My Senior Year of Awesome Read online

  “Is she seeing anyone?”

  Now where did that come from? “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Ben takes a second to digest my answer. He’s known around school as a man of few words. “Keep running,” he eventually says. “When you hit a runner’s high for the first time – there’s nothing like the feeling of all those endorphins kicking through your system.”

  After imparting this piece of friendly advice, he changes course and sets off in the direction of Jana’s locker, leaving me alone to dream about the elusive drug-like effect of running.

  ***

  And guess who actually enjoys running? Jana and both of her left feet. The girl who cannot travel from her locker to homeroom without tripping over some unseen speck of debris in the hallway.

  But now, on any given day, Jana beats me to practice by ten minutes and runs warm-up laps with Dominic and Ben while I take my time lacing up my old sneakers.

  During the few times the guys separate during practice, like when Dom decides to focus on sprint starts in the gym because the sophomore girls are practicing in there too, I notice Ben hovering near Jana, in an unobtrusive, non-stalkerly way. A casual onlooker might not notice the brief exchange of words passing between the two of them. But, as the most trusted member of Jana’s inner circle, I usually hear about these mini-conversations on the way home from practice.

  “Wanna run the next circuit with us, Sadie?” Jana asks. She turns her head, scanning the hallway for me, and almost veers into a row of metal lockers. Without breaking his pace, Ben reaches out his arm and redirects her. Jana’s face lights up in a wide smile and she giggles at her misdirection.

  Hmmm. Maybe the falling in love achievement she’s hoping for isn’t as unachievable as I anticipate.

  “No more circuits,” I plead, sliding bonelessly to the floor. “I need a break.” But she’s already out of earshot. Every muscle in my body hurts. Gawd. What was I thinking joining the track team?

  Fill It In – Your Awesome Achievements

  To Be Completed By Sadie Matthews and Jana Rodriguez Prior to June 1st

  1. Break a School Rule – Sadie & Jana Cut Homeroom!

  2. Serve My First Detention — Sadie

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  Chapter Nine

  After a two grueling weeks of track practice, I crawl four blocks back to my apartment and scale two flights of stairs, feeling my quads pinch with each and every step. I want to crash on the sofa and surf my way through mindless television until I collapse into sleep.

  But today is an extra busy day in Sadieland. First, I need to shower because heaven help me I stink worse than the moldy trash bin outside of our building.

  Then I need to shovel down some form of sustenance before racing back to school for the spring musical auditions. Combining my less-than-superior culinary capabilities with three cans of black beans, stale bread, and the half jar of peanut butter in our pantry leaves me only limited meal options.

  But, as it turns out, I don’t need to invent a new dinner recipe. When I enter the apartment, the aroma of homemade spaghetti sauce nearly knocks me back into the hallway.

  “What happened to my mother? Did she hit the Powerball jackpot and hire a personal chef?” I sniff the air, cross into the kitchen, and swipe the lid from a simmering pot. A delighted groan escapes my lips at the sight of simmering tomato sauce.

  Mom leans against the counter, a look of smug satisfaction on her face. When I smother her with a hug, she bats me away with a claw-shaped utensil.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask. “You’re attempting to cook real food?”

  “I can cook,” she says, a tad bit defensively, running her free hand through her layered brown hair, the same color as mine, but chopped eight inches shorter.

  “Theoretically, everyone can cook. I thought you had some strange fear of turning on the oven. Like a traumatic childhood experience related to baked asparagus.”

  “If that’s the case, then I must really be desperate. I thought if I made something you liked, you might take the time to sit down and eat with me.” Her eyes meet mine at a level height now that I’ve caught up to her size-wise. Mom never seems to mind being petite, but I wonder if her attitude would change if I surpassed her in inches.

  Even without her direct accusation, I get the idea that it’s my fault we’ve missed each other so much lately. Truth be told, my amped-up activity schedule has cut into the number of hours I spend lounging around the apartment. But Mom is usually pretty busy herself, with her job and her social life (Oldies nights at the bars on Main Street). I’ve grown accustomed to eating tuna sandwiches solo.

  “Do you have plans tonight?” she asks as she scoops pasta out of the pot and hands me a plate. I carry my food to the dining room portion of our cramped apartment, differentiated from the kitchen by a rusty metal strip and a black and white Ikea throw rug under our antique (a.k.a. old and decrepit) table.

  “Jana and I are trying out for the spring musical.” I settle in and suck my first strand of spaghetti through my teeth. “Auditions start in less than an hour. Aren’t you going out, too?”

  Tuesday nights are Eighties Dance Jams at The Green Lagoon Pub. My mother’s personal form of religion.

  “Not until seven.”

  “Don’t you leave early to get a good seat at the bar?”

  “I asked Margie to save my regular spot.”

  “Okay, Mom, but you can’t call me before nine, no matter what,” I warn her. “This audition is really important.” I recite a quick prayer in my head. Please, whoever’s up there in heaven looking out for me, grant my mother enough self-control to make it through the night without needing bail money.

