Authors: Autumn Cornwell
Carpe Diem (4 page)
Last Rites
Amicus certus in re incerta cernitur.
A true friend is discerned during an uncertain matter.
Â
D
uring lunch we held a funeral.
uring lunch we held a funeral.
For my valedictorian.
Amber said it would be catharticâfor
all
of us. We buried my hopes in the corner of the soccer field. Denise presided over the last rites. We wore black armbands Laurel made out of construction paper. And we each scooped dirt over a copy of my academic record. Afterwards, we sat in a little circle around the grave and attempted to eat our bag lunches. But no one was hungry. Except for Amber, who was never
not
hungry.
all
of us. We buried my hopes in the corner of the soccer field. Denise presided over the last rites. We wore black armbands Laurel made out of construction paper. And we each scooped dirt over a copy of my academic record. Afterwards, we sat in a little circle around the grave and attempted to eat our bag lunches. But no one was hungry. Except for Amber, who was never
not
hungry.
We chose to ignore the stares and snickers of our fellow students.
“Philistines,” Denise muttered under her breath as a pack of freshmen boys walked by, pelting us with M&M's.
But Laurel was oblivious to the chocolate rainfall. Picking at her spinach salad topped with sunflower seeds and jicama, she asked: “Why couldn't your grandma take you
to Oxford or London? Think of the scholarship, the great thinkers who came from there. Not to mention Stratford-on-Avon.”
to Oxford or London? Think of the scholarship, the great thinkers who came from there. Not to mention Stratford-on-Avon.”
“Or even Italy. The Sistine Chapel, the Vatican,
David
â¦
David
⦠the oh-so-divine
David
⦠,” said Amber with a cheesy grin. Cheesy because cheddar from her sandwich was stuck in her braces. She subtly picked up two M&M's that landed in the grass next to her ⦠and ate them when she thought we weren't looking.
David
â¦
David
⦠the oh-so-divine
David
⦠,” said Amber with a cheesy grin. Cheesy because cheddar from her sandwich was stuck in her braces. She subtly picked up two M&M's that landed in the grass next to her ⦠and ate them when she thought we weren't looking.
“Angkor Wat in Cambodia is said to be one of the great wonders of the world. Supposedly it surpasses even the Great Wall of China,” said Denise. Then, to Amber: “You've got mayonnaise on your chin.”
Amber wiped her chin and pointed to Laurel. “Well, she's got spinach between her teeth.”
Laurel delicately removed the shred of leaf, then said to me, “I hope you like rice, because that's going to be your primary staple from now on. Mrs. Kawasaki, my piano teacher, says she eats rice for
every
meal. Even breakfast.”
every
meal. Even breakfast.”
We all sat and pondered a life of perpetual rice.
“Malaysia, Cambodia, and Laos. Why couldn't she have started you someplace easierâlike Japan?” Amber said. “And where is Laos, anyway?”
Denise took out the mini atlas she always carried in her backpack. “Let's see ⦠Laos. Here we are. It borders Thailand and Vietnam. The latitude and longitude of Vientiane, the capital city: 17° 58' N, 102° 36' E.”
“Laos. Hope you don't get any lice!”
“The proper pronunciation is âLao' like âDow,' as in âJones,'” said Laurel to Amber.
Then there was a glum pause. All of us trying to think of something positive to say. And failing. The only sound was the crackle of Amber trying to open a bag of honey-mustard pretzels.
Denise slammed her atlas shut. “Come on! The three of us have a collective IQ of well over four hundred. I should think that we could brainstorm a solution to Vassar's Valedictorian Problem. Am I right or am I right?”
“You're right!” said Amber and Laurel.
“Then time for Idea Procreation! We'll give ourselves ten minutes to brainstorm a solution to the problem of Vassar's threatened academic record. Get out your pen and paper. Take it seriouslyâpretend it's going to count for ninety percent of your SAT score. Operation Damage Controlâgo!”
Denise's eyes gleamed as she scribbled across the college-ruled paper. There was nothing she liked more than a challenge. She thrived under pressure. The only time I ever saw Denise flustered was around boys. She just didn't know what to say to them. Not that I was any expertâbut at least I didn't break out in hives when I got assigned a male Chemistry Lab partner.
Amber's lower lip protrudedâsignaling an extra-intense level of concentration. When I thought of how she got no attention at home, it infuriated me. Her parents had never gone to even one of her chess tournaments. “If there isn't a ball, there isn't a point,” her dad would say. Talk about Philistines.
Laurel's hand fluttered as she wrote her own special shorthand. Her ultrafemininity was deceiving. Though there were German shepherds bigger than Laurel, nothing stopped her when she wanted something. The way she was subtly manipulating Garrett so that he'd think asking her out was
his
idea was nothing short of genius.
his
idea was nothing short of genius.
