All three of us fell silent, which, given our personalities, didn’t happen much. I mashed frosting around in my mouth. I already had a sugar daze, which made me wonder how Gennifer, outpacing me two to one despite her head start, still stood upright.
“That’s depressing,” said Andy.
“Seriously,” said Gennifer.
“Yeah,” I said.
Not all second-semester seniors would have cared. But we did. We were completely different from one another, sure, and we’d earned our Triumvirate positions in completely different ways: Gennifer was the popular socialite and Andy was the charismatic leader and me, well, I was the nerd. But we had something in common, too. We were overachievers. That was why we were on Triumvirate. Gennifer was super popular. Andy was super charismatic. And I was, well, super…
You get the idea.
We didn’t like sucking. We didn’t like being ineffective. And we definitely didn’t like the idea of passing into obscurity. Like most of our class, we had college plans lined up. I was heading to one of those New England schools that put the liberal in liberal arts. Andy had gotten a big merit scholarship to UVA, and Gennifer was going to a state school down south, where, I presumed, she’d run the most selective sorority yet somehow manage to graduate summa cum laude. We were all excited for our futures, but we weren’t there yet. We had unfinished business.
“All we’ve got left is Jamboree,” said Andy. That’s Chawton’s big end-of-year celebration, an all-weekend affair with a bonfire and a Powderpuff game and an alumni reunion and prom. As Senior Triumvirate, we had a lot of shit to do.
“We need a really good theme for prom,” said Gennifer.
“Prom is the worst,” I said. “Maybe we should cancel it.”
“Okay, Jemmy, no—”
“The guys ask the girls. Always. I’m speaking heteronormatively because only heterosexual couples even go. The girls wait passively for an invite—sorry, a promposal—and the guys get to choose who to ask.”
“That’s a problem?” said Andy.
I rolled my eyes at him. “It’s practically a silent auction.”
“The girls still get to say yes or no,” said Gennifer. “That’s a lot of power.”
“What if we change the rules?” I said.
“Let’s have, say, a silent auction,” Andy suggested. “The girls pose on tables and the guys stroll around and bid—”
“You’re a misogynistic cretin,” I told him. He bowed. I smiled. I killed that smile so fast, but he saw it. I knew he did.
Damn it.
Andy freaking Monroe.
We straggled out into the April evening. No legacy, no idea. Nothing behind us but a string of failures, nothing ahead but swiftly plunging blood sugar.
“Think,” said Andy. “We’ll come up with something.”
* * *
—
Crispin was at the wheel of our mom’s Lexus. “At last!” I cried, belly-flopping in. “My getaway car! Drive, Jeeves, drive!”
“You’re always horrible after these things.”
“Flee this accursed place!”
He braked. The car stopped. We hadn’t even exited the circle. “You going to act normal?”
I slumped back. “Yes, Jeeves.”
He didn’t lift his foot from the brake.
“Yes. I am acting totally normal. Unscarred and serene after an evening with a hundred Old White Dudes, Ghennifer Grier my only succor.”
“You’ve got to stop using that word.”
“It’s a good word.” Hadn’t anyone realized that the more they told me I couldn’t do something, the more I’d do it? “The word succor provides me much succor.”
Crispin shook his head, but at least he started driving. He’d graduated from Chawton six years ago and from UVA two years ago. Now he worked at a consulting firm and lived in our basement, though Mom told me he was moving out. (I’d believe it when I saw it.) “Mom dumped the driving on you?” I said.
“It’s a thankless task, but someone has to deal with the disagreeable runt of the litter.”
“There’s only two of us. We don’t count as a litter.”
“You had quite a night, huh, Bump?” said Crispin. “You’re arguing with literally everything I’m saying—”
“Is that so unusual?”
“—including this very sentence.”
“I wouldn’t call it arguing—”
“Relax. Deep breaths. Tell your old Bip how happy he should be he didn’t show.”
Crispin had been chairman his senior year at Chawton. He’d gotten a thick, cream-papered invitation to this reception, and he’d recycled it immediately.
“Did your Triumvirate do anything?” I said.
“Besides each other?”
“Ew, no details.” Though I was sort of intrigued. I weighed my gag reflex against my curiosity, but given the all-too-recent frosting debacle, I chose the prudent path and redirected the conversation. “Were you worried about your legacy?”
“How quaint. No, we were too busy banging.”
“All three of you?” I said impulsively. “No—wait—don’t—”
“Not at the same time. Despite the Mildred’s repeated propositions.”
I groaned.
“Oh, high school,” said Crispin with a reminiscent sigh. “The weirdest time of life.”
“Seven weeks left,” I said. Sometimes I felt like I had a foot out the door, and sometimes I thought, Can’t I just stay? Chawton wasn’t the real world. I knew that. It was a bubble, a snow globe, all privilege and academic glory and social hierarchies and free cake. I didn’t even like Chawton that much, but without my having had much choice in the matter, it had become my home.
Crispin went out that Saturday night, and my dad was at work, so I had to ask my benightgowned mother to give Jiyoon a ride over to our house. I felt guilty. I didn’t like asking Mom for anything, meals or rides or advice or whatever: she offered what she could, I figured, and I tried to provide the rest myself. Mom gets migraines, these hellish headaches that make her curl into a ball and shun the light like a vampire fetus. She’s tried a bunch of medications and remedies and therapies and stuff, everything on the market plus some. Nothing’s worked. And no one knows what triggers the headaches, so even when she’s feeling okay, she has to avoid sugar, screens, cheese, sleep disturbances, caffeine, loud conversation, and excitement. Basically, everything that makes life worth living.