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“They say life is full of surprises. That our dreams really can come true. Then again, so can our nightmares…” —Gossip Girl
“All I know is sometimes, if there’s too many white folks … I get nervous.” —Get Out
First-day-back assemblies are the most pointless practice ever. And that’s saying a lot, seeing as Niveus Academy is a school that runs on pointlessness.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for structure. Ask any of my friends. Correction—
That’s the difference between my rituals and these assemblies. Without these, life at Niveus would still be an endless drudge of gossip, money, and lies.
I know things like Senior Prefects are a popularity contest. Teachers vote for their favorites each year, and it’s always the same kind of person. Someone popular, and I am not popular. Maybe my music teacher put in a good word for me? I don’t know.
The exterior is old and haunted-looking, and the interior is new and modern, reeking of excessive wealth. It’s like it’s tempting the outside world to peer in.
The national anthem blares from the speakers and we sing along, with our palms placed on our chests as we watch the school values fly past: Generosity, Grace, Determination, Integrity, Idealism, Nobility, Excellence, Respectfulness, and Eloquence. Nine values most people at this school lack. Myself included.
Sometimes, being around all of that makes me feel like my insides are collapsing, cracking and breaking. I know no good comes from comparing what I have to what they have, but seeing all that money and privilege, and having none, hurts. I try to convince myself that being a scholarship kid doesn’t matter, that I shouldn’t care. Sometimes it works.
Who knows, if I can get Senior Prefect, what’s stopping the universe from granting one more wish and making me valedictorian? I don’t usually allow myself to dream that much—disappointment is painful, and I like to control the things that seem more possible than not. But I’ve never been on the teachers’ radars before, or anyone else’s for that matter. I excel at being unknown, never being invited to parties and whatnot. Now that I’m here, and something like this is actually happening to me, I can’t help but feel it is a sign that this year is gonna go well … or at least better than the last
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Prom is one of Niveus’s many compulsory and meaningless events, and so, like a masochist, I watched them all night, from the benches at the side of the hall. I watched them slow-dance, arms wrapped around each other like they were naturally safe there. Like nothing bad would happen to them. Like none of their friends outside of school would hurt or mock them. Like their parents wouldn’t stop loving them—or leave them. Like they’d be okay. My chest had squeezed as I’d held on to that thought. My vision blurred, the lights in the room becoming vibrant circles. I had blinked back the tears,
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I climb the steps to the first floor, where my music classroom is, burning the depressing memory and tossing its ashes out of my skull. My body tingles when I see the dark oak door with a plate engraved Music Room, and the sadness melts away. This is my favorite classroom, the only place in school that’s ever felt like home. There are other music rooms, mostly for recording or solo practice, but I like this one the most. It’s more open, less lonely.
Being in this room makes me feel like I’m more than a scholarship kid. Like I belong here, in this life, around these people. Even though I know that isn’t true.
I put my headphones on, running my fingers over the black-and-white plastic keys, pressing a few, letting a messy melody slip out, before I sit back, close my eyes, and picture the ocean. Bluish green with fish swimming and bright sea plants. I jump in, and I’m immersed in the water. The familiar sense of peace rises inside, and my hands stretch toward the piano. And then I play.
High school is like a kingdom, only instead of temperamental royals, golden thrones, and designer outfits flown in from Europe, the hallways are filled with loud postpubescent teens, the classrooms with rows of wooden desks and students dressed in ugly plaid skirts, navy-colored slacks, and stiff blue blazers. In this kingdom, the queen doesn’t inherit the crown. To get to the top, she destroys whoever she needs to. Here, every moment is crucial; there are no do-overs. One mistake can have you sent to the bottom of the food chain with the girls who have imaginary boyfriends and wear polyester
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Some days it’s like Ruby is praying for my downfall; other days she seems satisfied with where she stands at school. Then again, that’s Ruby. The catty, spoiled daughter of a senator.
Anyway, she’s always been a bitch, but maybe that’s why we gravitated toward each other. Girls like us, unafraid to speak our minds, tend to do well together.
Most people think the three of us are friends, since we’re almost always seen together. But we’re not friends. Our relationship is a transaction. I need a close, attractive circle. Small, because the smaller your group, the less people know about you—and the more they want to know. And, in return, Ava and Ruby like how powerful the three of us are together.
Every year since sophomore year—freshmen can’t be prefects—I’ve been Head Prefect. It’s not luck, it’s science. I deserve it, no matter what anyone says.
Even though I know I shouldn’t care, it annoys me that when girls know what they want and how they’re going to get it, they’re seen as cocky. But guys who know what they want? They’re confident or strong.
Jamie thrives on attention. Every single touch—every hand graze, every elbow nudge, you name it—is purposeful. He knows how to make sure he’s the only person you’re focusing on. That plus his winning smile are what make him irresistible; I’ve seen him charm his way out of homework and parking tickets. I’m pretty sure he’d flirt with Death herself if there wasn’t a possibility that he’d die and not be the center of attention anymore.
