never known why. She was a little bit too smart, a little bit too weird.
But that was beside the point. The point was, a year after high school ended, Shannon and Brittany and most of the cheerleaders would be knocked up by their boyfriends and live their entire lives stuck in Middlebury, Home of the Patriots. Maybe they would realize how depressing their lives were one day when their six kids were screaming and their husbands went out drinking after work, coming home late and wondering why dinner was cold. Maybe they would realize how small their lives were when they had wrinkles at thirty-three and went to the football games every Friday night and reminisced about the days when they were beautiful. Maybe they would never realize anything, because they were too stupid and provincial to know any better.
The same would happen to the nobodies. They would go to college because they were expected to, get a decent job in a field they weren’t passionate about because it paid enough money, get married because everyone else was, and stick with the marriage for the kids, even if they weren’t happy.
The only people Bethany saw any hope for were the Shiny Happy People. They would excel in college and get great jobs and marry for love. The only risk for them would be if they somehow failed to achieve a 4.0 GPA at Harvard, and then they would commit suicide. Some of the freaks might amount to something, become an artist or a musician, but would probably end up living in poverty and addicted to drugs. One of the computer geeks might make a lot of money, but he’d probably still have trouble talking to girls. Bethany’s chances for future happiness were slim.
The more she thought about it, the more hopeless it all felt. According to Mr. Caleb, the greatest years were lived in high school. If that was true, Bethany had very little to hope for in life, because her high school years sucked, and she was only a sophomore. All the abuse she took from her classmates–she would never have a chance to prove them wrong, to say, “Look at me now. You thought I was a freak and now I’m successful.” Because, like her parents, her peers wouldn’t think being an artist was a success. They would quote salaries, and unless Bethany’s art sold for a lot of money, which was highly unlikely in her lifetime, they wouldn’t be impressed. Even if they were living in a trailer park with four kids and an alcoholic husband.
The bell rang, and Bethany snapped out of her depressing thoughts to look at the unfinished speech scrawled on her lunch bag. She crumpled the bag under her hand, dropping it in the trash barrel on her way out of the cafeteria. Bethany forced her mind from the disappointments the real world had to offer. She had other terrifying things to worry about, like being harassed in the hallway, and the guidance office.
Chapter Eleven
Bethany awaited judgment in a plaid armchair. Her book bag rested against one foot; the other foot was drawn up to her chest. She was painfully conscious of the gun in the front pocket, and the consequences if that gun were discovered now.
Mr. Peterson sat in an identical armchair across from Bethany, his legs crossed. A yellow legal notepad rested on one knee, as did Bethany’s three-page story.
“Now, Bethany, this isn’t the first time you’ve been called down here,” Mr. Peterson started. “If you’ll recall the previous incident?”
“I recall,” Bethany said, glaring at Mr. Peterson through her hair. She wished she could smile at the man’s inability to name the incident, his avoidance of the entire topic.
“That was quite a serious situation, Bethany. And in connection with that incident, a story like this is quite disturbing.”
Bethany waited.
“Um... for instance, here, on the second page, where you–where your character slits her wrist?”
“Yes?”
“The way it’s described is highly... realistic, and taking into consideration your previous... uh, incident,
But that was beside the point. The point was, a year after high school ended, Shannon and Brittany and most of the cheerleaders would be knocked up by their boyfriends and live their entire lives stuck in Middlebury, Home of the Patriots. Maybe they would realize how depressing their lives were one day when their six kids were screaming and their husbands went out drinking after work, coming home late and wondering why dinner was cold. Maybe they would realize how small their lives were when they had wrinkles at thirty-three and went to the football games every Friday night and reminisced about the days when they were beautiful. Maybe they would never realize anything, because they were too stupid and provincial to know any better.
The same would happen to the nobodies. They would go to college because they were expected to, get a decent job in a field they weren’t passionate about because it paid enough money, get married because everyone else was, and stick with the marriage for the kids, even if they weren’t happy.
The only people Bethany saw any hope for were the Shiny Happy People. They would excel in college and get great jobs and marry for love. The only risk for them would be if they somehow failed to achieve a 4.0 GPA at Harvard, and then they would commit suicide. Some of the freaks might amount to something, become an artist or a musician, but would probably end up living in poverty and addicted to drugs. One of the computer geeks might make a lot of money, but he’d probably still have trouble talking to girls. Bethany’s chances for future happiness were slim.
The more she thought about it, the more hopeless it all felt. According to Mr. Caleb, the greatest years were lived in high school. If that was true, Bethany had very little to hope for in life, because her high school years sucked, and she was only a sophomore. All the abuse she took from her classmates–she would never have a chance to prove them wrong, to say, “Look at me now. You thought I was a freak and now I’m successful.” Because, like her parents, her peers wouldn’t think being an artist was a success. They would quote salaries, and unless Bethany’s art sold for a lot of money, which was highly unlikely in her lifetime, they wouldn’t be impressed. Even if they were living in a trailer park with four kids and an alcoholic husband.
The bell rang, and Bethany snapped out of her depressing thoughts to look at the unfinished speech scrawled on her lunch bag. She crumpled the bag under her hand, dropping it in the trash barrel on her way out of the cafeteria. Bethany forced her mind from the disappointments the real world had to offer. She had other terrifying things to worry about, like being harassed in the hallway, and the guidance office.
Chapter Eleven
Bethany awaited judgment in a plaid armchair. Her book bag rested against one foot; the other foot was drawn up to her chest. She was painfully conscious of the gun in the front pocket, and the consequences if that gun were discovered now.
Mr. Peterson sat in an identical armchair across from Bethany, his legs crossed. A yellow legal notepad rested on one knee, as did Bethany’s three-page story.
“Now, Bethany, this isn’t the first time you’ve been called down here,” Mr. Peterson started. “If you’ll recall the previous incident?”
“I recall,” Bethany said, glaring at Mr. Peterson through her hair. She wished she could smile at the man’s inability to name the incident, his avoidance of the entire topic.
“That was quite a serious situation, Bethany. And in connection with that incident, a story like this is quite disturbing.”
Bethany waited.
“Um... for instance, here, on the second page, where you–where your character slits her wrist?”
“Yes?”
“The way it’s described is highly... realistic, and taking into consideration your previous... uh, incident,
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