And here they were, all three of them, collectively coming to my rescue.
Who else had such wonderful, loyal friends? Before I could stop them, tears ran down my nose.
“Watch itâyou're blurring my ideas,” said Amber, moving her paper with its red felt-tip-pen ink away from me.
Ten minutes later, they had it:
I'd simply push Advanced Latin Camp to next summer and take the Sub-Molecular Theory class at the junior college during Christmas vacation. And I would convince Principal Ledbetter to allow me to write a novel as a substitute for not only the entire class grade in AP Englishâbut also in AAP English: Advanced
Advanced
Placement English.
Advanced
Placement English.
“But what would my novel be about?” I asked.
Denise gave me an incredulous look. “Your trip, of course. Don't reinvent the wheel. Just write everything that happens to you as fiction. Change the names and there you go.”
“If necessary, embellish,” said Laurel.
“Or just make stuff up,” said Amber, her mouth full of pretzels.
“The plot would be the main character trying to figure out The Big Secret. Like a detective story,” said Denise.
“But what if I never find out?”
“Then that'll be your ending,”
“What if it's really boring? Do you think I'd still get credit?”
Denise shrugged. “Why not? Look how many boring novels get published every year in the name of literature.”
“And actually win prizes for being so boring,” said Laurel.
“Yeah, being boring must be some sort of prerequisite,” said Amber.
It was worth a shot.
I blew my nose. My parents may have let me down, but my friends sure didn't.
“Besides, colleges are very hip on the whole intercultural/ cross-cultural experience,” Laurel said.
Denise added: “And I guarantee you, a novel about your travels in Southeast Asia will definitely increase your odds of getting into Vassar,
Vassar.
”
Vassar.
”
“And the best part: It would put you ahead of Wendy!” Laurel could hardly contain her excitement.
“So? What do you think?” asked Amber.
One by one, I looked at each expectant face. Then said:
“Wendy will make a fine salutatorian.”
They all jumped up and cheered in Latin:
“Euge!”
A green M&M sailed through the air and bounced off Denise's forehead.
After all, how hard could it be to write a novel about
me
?
me
?
Never Mind
I
couldn't wait to tell my parents the brilliant plan. I especially hoped it would make Mom feel betterâthat not all was lost in my academic career. I was determined to produce the best novel ever written by a sixteen-year-old. My plans didn't stop with valedictorian. Oh, no. I would publish this book and become a teenage personality. With sales in the millions. Interviews. Book tours. Magazine covers. My own fan club.
couldn't wait to tell my parents the brilliant plan. I especially hoped it would make Mom feel betterâthat not all was lost in my academic career. I was determined to produce the best novel ever written by a sixteen-year-old. My plans didn't stop with valedictorian. Oh, no. I would publish this book and become a teenage personality. With sales in the millions. Interviews. Book tours. Magazine covers. My own fan club.
Wendy Stupacker would be reduced to a mere gnat in the scheme of things.
And John Pepper would have the excuse he needed to ask me out.
Every Ivy League college would be askingâno,
begging
âme to grace their campus with my presence.
begging
âme to grace their campus with my presence.
Â
Normally, when Dad came home from work he'd immediately change into his yellow jogging suit with the green stripes for his run. Then he'd clock in his time on the chart stuck to the refrigerator, next to my daily schedule. And after school, I'd help Mom in the garden. For someone usually
so immaculate, she sure loved mucking around in the dirt and adding decaying vegetables to her compost heap. If it was raining, we'd play Boggle or Scrabble until Dad finished his runâhe ran rain or shine. Then Dad and I'd prepare dinner while listening to NPR.
so immaculate, she sure loved mucking around in the dirt and adding decaying vegetables to her compost heap. If it was raining, we'd play Boggle or Scrabble until Dad finished his runâhe ran rain or shine. Then Dad and I'd prepare dinner while listening to NPR.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Mom “hermitted” in her room, and Dad slumped at the kitchen table. His normally crisp button-down shirt was rumpled, and a thin line of missed hairs glinted along his left jaw.
“Hi, Dad.”
He jumped. “Vassar!” He stared at me as if our next-door neighbor's basset hound had walked into the kitchen on two legs and addressed him by name. Then he snapped out of it. “How was school?” But before I could answer: “You'll certainly be missed around here this summer. If only your mom and I could haveâ” He stopped short.
“Could have what?”
“Never mind. Never mind. You know your dad's just an old softy.” He stood up and poured himself a glass of water.
I hugged him. “I wouldn't trade you for any other dad in the world.”
That choked him up. He gave me a tight squeeze back, sloshing water onto the floor.
Then before I could stop myself, I asked, “Dadâwhat's The Big Secret?”
