“Donny, when you’re at Caltech, please invent an alarm that will actually wake me up,” I say by way of greeting.
Donny and Priya have both already been accepted into their first-choice colleges. In a few months’ time, Donny will be off to Pasadena and Priya to UCLA. I’m currently waiting to hear back from Tisch. Every time I think about my dream being on the line, I feel sick. Any day now I will hear if I made the cut.
It’s sad to think that these morning routines will be coming to an end soon. Donny and I met freshman year, and we’ve been best friends ever since. Priya adopted us several days later, insisting that without her, Donny and I would be lost little sheep. We’d never admit it to her, but she was probably right.
“There is a way,” Priya says. “It’s called willpower.”
“You sound just like Yazz.”
“The Force is strong in that one,” Priya says.
“Priya made us watch Star Wars again.” Donny catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “You should have come with.”
“Nah, you guys need your date nights,” I say.
“If a theater is showing any of the Star Wars movies, then it is a given that I must attend,” Priya says. “It’s a family tradition. My dad literally made sure it was the first movie I could ever remember watching. My father is nothing if not dedicated.”
“Does your mom still want him to get rid of his figurine collection?” I ask.
Priya snorts. “I think that will only be possible if he dies. There are three things my father loves more than anything in this world: his family, his job, and his Star Wars collection.”
“My dad’s the same with Manchester United,” I say. “Just this weekend he woke up at three a.m. to watch them get thrashed by Chelsea.”
“I wish my dad had a hobby,” Donny says. “Then he wouldn’t be nagging me about my grades all the time. He wants me to be better at math.”
“Impossible,” I say. “Until you, I didn’t even know someone could get such a high math grade.”
Donny laughs. “Math skills and bad family names are Duckworth traditions.” He twists to look at me when we stop at a red light. “Did you do the homework?” he asks. “I struggled on the last two equations.”
“Please, Donald. Let’s not ruin Kai’s morning by asking him about math.” My suckage at math is a longtime running joke among my friends, as is the legendary test on which I got one equation right and no more—that’s a success if you ask me.
Priya is allowed to call him Donald, but no one, absolutely no one, is allowed to use his full name: Donald Duckworth IV. I kid you not, the family name has been passed down from one generation to the next like some prized heirloom. Spoiler alert: it’s not.
Priya looks at me. “By the way, did you finish your script? The deadline is today, right?”
I groan. “I have a bit left to finish at lunch today. I think I have a date with the computer lab.” For each of the plays that we study, my drama teacher, Mrs. Henning, allows her students to audition to write a school play based on it. The deadline for the Romeo and Juliet one is after lunch today. I still don’t have an ending. All my ideas blow, and I’ve spent hours staring at a blinking cursor, the blank page matching my blank mind. But it’s now or never. Last year I came close to being selected: my modernized version of Hamlet was the runner-up. This year I want to be chosen. It’s one of my goals for my senior year.
“That’s cutting it close.”
“You don’t need to tell me that, Priya,” I say. Priya only allows her friends to call her by her shortened name. She says it is a reward for all those who put in the time and effort to learn how to say her full name correctly. There is one thing that Priyanka Reddy doesn’t tolerate, and that is laziness. Donny is just Donny to everyone—so he’s the exact opposite. Maybe they truly are meant to be together.
“Still not going well?” Donny asks.
“Each word is like pulling teeth.” I close my eyes. “I just haven’t been inspired. Retelling Romeo and Juliet is tough.” Especially when I have no real dating experience is what I don’t add. “But I’m determined. I have to win this year.”
“Potential is what matters. I’m sure Henning is looking for that instead of perfection. You’re talented. You’ll do great!” Priya opens the glove compartment and finds her makeup bag. As much as this is Donny’s car, it’s also a part of our group. The Quackmobile holds little pieces of all of us.
The truth is, Donny’s family has more money than they know what to do with. When the term old money is thrown around, the Duckworth family is definitely on the list. For Donny’s birthday last year, his parents bought him this beautiful red Mustang—with racing stripes to boot. Donny was ecstatic at first, but then he saw the vanity license plate, QUACK IV, and outright refused to drive it. Of course, Priya and I convinced him otherwise, because who cares about some stupid license plate anyway? And from that day on, the three musketeers had a steed to ride.
We pull into the school’s parking lot after a quick ten-minute drive. My house is the closest to school—not in a gated community—which is why I get picked up last.
“Oh, the latest issue of the Herald is out,” Priya says, looking at her phone.
“For someone you hate, you follow Shannon’s newspaper editorials pretty diligently.”
“I can hate the person but appreciate their work.” She glares at me. “I contain multitudes.”
“Anything good?” Donny asks, changing the topic.
“There’s an interview with Bryson’s latest ex.”
“Who asked Bryson out last week?” I ask.
“Isabella from my biology class,” Priya says.
“Which one?” There are four seniors named Isabella.
We climb from the Quackmobile and Priya opens her Instagram. She clicks on #DateMeBrysonKeller and holds up a picture to us. It’s of a brunette girl and Bryson.
“Isabella Mendini.” Priya turns the screen back to her and sighs. “It should be illegal for Bryson to have this bone structure.”
She isn’t wrong. Of course, my admiration is only done from afar and in secret. My heart beats for another.
As if my thoughts have summoned him, my unrequited crush saunters into view. Isaac is tall with curly blond hair and blue eyes that remind me of the ocean. He has his blazer thrown over his shoulder, and he’s holding a soccer ball under his arm. Why does he need a soccer ball to go to school? Who knows? But it’s a common sight when it comes to Isaac.