The auditorium doors swung open and the voices of 6,589 Manhattan Dalton Prep students and 91 faculty members, hushed to low, strained whispers and sniggers. I cursed to myself as I stepped through the wide doors. So much for an inconspicuous entrance.
A quick scan across the large room told me that the only empty seats left, were on the opposite side of the entrance doors I'd just burst through. Legs shaking, I set across the football-field sized auditorium, cursing the loud heels I had chosen to wear.
I snuck a look at the Principal, Mr. D. Philipps, standing behind the podium. From the look on his face, I was guessing that he had been mid-way through a very important speech, before I'd burst in so rudely. His furry eyebrows were drawn into an unimpressed frown and I felt the bond that had formed between us on my campus visit last week, severing.
Click. Clack. Click. I was not even halfway across the auditorium. Why is everyone staring? Hasn't anyone ever been late before? My guess was that while Dalton Prep was not above tardiness, few students would dare to walk into a packed auditorium, during Dr. Philipps speech, dressed in--well dressed like me.
I wanted to slap myself and leave a giant red scar on my cheek, just to make sure I'd never do the same thing to myself again. Unfortunately, the eyes of the entire student body and faculty were glued to me. Involuntary slapping would only increase the already colossal-sized bully-target on my back.
Usually, in a school this size, bullies would wait at least a few weeks before picking on me. There would always be the conspicuous growls, scowls and snickers, while I walked through the hallways. But it was always after a month that the locker-stuffing jobs began. Here, a week had not even passed since my first day of school. As soon as students had glimpsed my 90s style jeans and baggy plaid overshirts, I'd been tripped, cat-called and teased.
I finally reached my seat beside a brunette girl and sent a silent prayer up to God, promising that if he kept me invisible for the rest of the day, I'd actually listen to the priest in Sunday mass services. Maybe even tune into the pope on CNN sometimes.
"Ahem," began Philipps. "Back to what I was saying, Dalton prep is about to undergo some drastic changes to our curriculum..."
I tried to focus on his speech, until the pungent smell of Christian C perfume assaulted my nose. My head snapped in the direction of the smell, in an attempt to locate the olfactory offender. I realized the smell was coming from a brunette girl sitting beside me. When I caught her eye, she smiled at me and I smiled back. At least she was friendly. I wondered whether her decision to shower in Christian C perfume was unique to her, or a common trait of all Upper East Side Manhattan female teenagers. My shoulders slumped, as I concluded that the answer was likely yes.
"...and then the teachers will.." continued the principal.
I couldn't pay attention. Whatever he was saying wasn't relevant to me anyway, since I didn't expect mom would be able to afford the ongoing tuition of this school anyway. Unless she kept sleeping with the Vice Principal, I was going to be back on the streets soon, or worse, in the Hovsepian House for Delinquent Teens.
My body started, just as a deafening roar of thunder filled the auditorium. It took me a minute to realize it was only the sound of clapping, because Mr. Philipps had finished his speech.
After the principal left the podium, some teachers stepped up to give their stamp of approval over MDP's new systematic changes. Then finally, after the passing of multiple figurative years, the assembly ended and I tried to find my way to my fourth period class. Room 309. Unfortunately, my dull map-reading skills were no help in circumnavigating all nine floors of Manhattan Dalton Prep. I was still very new to the school and largely unfamiliar with the schools's architecture. Even after having been to her class twice, I still couldn’t remember where it was. Finally, after two elevator rides through the school and some 30-minute long wanderings through the empty hallways, I saw a slightly familiar plaque over a classroom door that read, Room 309 Miss Reggae, Literature Department.
Nervously, I began to pull open the classroom door, fully expecting a humiliating reproach. Getting lost had rendered me forty-three minutes late for class.
"And everyone els—"
The eyes of everyone in the classroom, including Miss Reggae, flittered to me at the sound of the door opening. A complete repeat of this morning’s escapade. I wanted to burn a hole in the floor of the classroom and fall through, never to be seen again.
“There's your seat, Miss. Allen," said Miss. Reggae, no admonishment in her voice. Relief flooded my body. She raised her arm in the direction of a seat at the front of the classroom. Maybe she had seen something in my face that had made her pity me—or at least refrain from admonishing me.
I decided not to thank her, afraid of what would come out of my mouth. Instead I smiled and nodded as I sat down.
"As I was saying," she started. "To kick off this year's English program, I've decided to assign you all an assembly project."
The class groaned.
"You have two months to discover and dispel a theory regarding any literature written in the past five centuries. Then you must present it for the entire student body at our school's annual literary fair." Her smile stretched from ear to ear.