Hello, Niveus High. It’s me. Who am I? That’s not important. All you need to know is … I’m here to divide and conquer. Like all great tyrants do.—
“Jamie, football players can be gay and drama kids can be straight. Don’t be that straight white guy who sticks his foot in his mouth,” I say. “Besides, Scotty could be bi.” “Just surprised, that’s all,” he says, which I get. I’m surprised too. I feel like such a hypocrite. Telling Jamie not to stereotype even though a part of me questions whether me being so shocked by Devon is because he’s Black and kissing Scotty.
And being Georgie’s girlfriend not only made me someone people wanted to know, but someone they wanted to be.
We may be best friends, but I swear … most days I have no idea what that boy is thinking. Which is why I decided to wait, let him make the first move. And like always, my plan worked.
It’s one thing to convince Jamie that we are perfect for each other; it’s another to make others believe it too.
Jamie acts like the One is this predetermined thing that God or Santa came up with when he was born. I think we choose our own destiny. We choose who we befriend, kiss, and date, and I guess I choose Jamie.
His words float above me once again, blurring into the background noise. He’s used this line on so many girls; he lets them down easy, tells them their idea of being together is a fantasy. And I can’t believe I fell for the fantasy myself. I’m so stupid. I tricked myself into believing I was above that. Better than girls like Belle. But apparently, I’m not. I always thought Jamie turned these girls down because he wanted to be with me. I guess I was wrong. Jamie’s the best at talking people into believing him; he’s the best at talking me into things. And he’s the best at pretending nothing’s
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Jamie is good at rationalizing everything, making sense of the cracks in reality. Especially when it’s the things we need to forget.
At night when I’m alone, I’m reminded of the things I can’t control. When I’m at school, I get to be someone else. Someone people like. But when I’m here, sitting in the dark, shaking as that night replays over and over, her face a permanent bloodstain, I remember that the person I play at school isn’t me, not in the slightest. The Chi who turns up at Niveus every day might not be afraid to hurt people’s feelings, to do things to get what she wants. But she’d never do the things I’ve done. She’s a good person. Someone who deserves to be Head Prefect and to go to Yale, to become a doctor. I
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That’s my biggest fear, her knowing. When I think of Ma finding out, I think about how disappointed she’d be. The thought keeps me up at night and makes me feel sick to my stomach. First, she’d stop making eye contact; then she’d stop talking to me. After that, who knows. I remember when that guy from Prison Break came out and Ma said, “What a shame,” shaking her head like being gay is something pitiful. I don’t know what I hope for. Maybe that somehow she’ll be okay with it, with me, even though she loves her Bible more than anything in the world.
The guys in my neighborhood, the ones I used to go to school with before I got into Niveus, they’d kill me if they saw that picture. Toss my body into the garbage disposal once they were done with me. These guys watch me on my walk home, staring me down, smirking. Sometimes they yell shit. Other times they push me to the ground, then walk off laughing. The picture would make things in my neighborhood ten times worse. I know the likelihood of them seeing it is slim—Niveus is a world so separate from my home life—but I can’t help feeling paranoid.
If it’s not me who opens the door, it’ll be them, and I’d rather be the one to control when everyone sees me. I hate this so much. I hate feeling like I’m gonna stop breathing any second now.
Note to self: Don’t delete numbers of the people you hate. They might come in handy someday.
Jack once joked that music to me is like nicotine to a heavy smoker. I’m not a smoker, so I can’t exactly say if that’s true, but sometimes I feel like I’d die without music.
And if I’ve learned anything during my time here, it’s perfecting the art of making a rumor work in your favor—and coming out unscathed.
“Is there a reason, other than eternal jealousy, for all the stares this morning?”
These girls are as loyal as scorpions.
Sometimes the lingering threat of plotting to get someone back is better than actually carrying anything out.
I almost feel bad for not letting her know that all of this—the kissing up, getting me coffee before school—is worthless. If you want to be known, you have to claw your own way up, not get people cold lattes every morning. But who am I to turn down a cup of coffee? Especially after the stressful morning I’ve had.
I’ve always been great at playing the role of best friend: I pull on my clothes; I give him a smile; I leave his bedroom, his house; and I come to school the next day and pretend with him. That was always my role. The best friend who pretends. But this year, I will get everything I want, and Belle will soon be a thing of the past. I just need a chance to show Jamie how wrong she is for him.
Like I said, I always get my way.
“Licorice is begging God for diabetes,” I say without thinking.
I hope that if she finds out about the picture, this hug reminds her that I’m still me, still someone who loves her.
Dre and his gang like sorting things out with their fists; it’s how you get respect around here most of the time. You fight, someone films it, word spreads, then people back off—probably the reason I was such an easy target in middle school. I couldn’t fight anyone, even if you paid me. My arms and legs are practically noodles.
I miss this past summer when I was over at his place every other day, sharing moments like this. Moments when the world would fall away, all our problems would dissolve, and it would be just the two of us.
“Love you too,” I tell him, feeling warm inside. I’m hoping Aces doesn’t take that away from me somehow.
I check that my headphones are still in, then I breathe. Drown. And play.
Jeremy’s an ass, that much is public knowledge. We’ve been in the same classes since freshman year, and he’s always thought of himself as the funniest guy in school. The funniest thing about him is his face.
“Oxygen and potassium went on a date…” Oh god, make it stop. “Ask me how it went?” “How?” Belle asks. He told this same joke at my sixteenth. No one laughed. “It went … OK.”