He frozeâthen backed away from me, spilling more water down the front of his shirt. He actually looked â¦
scared
.
scared
.
“Come on, you can tell me. I promise I won't tell Mom.” He just stood there, mute. As if not trusting himself to say anything without her there to chaperone.
Then he turned and tore precisely one square off the paper towel roll and wiped up the floor. “I'm sorry, Vassar. I can't ⦠I can't talk about it.” He wouldn't meet my gaze.
To prevent any other questions, he quickly removed precut vegetables and meat from the refrigerator and busied himself with dinner. He and Mom always set aside Sunday evenings to plan and prep meals for the week ahead, so each day of the week had its own plastic container.
Tuesday's Dinner:
stir-fry. (“If only people would realize that plan equals freedom. Once you plan, you don't have to waste time every day rethinking the same issues, remaking the same decisions,” Dad would say. Often.)
Tuesday's Dinner:
stir-fry. (“If only people would realize that plan equals freedom. Once you plan, you don't have to waste time every day rethinking the same issues, remaking the same decisions,” Dad would say. Often.)
Forcing a jovial tone, he said, “An exotic meal for you tonight, Vassar: mushrooms, sprouts, onions, sliced rib eyeâover rice. Stir-fry. This'll help prepare your taste buds for Southeast Asian cuisine.” He opened the refrigerator. “Let's see. Where's the ketchup?”
I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere with him. So, while I set the table, I told him The Brilliant Plan. He was just as impressed as I was.
“We can always use another author in the family. Why don't you go on up and tell your mom? She needs to hear this. It'll perk her right up.” He looked at his watch. “Dinner will be ready in eight minutes and fifteen seconds.”
As I headed up the stairs, the phone rang. Dad answered.
“Oh, hello, Amber ⦠. Late for what? ⦠Tonight? ⦠Unfortunately, Althea will have to reschedule. There will be no Hour of Reflection in the Spore household tonight ⦠.”
“Oh, hello, Amber ⦠. Late for what? ⦠Tonight? ⦠Unfortunately, Althea will have to reschedule. There will be no Hour of Reflection in the Spore household tonight ⦠.”
Â
As I entered their bedroom, Mom quickly slipped a book under the mint-green duvet. But not before I saw the cover: a buxom maiden kissing a muscular farm lad who seemed to have misplaced his shirt.
I sighed. My numerous attempts to steer Mom toward works more literary had failed. There sat
Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy,
and
The Portrait of a Lady
in a patient rowâuntouchedâon her bedroom bookshelf. For a woman who was highbrow in every other area of her lifeâincluding a fondness for Pucciniâshe certainly sank low in the fiction department.
Don Quixote, Tristram Shandy,
and
The Portrait of a Lady
in a patient rowâuntouchedâon her bedroom bookshelf. For a woman who was highbrow in every other area of her lifeâincluding a fondness for Pucciniâshe certainly sank low in the fiction department.
Mom looked strangely fragile and vulnerable without makeup, wearing bifocals and a beige cotton nightgown. I'd never noticed the deep lines between her eyes, or how far the corners of her mouth drooped when she was fatigued. Moss-green walls combined with the mint duvet created the illusion she was drowning in a vat of split-pea soup.
She struggled to sit up, adjusting the pillow behind her back.
“Sorry about last night. I wasn'tâit must have been something I ate. But I'm feeling much better now.”
Since when did beef Stroganoff upset anyone's stomach?
I noticed a bottle of pills on her nightstand.
Great: Grandma Gerd is driving Mom to self-medicate.
“Up for a rousing game of Boggle?” I shook the plastic box of dice enticingly. “Come on, you know you are. We have eight minutes until dinner. And you owe me a chance to even the score.”
She managed a weak smile. “Maybe later.”
I set the game down on her nightstand. Then, in as peppy a tone as I could muster: “I have some news that'll cheer you up.”
But The Brilliant Plan didn't seem to make a difference. Her eyes still held an expression of foreboding. The lines were still there. Her mouth still drooped. Apparently, my odds of making or not making valedictorian were secondary to The Big Secret.
She stared at me a moment, then asked, “Vassar, are you happy?” As soon as she said it, I could tell she wished she hadn't.
“Happy? What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know ⦔ She forced a light tone. “Has your life so far been a happy one?”
I'd never really thought about it. “Why wouldn't it be?”
She considered for a moment, then lightly shook her head.
“Never mind. Is that stir-fry I smell?”
“Want me to bring you some?”
“No!” The very idea seemed to turn her stomach. “You eat with Dad. I'll just have ⦠toast and broth. Afterward we can start on your packing list. After all, it's only twelve more days until ⦠until ⦔ Her voice cracked as she reached for a Kleenex.
And I slipped out the door.
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