What kind? C
H Who cares as long as it gets us drunk?
Quick survey: Is Gene gonna ask-cute me to prom? C
H Honestly girl I doubt it
How about will we do it? C
H Def more likely
A Nah, I think you’re saving it ’til prom
Hehe C
Can’t the school day just be a freaking pal and finish with itself already C
A Patience, young grasshopper. Good things come to those who wait.
And those who carry a red condom? C
Selfie in the hall between Calc and Spanish that totally encapsulates my mood for the year: Abigail’s sunglasses covering seven-eighths of my face, Gene’s striped tie wrapped on my head like a bow, Mr. Garcia in the background with his mouth open, about to give me a warning for (a) dress code violation, (b) cell phone violation, and (c) chewing gum in school.
#senioritis
“Hurry up, everyone,” Evelyn, our English teacher, says as Abigail and I just make it to our desks when the bell for last period finally rings. We always sit in the front row at Abigail’s request, I guess so she can pay attention or something. For the most part I watch the water stain on the ceiling develop into something that looks like a piece of toast with Jesus on it.
“Speaking of sex,” Evelyn starts, even though no one was speaking of sex. She’s interrupted by a bright red tutu that squeezes through the door and nearly knocks her over. It’s attached to Brendan, the guy who always dances around like it’s Swan Lake up in the Gill School.
“Pardon meeeee,” he sings as he bounces in and takes his seat in the back, the tutu standing out over his uniform like a mighty plea for fun in this penal institution called school.
“Try to be on time.” Evelyn grimaces, closing the door with a loud click. Her hair is freshly buzzed, and her bright yellow pantsuit makes her look like that guy Curious George is always running from. “As I was saying, sex.” She pauses dramatically with her hands on her hips. “Drugs,” she adds with a devious eyebrow wiggle. “And rock and roll. Can anyone tell me what’s missing there?”
“Sounds like everything to me,” Abigail says, and people laugh.
“PHILOSOPHY!” Evelyn exclaims, then grins maniacally. The thing to know about Evelyn is that she’s actually a thirty-year-old piece of quinoa who thinks students and teachers are “equals.” This is why she lets us swear and call her by her first name and talk about things like sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
“But, Evelyn,” Evelyn says, with mock wonder, “what do risky business and illicit substances have to do with pondering the meaning of life?” She whips a piece of chalk out of her breast pocket and faces the moldy olive chalkboard, a relic of the Gill School’s early days that Evelyn couldn’t part with when it made its way to the dumpster. Twice. “Contrary to public opinion, philosophy did not expire in ancient Greece. If you get philosophy down to one of its basic definitions—” She takes out another piece of chalk and scrawls: study of knowledge, reality and existence. “We’re just thinking about thinking and living: how we know what we know, what human experience really is, the birth of an existential crisis, the death of God, et cetera.”
“Rest in peace, God,” Brendan sings from the back corner.
“Shut up, loser,” someone mutters from the side of the room.
“Who said that?” Evelyn’s eyes dart around. We all look at one another, knowing no one is going to own up to it. “If I hear anything else, everyone will have a detention,” Evelyn warns. We shift in our seats and she lets it go. It’s not that Brendan’s a bad singer—I actually secretly like his voice, from the falsetto to the husky low notes—but it’s annoying that he’s not more self-conscious. Play by the rules of social convention, dammit.
“Pondering life is a big order, so we gotta start somewhere smaller and more manageable,” Evelyn says, leaning against the board. “We’re gonna start with ourselves. What we believe, what our motivations are, how our spirit is.” She rests a hand over her heart. “How amped are y’all?” There are unenthusiastic sounds from the rows of people behind us, but particularly from the guys in the corner who have hockey practice before school. They mostly just grunt.
“Evelyn, this is so boring,” Travis from the hockey team complains, his face smooshed so far into his hand that his words come out a little muffled. “Who wants to think about this stuff? You said we were gonna talk about sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”
Evelyn makes her way over to the other side of the room, then faces us. “All right, Travis, since you asked, here’s how we’re gonna connect the two. If the ethos of the seventies was sex, drugs, and rock and roll, what’s the ethos of today?”
She scans the room with her eyes wide, probing us for answers, or maybe hoping that we’ll give a shit. “What does ethos even mean?” Travis asks.
“The spirit and the beliefs of a time,” Abigail says, doodling absentmindedly.
“Uh, do we even have one of those?” Danika asks, and everyone laughs.
“Yes, great question!” Evelyn says a little too excitedly. “This is what philosophy’s all about! You know what? Everyone, get into groups of four,” she says, clapping her hands together. “We’re going to start talking to each other and asking this question. Is there a spirit or a belief today in your generation? This is how great philosophy starts! Quickly, now, everyone up!” Evelyn says, urging us up with big waves of her hands. “What are the spirit and the beliefs of today, or even just of the senior class, your friend group, you. And if it is sex, drugs, and rock and roll, please say I have a friend… so I don’t get fired. Go, go, go!”
The classroom erupts into a cacophony of metal on floor. I scoot toward Abigail like a dog rubbing its butt on the carpet, and we’re joined by two more desks: on the left, a skinny boy named Marquis, with a tuba case by his chair; on the right, a guy named Jared, who Abigail used to have a crush on.
“How is this English class?” Jared whispers with disbelief.
Abigail leans into the circle and lowers her voice. “Evelyn gets away with subjecting us to her college major because the Gill School loves her.” Then she puts her arm around me. “Just think of what you would’ve missed if you hadn’t been kicked out of public school for explosive anger that bordered on—”
“Definitely tell everyone my life story, Abigail,” I say sarcastically.
“She punched a bus window at a girl and almost blinded her,” Abigail says matter-of-factly. She can’t help herself. She loves having an audience.
“That’s pretty badass,” Marquis says, fingers twitching like he’s playing an invisible tuba that none of us can hear. “What’d the girl do to deserve your fist?”
Abigail laughs. “Wait, I never even asked you that, Cham. I just thought it was hilarious that you got kicked out of public school.”
I sit on my hand to keep it from twitching with muscle memory. “She was just being an asshat,” I say dismissively. Do you have a PhD in the field of neurological medicine, Ava-of-the-complicated-orthodontic-situation? Then maybe don’t spend half of our field trip giving my dad a dismal prognosis of Parkinson’s disease that ends with and then he’ll die!