"Those of you Ivy League hopefuls, would do well to remember that there are always Ivy League recruits at our fairs. This may be an opportunity for you to get your foot in the door to Harvard or Yale. " There were whoops throughout the
While she rambled on about the Ivy League and Top Thirty school recruits who would be at the fair, I took the opportunity to study Miss Reggae. She was wearing a blue Xscape lace-gown, likely designed by a top designer like Stella McCartney or Vivian Westwood. Her lace gown stopped short just before her feet, which were covered in Vera Wang's recent spring release of red espadrilles. Miss Reggae was filthy rich. Just like everybody else in this school. But unlike all the other teachers at Manhattan Dalton Prep, Miss Reggae was the only one who could pull off an ankle length Xscape gown. She must have been in her early thirties. Although she still looked young and all the boys likely had crushes on her. Maybe it was her doe-like face and soft baby features. When she smiled, the skin around her eyes didn't crinkle like Mrs. Wheterpond. It was probably due to the way her hips swayed when she walked and her long, back-length blond hair--a symbol of youth and mirth.
I wondered why she was fooling herself. Almost every Manhattan Dalton Prep alumni made it to an Ivy League school. MDP students don't need to worry about talking to Ivy League recruits, or even writing good college admission essays. Manhattan Dalton Prep is practically a doorway into Cornell University, especially, since the two buildings are so close in proximity and in the heart of Manhattan.
Her nasal voice snapped me out of my neurosis. "You guys want to partner yourselves up?" she asked. Waves of collective nods passed through the room. But at those words, my stomach dropped. So far, I had zero friends in Manhattan Dalton Prep. If she asked us to partner ourselves up, I'd have no one to partner up with. And with a project that sounded as important as this one, I'd need other people to help. I couldn't work alone.
"Ha!" she jested, her voice lifting into a mouse-like squeal. "I'm not letting that happen. I'll do it myself." She grabbed the class list off her marbled desk and covered her eyes with her Vera Wang glasses. Once again, Miss Reggae had saved the day.
"OK, let's see. Hart...you can work with with...Fiona, yes I see you hiding over there. You two can pair up. You guys will work in the library. Candy you can work with Tyrese, also in the library. Jase you'll work with Emmeline over in the student's lounge." She continued to rattle on while I zoned out, watching the Simoné laced, designer boots.
Then I heard my name, "Blaze you'll pair up with...Adam and the both of you can go to...the SAIC room near Janitor Bud's. Near the boiler room. And Alicia you and..." She continued, but I was lost.
One week at MDP had taught me all I needed to know about my partner, Adam Godfrey Wentley. One, his father was the owner of TechCrunch, a multibillion dollar corporation with outsourcing profits in 190 of the 195 countries in the world. Two, his talents in the looks department were not unnoticed by any of the species on campus, even the teachers. Three, he was haughty, rude and obnoxious. He never missed an opportunity to be derisive. Just the type of guy that would give me a hard time about my stutter.
"Alright," Miss. Reggae said, already walking back to her desk at the back of the classroom. "You can go brainstorm. You've got about half an hour until this period ends."
When partners began filing out of the classroom, I twisted my head slightly to get a glimpse of Adam and see what he thought about our grouping. His dark hair fell in front of his face and covered the tips of his eyes. But his body language said everything. His arms were crossed tightly and his jaw was tight. He whispered something into the ear of Jase—whom I had quickly inferred in my one week at MDP—was his best friend. Jase nodded and stood up, sauntering over to my desk. As he got closer, I could see that hundreds of freckles dotted his face.
"Adam's not working with you," he said. "He's decided he'd rather work with Amber, a more...attractive girl." He smirked. I glanced around him, at Adam, who was flirting with a blond-haired girl who had an hourglass figure. He ran his hand up and down her back, slowly.
"B-but he can't do that," I stuttered. "Mrs. Reggae will f-fail us for not listening-g-g to her." I needed to pass this class. Otherwise, I'd end up back at the delinquents house.
"Well regardless," answered Jase. "He's not going to work with you." He ran his hand up through his hair, his expression turned almost...apologetic. "This project blows. And Adam says if he's going to dedicate all this time to some English project, he at least wants to work with someone more attractive...than you. No offense, or anything."
My chest caught. That was a blow. But it was nothing different than I was used to.
I nodded quickly to the red-headed boy. "T-th-than-k-k-k you." I stuttered.
Before the tears could begin tumbling down my cheeks, I grabbed my ragged, vomit-colored backpack and raced out of the classroom. I headed in the direction the SAIC room Adam and I were supposed to work in. It was a few floors above Mrs. Reggae's room. Once I reached it, I kept walking past its auburn frame. Straight to the warm, dark, boiler room. It was one floor up and three hallways away from Mrs. Reggae's room. I dropped my backpack on the expensive tiled floor and locked the door behind me. Then I sat on top of a wooden bench, buried my face in my hands and cried.
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