; Captain of Flag Corps; nine years of piano lessons; fluent in Scandinavian languages; volunteers on Wednesdays as a tutor for inner-city kids.

  GPA: 4.0

  COLLEGE OF CHOICE: Dartmouth

  LIFE GOALS: Trying to decide between Pediatrician, Child Therapist & Counselor, and Principal of a Private School for Underprivileged Children. Loves—no, LOOOOVES—kids. Wants to adopt ten children of various ethnicities from around the world.

  CONS: Her mom sews all her clothes. Although not a con per se, too much flora can be tiring on the eyes … .

  MISC: Is the only one of us who’s been asked out. (But she’s waiting for one guy in particular to get up the nerve to ask: Garrett, who assists our school librarian. Preppy and nice—bordering on so nice, he seems simple. But he’s not. He’s just … nice.)

  PBF RATING: Very Good

  AMBER

  (At first I thought she’d wandered into the Advanced Latin Study Group by mistake, on her way to drama auditions.)

  BACKGROUND: Lives in the suburbs—complete with boat, camper trailer, and three motocross bikes. Her parents work in boring management jobs and live for the weekends. They wish Amber were in better shape to compete athletically like her three older brothers. (“Amber, the last time a big pear won a volleyball scholarship was never.”)

  EXTRACURRICULAR HIGHLIGHTS: Seattle Academy of Academic Excellence chess champion; member of National Honor Society (by the skin of her teeth); does makeup for Drama Club productions.

  GPA: 3.5

  COLLEGE OF CHOICE: None yet—TBD.

  CONS: Thinking after speaking. Sneaking cloves on the deck of the ferry. Has no clue what she wants to do when she grows up—no Life Goal (much less what to major in, in college).

  MISC: Works at a thrift shop on weekends—and spends all of her salary on 1980s clothes. Collects ska albums. PBF RATING: Good—with minor reservations.

  However, it turned out that I didn’t have to pick just one PBF. The four of us immediately bonded over our immense dislike of Wendy Stupacker.

  By our sixth Advanced Latin Study Group meeting, we were all best friends.

  And I didn’t miss Wendy one … little … bit.

  Laurel, Denise, and Amber consumed a second course of fries and Diet Cokes as they stared at the words neatly written in blue ink in my notebook.

  Bubble. Birth. Too young. Rubber ball. Dying. Egg.

  “Dying as in eggs or dying as in dead? Egg as in scrambled?”

  “Come on, use your cerebrum, Amber … how could that be a blackmail-able offense?” Denise shook her head.

  “Hey, we’re cerebrum-storming here. You’re not allowed to nix any idea. At least until the hypothesis has been proven not—”

  “Vassar, sure you didn’t actually hear ‘leg’?” asked Laurel.

  “No, I’m positive it was ‘egg.’”

  “Maybe it’s an Easter-themed secret.” Amber slurped the last of her soda.

  Rubber ball.

  Denise chewed a fry rhythmically as she looked off into space. “The rubber ball is especially intriguing. So innocuous. So seemingly unimportant—but perhaps holding the clue to the entire thing.”

  “That must refer to the birthday collage she sent me last year.”

  “Seemingly irrelevant—hence, probably highly relevant,” Denise went on.

  Too young.

  “There are lots of things Vassar’s too young for … .” Amber snorted.

  Denise raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Amber. Your perception is staggering.”

  Birth.

  “Birthday? Rebirth?”

  “Afterbirth?” Laurel said, then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Ewww!” we all said.

  Bubble.

  “Bubble, ball, and egg are all round.”

  “Once again, Amber, your ability to state the obvious never ceases to amaze—”

  “Ohhh!” Laurel practically levitated in her seat.

  Denise whirled toward her: “What? You’ve discerned a pattern?”

  “Aren’t they just adorable?” She waved at a class of kindergartners in uniforms wobbling by.

  We exchanged looks.

  Denise focused stern eyes on Laurel. “Let’s stay on task here.”

  “Oh, sorry, sorry,” said Laurel in her fluttery way.

  After a few more minutes of brainstorming, Denise finally turned to me and said, “There’s no way to figure this out until you get to Southeast Asia. Too many variables, as your mom would say. We need more material to work with.”

  “Man, Vassar. This sucks. I mean, the trip could be so cool … but obviously not at the expense of valedictorian, Vassar, the Ivy League, and all your goals. Talk about having your entire life turned upside down,” said Amber.

  The ferry lurched again. No, wait. This time it was my stomach.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Last Rites

  Amicus certus in re incerta cernitur.

