than in watching the games.)
The morning comes and goes, and then it’s post-lunch, that time when a sleepy haze wafts over all of us. To make the lethargy worse, I have study hall.
Sitting next to Sarah Jensen is the only time I feel totally outpaced while studying—especially in study hall, a place that defies its name since most people feel free to do nothing. While many of them choose to pass notes, whisper, or even nod off, Sarah is efficiently completing all her homework and—from the looks of it—all her college essays.
“Early decision—Harvard,” she says to me without my even asking. We have an unspoken respect, based primarily on our GPAs and, I suspect, a little on our lack of social status. But while she is cloistered off—an academic ace but a complete loner, in Latin club and so on—I’m different. It’s like I’m in the social scene, but just on the outskirts—close enough to know exactly what’s going on, but aware that the people, parties, and hook-ups are still an arm’s length (or other body part) away. “What about you?”
“Huh?” I look at Sarah’s even hair-part and her careful printing, and I can’t imagine what she’s writing in her Harvard application unless it’s something like Why I’m Perfect or It’s difficult being the top-ranked student at my school.
But, of course, I know too well that those titles leave out a certain aspect of life—like having one. My freshman and sophomore years, I swear all I did was study. I earned straight A’s and extra credit on top of those grades, thought about going out for track (I’m a decent long distance runner) but wound up choosing tennis, joined the Italian club (after Latin, romance languages come easily), and even tried my hand at studio art (I suck), and could technically list eighteen extracurriculars on my pre-college list. I was so busy I didn’t really notice my lack of friends, my utter lack of romantic potential, and the general void where a life beyond school-work would normally be.
It wasn’t until the end of sophomore year when, from my place in the bleachers at graduation, I realized I didn’t know even a fifth of the seniors. I’d never see these people again, even the ones who made fun of me in the lunchroom, and yet I felt like I missed them. I missed knowing names and faces and kidding around with people (kidding takes time, and I never had time between classes and courses and credits). Watching the other sophomores in their best-friend pairs, I had to admit I was jealous. The first step to getting a friend and a life, I figured, was scaling down my crazy activity roster.
Cutting back was easy, actually. The Word was by far the place I felt happiest. The stories came fluidly, I enjoyed the research, and the staff (even the jocky kids who spelled “you are” as “your” rather than “you’re,” or the semi-mean girls who were nice to me when they needed help with a lead sentence, then trashed my nose or sweater later) were all okay. I let my clubs and committees slide; this year, I even let tennis go. But I always kept the Word, determined to become editor.
I announced to my parents that I was drastically reducing my level of frantic.
“We’re so proud of you,” Mom said, trying to flap her arms and breathe in a pattern that was supposed to help her abdominal muscles. “Damn these things,” she added, and stopped the DVD she was mimicking. “I’m going back to old-fashioned running.”
“Careful of your knees,” Dad said to her. Then he stared at my face in careful consideration. “This is monumental, Cyrie.”
“Oh yeah?” I tapped my foot—I was glad to have a good relationship with my parents, but I couldn’t stand being a part of their weird Sunday afternoon yoga/newspapers/carrot juice recap of the week, not to mention their odd tendencies toward cardio workouts and rearranging the furniture.
“Yes,” Dad said. “It’s a big deal when you realize your
The morning comes and goes, and then it’s post-lunch, that time when a sleepy haze wafts over all of us. To make the lethargy worse, I have study hall.
Sitting next to Sarah Jensen is the only time I feel totally outpaced while studying—especially in study hall, a place that defies its name since most people feel free to do nothing. While many of them choose to pass notes, whisper, or even nod off, Sarah is efficiently completing all her homework and—from the looks of it—all her college essays.
“Early decision—Harvard,” she says to me without my even asking. We have an unspoken respect, based primarily on our GPAs and, I suspect, a little on our lack of social status. But while she is cloistered off—an academic ace but a complete loner, in Latin club and so on—I’m different. It’s like I’m in the social scene, but just on the outskirts—close enough to know exactly what’s going on, but aware that the people, parties, and hook-ups are still an arm’s length (or other body part) away. “What about you?”
“Huh?” I look at Sarah’s even hair-part and her careful printing, and I can’t imagine what she’s writing in her Harvard application unless it’s something like Why I’m Perfect or It’s difficult being the top-ranked student at my school.
But, of course, I know too well that those titles leave out a certain aspect of life—like having one. My freshman and sophomore years, I swear all I did was study. I earned straight A’s and extra credit on top of those grades, thought about going out for track (I’m a decent long distance runner) but wound up choosing tennis, joined the Italian club (after Latin, romance languages come easily), and even tried my hand at studio art (I suck), and could technically list eighteen extracurriculars on my pre-college list. I was so busy I didn’t really notice my lack of friends, my utter lack of romantic potential, and the general void where a life beyond school-work would normally be.
It wasn’t until the end of sophomore year when, from my place in the bleachers at graduation, I realized I didn’t know even a fifth of the seniors. I’d never see these people again, even the ones who made fun of me in the lunchroom, and yet I felt like I missed them. I missed knowing names and faces and kidding around with people (kidding takes time, and I never had time between classes and courses and credits). Watching the other sophomores in their best-friend pairs, I had to admit I was jealous. The first step to getting a friend and a life, I figured, was scaling down my crazy activity roster.
Cutting back was easy, actually. The Word was by far the place I felt happiest. The stories came fluidly, I enjoyed the research, and the staff (even the jocky kids who spelled “you are” as “your” rather than “you’re,” or the semi-mean girls who were nice to me when they needed help with a lead sentence, then trashed my nose or sweater later) were all okay. I let my clubs and committees slide; this year, I even let tennis go. But I always kept the Word, determined to become editor.
I announced to my parents that I was drastically reducing my level of frantic.
“We’re so proud of you,” Mom said, trying to flap her arms and breathe in a pattern that was supposed to help her abdominal muscles. “Damn these things,” she added, and stopped the DVD she was mimicking. “I’m going back to old-fashioned running.”
“Careful of your knees,” Dad said to her. Then he stared at my face in careful consideration. “This is monumental, Cyrie.”
“Oh yeah?” I tapped my foot—I was glad to have a good relationship with my parents, but I couldn’t stand being a part of their weird Sunday afternoon yoga/newspapers/carrot juice recap of the week, not to mention their odd tendencies toward cardio workouts and rearranging the furniture.
“Yes,” Dad said. “It’s a big deal when you realize your
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