* * *
—
Every year, the Senior Triumvirate got their names engraved on this phallic obelisk thing. Andy and Gennifer and I stood by it. Ms. Edison, our faculty advisor, tapped the mike until the OWDs hushed.
“Senior Triumvirate,” Ms. Edison began, “is one of Chawton’s most hallowed traditions.”
Yawn. She went on. Chawton was unique and special. Triumvirate was unique and special. Senior-class ruling body. Major decision-making power. “I’m pleased to introduce this year’s Triumvirate,” she said. “In the position of Social Committee president, Gennifer Grier!”
Gennifer was wearing a dress so tight it went out for her butt and then back in underneath. The OWDs and I all noticed as she pranced up there.
“And the recipient of the Mildred Mustermann Award for Academic Excellence, Jemima Kincaid!”
I’d been dreading the walk. It’s like: Please look honored, happy, and humble all at once, okay? Oh, and navigate the heels your mom strongly suggested you wear, and be aware that a hundred encrusted alumni are checking you out, but don’t be self-conscious, honey! I like my body until I have to squish it into a pencil skirt.
“And the Chawton School chairman, Andrew Monroe!”
He had the walk much easier. For one, his clothes were built for functionality, not for displaying his body. And he didn’t have to worry about looking too pleased with himself, because arrogance in a teenage boy is almost expected—it’s endearing—whereas in a girl…
Gennifer elbowed me. Hard. She’s got a bony elbow. I guess my thoughts were showing, because she hissed, “Smile.”
“This Triumvirate will surely go down in Chawton history,” said Ms. Edison. “They spearheaded a new community-service initiative, Senior Citi-Zen, in which Chawton students went to nursing homes to teach yoga and meditation.”
I squirmed. Senior Citi-Zen had been a failure. An abject failure. To the tune of one dislocated hip, three nasty bruises, and a whole roomful of old ladies cracking up when I told them how important it was to inhale and exhale. Between wheezes of laughter, one called out, “How else do you think I’ve lasted eighty-seven years?”
“Furthermore, this Triumvirate organized an excellent senior-class picnic—”
Three kids had gotten suspended for bringing vodka in Nalgene bottles, and Lacey McStern had gotten hit in the head with a Frisbee and had to miss half of soccer season with a concussion.
“—a reenergized Hype Club that provided support to all of Chawton’s sports teams—”
People went to football, boys’ basketball, sometimes boys’ soccer, sometimes boys’ lacrosse. The. End.
“—a senior-class Secret Santa circle—”
We forgot to send a reminder about bringing final gifts, so it ended in a maelstrom of hurt feelings. Oh, and dumb old Sam Masterson got Sydney Armstrong a box of eggnog-scented condoms—as a joke, he claimed—but Sydney burst into tears because she thought Sam was implying something about her. The teachers caught wind and banned Secret Santa forevermore.
“In short, we’re so proud of this Triumvirate. They had big shoes to fill—yours—and they have truly lived up to the challenge. Please give them a round of applause.”
I glanced right and saw Andy awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.
I glanced left and saw Gennifer wrinkling her forehead in perturbation.
I wouldn’t get this chance again.
I elbowed her right in the skinny rib cage.
She squealed.
“Ghen,” I said, “let’s see that smile.”
* * *
—
The reception officially ended after that. Some alumni lingered, sharing one more bawdy tale of Ye Olde Chawton, but Ms. Edison, with a relieved and sort of collapsed look, shot out of there, and the facilities staff started bundling the tablecloths and folding the chairs. “Frosting,” Gennifer said, drawing Andy and me over to the plundered cake tables. She scraped up a big, gloppy clump from an empty platter. “The perfect ratio. Seventy-five percent frosting, twenty-five percent crumb.”
“Gross,” said Andy, edging away.
“I’ve got emotions that need to be eaten.”
She licked the fork clean and dove in for round two. I liked this. Gennifer has one of those cute, compact bodies that never bulge or bloat. She paints her nails with clear polish. If she tucks in her shirt, it stays tucked. She keeps travel-sized beauty products and stain remover in a Lilly Pulitzer pouch in her backpack, not because she needs them herself (Gennifer Grier spills not, neither does she smear) but because she likes to offer them around, either with kind concern (“Oh my gosh, Melanie, here, use my Tide pen and don’t worry about it! I do that all the time!”) or with condescending judgment (“Jemima, you seriously need the Tide pen again? You’re going to have to start reimbursing me”).
I’d never seen her on a frosting bender. “You know what?” she said, her fork diving in for a fourth—fifth?—helping. “We haven’t been a very good Triumvirate.”
“You got frosting on your nose,” I told her.
“We’ve tried, but nothing’s worked.”
“Truth,” said Andy. “Hand me a fork, would you?”
“Frosting,” I said dramatically. “Our only succor.”
“Haven’t we discussed your use of the word succor?” Gennifer said testily. “Didn’t we determine it needs to stop?”
“Succor means ‘help or support in difficult times.’ Sucker means…well, anyway. They’re very different.”
“Not always,” said Andy, licking his fork in a way that was positively pornographic. Gennifer giggled and bit her bottom lip. Yech. Have I mentioned she’s dating Mack Monroe, Andy’s genetic near copy in the junior class? Flirting with your boyfriend’s brother: Isn’t that kind of sick?
“You’re right, though,” Andy said. “As a Triumvirate, we’ve sucked.”
“Sucked?” said Gennifer. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“We’ve been profoundly ineffective,” I said, mostly to cut the sexual tension mounting between Gennifer and the man theoretically on track to become her brother-in-law. “Have we put on one successful event?”
“Nope,” said Andy. “And we haven’t added anything. We’re leaving no legacy. We’ve made no mark on the school.”