  A true friend is discerned during an uncertain mat
ter.

  During lunch we held a funeral.

  For my valedictorian.

  Amber said it would be cathartic—for all of us. We buried my hopes in the corner of the soccer field. Denise presided over the last rites. We wore black armbands Laurel made out of construction paper. And we each scooped dirt over a copy of my academic record. Afterwards, we sat in a little circle around the grave and attempted to eat our bag lunches. But no one was hungry. Except for Amber, who was never not hungry.

  We chose to ignore the stares and snickers of our fellow students.

  “Philistines,” Denise muttered under her breath as a pack of freshmen boys walked by, pelting us with M&M’s.

  But Laurel was oblivious to the chocolate rainfall. Picking at her spinach salad topped with sunflower seeds and jicama, she asked: “Why couldn’t your grandma take you to Oxford or London? Think of the scholarship, the great thinkers who came from there. Not to mention Stratford-on-Avon.”

  “Or even Italy. The Sistine Chapel, the Vatican, David … David … the oh-so-divine David … ,” said Amber with a cheesy grin. Cheesy because cheddar from her sandwich was stuck in her braces. She subtly picked up two M&M’s that landed in the grass next to her … and ate them when she thought we weren’t looking.

  “Angkor Wat in Cambodia is said to be one of the great wonders of the world. Supposedly it surpasses even the Great Wall of China,” said Denise. Then, to Amber: “You’ve got mayonnaise on your chin.”

  Amber wiped her chin and pointed to Laurel. “Well, she’s got spinach between her teeth.”

  Laurel delicately removed the shred of leaf, then said to me, “I hope you like rice, because that’s going to be your primary staple from now on. Mrs. Kawasaki, my piano teacher, says she eats rice for every meal. Even breakfast.”

  We all sat and pondered a life of perpetual rice.

  “Malaysia, Cambodia, and Laos. Why couldn’t she have started you someplace easier—like Japan?” Amber said. “And where is Laos, anyway?”

  Denise took out the mini atlas she always carried in her backpack. “Let’s see … Laos. Here we are. It borders Thailand and Vietnam. The latitude and longitude of Vientiane, the capital city: 17° 58’ N, 102° 36’ E.”

  “Laos. Hope you don’t get any lice!”

  “The proper pronunciation is ‘Lao’ like ‘Dow,’ as in ‘Jones,’” said Laurel to Amber.

  Then there was a glum pause. All of us trying to think of something positive to say. And failing. The only sound was the crackle of Amber trying to open a bag of honey-mustard pretzels.

  Denise slammed her atlas shut. “Come on! The three of us have a collective IQ of well over four hundred. I should think that we could brainstorm a solution to Vassar’s Valedictorian Problem. Am I right or am I right?”

  “You’re right!” said Amber and Laurel.

  “Then time for Idea Procreation! We’ll give ourselves ten minutes to brainstorm a solution to the problem of Vassar’s threatened academic record. Get out your pen and paper. Take it seriously—pretend it’s going to count for ninety percent of your SAT score. Operation Damage Control—go!”

  Denise’s eyes gleamed as she scribbled across the college-ruled paper. There was nothing she liked more than a challenge. She thrived under pressure. The only time I ever saw Denise flustered was around boys. She just didn’t know what to say to them. Not that I was any expert—but at least I didn’t break out in hives when I got assigned a male Chemistry Lab partner.

  Amber’s lower lip protruded—signaling an extra-intense level of concentration. When I thought of how she got no attention at home, it infuriated me. Her parents had never gone to even one of her chess tournaments. “If there isn’t a ball, there isn’t a point,” her dad would say. Talk about Philistines.

  Laurel’s hand fluttered as she wrote her own special shorthand. Her ultrafemininity was deceiving. Though there were German shepherds bigger than Laurel, nothing stopped her when she wanted something. The way she was subtly manipulating Garrett so that he’d think asking her out was his idea was nothing short of genius.

  And here they were, all three of them, collectively coming to my rescue.

  Who else had such wonderful, loyal friends? Before I could stop them, tears ran down my nose.

  “Watch it—you’re blurring my ideas,” said Amber, moving her paper with its red felt-tip-pen ink away from me.

  Ten minutes later, they had it:

  I’d simply push Advanced Latin Camp to next summer and take the Sub-Molecular Theory class at the junior college during Christmas vacation. And I would convince Principal Ledbetter to allow me to write a novel as a substitute for not only the entire class grade in AP English—but also in AAP English: Advanced Advanced Placement English.

  “But what would my novel be about?” I asked.

  Denise gave me an incredulous look. “Your trip, of course. Don’t reinvent the wheel. Just write everything that happens to you as fiction. Change the names and there you go.”

  “If necessary, embellish,” said Laurel.

  “Or just make stuff up,” said Amber, her mouth full of pretzels.

  “The plot would be the main character trying to figure out The Big Secret. Like a detective story,” said Denise.

  “But what if I never find out?”

  “Then that’ll be your ending,”

  “What if it’s really boring? Do you think I’d still get credit?”

  Denise shrugged. “Why not? Look how many boring novels get published every year in the name of literature.”

  “And actually win prizes for being so boring,” said Laurel.

  “Yeah, being boring must be some sort of prerequisite,” said Amber.

  It was worth a shot.

  I blew my nose. My parents may have let me down, but my friends sure didn’t.

  “Besides, colleges are very hip on the whole intercultural/ cross-cultural experience,” Laurel said.

  Denise added: “And I guarantee you, a novel about your travels in Southeast Asia will definitely increase your odds of getting into Vassar, Vassar.”

  “And the best part: It would put you ahead of Wendy!” Laurel could hardly contain her excitement.

  “So? What do you think?” asked Amber.

  One by one, I looked at each expectant face. Then said:

  “Wendy will make a fine salutatorian.”

  They all jumped up and cheered in Latin:

  “Euge!”

  A green M&M sailed through the air and bounced off Denise’s forehead.

  After all, how hard could it be to write a novel about me?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Never Mind

  I couldn’t wait to tell my parents the brilliant plan. I especially hoped it would make Mom feel better—that not all was lost in my academic career. I was determined to produce the best novel ever written by a sixteen-year-old. My plans didn’t stop with valedictorian. Oh, no. I would publish this book and become a teenage personality. With sales in the millions. Interviews. Book tours. Magazine covers. My own fan club.

  Wendy Stupacker would be reduced to a mere gnat in the scheme of things.

  And John Pepper would have the excuse he needed to ask me out.

  Every Ivy League college would be asking—no, begging—me to grace their campus with my presence.

  Normally, when Dad came home from work he’d immediately change into his yellow jogging suit with the green stripes for his run. Then he’d clock in his time on the chart stuck to the refrigerator, next to my daily schedule. And after school, I’d help Mom in the garden. For someone usually so immaculate, she sure loved mucking around in the dirt and adding decaying vegetables to her compost heap. If it was raining, we’d play Boggle or Scrabble until Dad finished his run—he ran rain or shine. Then Dad and I’d prepare dinner while listening to NPR.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, Mom “hermitted” in her room, and Dad slumped at the kitchen table. His normally crisp button-down shirt was rumpled, and a thin l
ine of missed hairs glinted along his left jaw.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  He jumped. “Vassar!” He stared at me as if our next-door neighbor’s basset hound had walked into the kitchen on two legs and addressed him by name. Then he snapped out of it. “How was school?” But before I could answer: “You’ll certainly be missed around here this summer. If only your mom and I could have—” He stopped short.

  “Could have what?”

  “Never mind. Never mind. You know your dad’s just an old softy.” He stood up and poured himself a glass of water.

  I hugged him. “I wouldn’t trade you for any other dad in the world.”

  That choked him up. He gave me a tight squeeze back, sloshing water onto the floor.

  Then before I could stop myself, I asked, “Dad—what’s The Big Secret?”

  He froze—then backed away from me, spilling more water down the front of his shirt. He actually looked … scared.

  “Come on, you can tell me. I promise I won’t tell Mom.” He just stood there, mute. As if not trusting himself to say anything without her there to chaperone.

  Then he turned and tore precisely one square off the paper towel roll and wiped up the floor. “I’m sorry, Vassar. I can’t … I can’t talk about it.” He wouldn’t meet my gaze.

  To prevent any other questions, he quickly removed precut vegetables and meat from the refrigerator and busied himself with dinner. He and Mom always set aside Sunday evenings to plan and prep meals for the week ahead, so each day of the week had its own plastic container. Tuesday’s Dinner: stir-fry. (“If only people would realize that plan equals freedom. Once you plan, you don’t have to waste time every day rethinking the same issues, remaking the same decisions,” Dad would say. Often.)

  Forcing a jovial tone, he said, “An exotic meal for you tonight, Vassar: mushrooms, sprouts, onions, sliced rib eye—over rice. Stir-fry. This’ll help prepare your taste buds for Southeast Asian cuisine.” He opened the refrigerator. “Let’s see. Where’s the ketchup?”