  “Well, look at you, Miss Actress. I’ve never seen you so interested in after-school activities. This isn’t about a boy, is it?” She appears beside me with a steaming pot and dumps about a billion peas onto my plate. “Because we’ve talked about letting boys become a distraction.”

  And then you wind up dropping out of school. Or getting pregnant. I silently add Mom’s unspoken worst case scenarios. The ones she’s lectured me about for close to eighteen years now. “No boy. Just a last blast of fun before graduation. I’m trying to make the most of my high school years. Maybe learn something new.”

  “Yes, do that.” She sets a water pitcher on the table in front of me. “After high school, life is nothing but a bunch of miserable dead-end jobs and guys with bad breath and ugly shoes hitting on you.”

  My mother and her wonderfully optimistic view of life.

  ***

  For my first musical audition I throw on jeans and the loose flowery top my grandparents sent me for Christmas, because it’s dramatic (or at the very least, eye-catching). After an unanswered, shouted good-bye to Mom, I speed down Main Street to meet Jana. We walk the last few blocks to tryouts belting out Lady Gaga songs to exercise our lungs.

  “How bad do we sound?” Jana asks. I catch the fear in her eyes.

  “We’ll be fine,” I say, but I know she recognizes my fear as well.

  In the choir room, Leslie fine-tunes her vocal chords with perfectly pitched Sound of Music do-re-mi’s. Every eight notes, she does some funky type of snorty breathing and sips from a water bottle before restarting back at do-si-do. Jana attempts the same maneuvers, but her tra-la-las sound more like a tone-deaf baby frog.

  “I think we’re in over our heads,” she whispers when the freshmen choirgirls shoot her dirty looks.

  “Hey, Sadie-girl! Hey, Jana!” Leslie waves us over when she notices us standing apart from the hard-core drama crowd. “I’ve already told Ms. Cutler that both of you want to audition for Audrey II. She thinks it’s a great idea because the part really calls for more than one person.”

  “Why would you need two understudies?” I ask.

 
“Come again?” Leslie frowns, confused. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” She cradles her face in her hands and forms an o with her mouth, suddenly comprehending our miscomprehension. “Audrey II isn’t an understudy role. Have you not seen the Little Shop of Horrors movie?”

  She enunciates every word like this is completely unfathomable.

  “Uh … no,” I reply, as a sweep of terror hits me. The play has the word “horror” in the title. I hate scary stuff. In fact, I pointedly avoid any form of blood and guts, even fake blood and guts. Geez, doesn’t everyone in this town already know I barely survived fetal pig dissection?

  Just then, Ms. Cutler claps her hands to gain our full attention. Her carroty curls are piled into a messy bun secured with what looks like chopsticks. Heart-shaped purple glasses frame her pale blue eyes, one of which occasionally wanders in the wrong direction.

  “Attention, people. And Derek,” she says, to the tune of laughter. Jana looks at me helplessly. Missing inside jokes is a bad sign. Breaking through Ms. Cutler’s circle of favorites to nab a choice role depends on our ability to scale a mountain of kiss-up, wanna-be Audrey IIs. “Let’s begin. Mrs. Bitty, hand out the parts, please.”

  To set the mood, Ms. Cutler punches a button on the remote in her hand and party music blares from speakers mounted on the wall. Mrs. Bitty, Ms. Cutler’s silver-haired assistant and utilitarian piano player, shuffles around the room passing out sample dialogue sketches. She squints at a page titled “Audrey II” and holds it out in front of Jana and me. Together, we shy away.

  “Which one of you wants the speaking part?” Mrs. Bitty cackles, revealing a toothless grin.

  “Can we both talk?” Jana asks.

  “No,” Ms. Cutler booms, cutting the music as she speaks. Everyone directs their eyes to Jana and me. “Handling the robotic animation will be enough of a challenge for one person. We need someone to provide a voice-over through an offstage mic.”

  “I’ll do the offstage part,” Jana says. “I get stage fright.”

  “Awesome.” Derek Jonas chimes in from across the room. Derek has starred in every school play during our time at Harmony High School. By sheer number of upper-class males present tonight (just him, unless a bunch of senior guys are hiding in the band closet), it looks like he’s a shoe-in this time around as well.

  “Give Audrey II some Latina flair, Jana,” Derek says. “Say the lines real fast, and mix in some Spanish words, like Shakira.” He breaks into some sort of flamenco dance and snaps his fingers high above his head.

  “Can you sing like Shakira?” Ms. Cutler raises her orangey eyebrows above her purple glasses. “Mrs. Bitty, play a few bars.”

  “Stop!” Panic consumes Jana’s face. “Sorry, Ms. Cutler, but I’m no Shakira.”

  “But you do a really excellent impression of her,” I add, helpfully. Jana’s at her screwball best when surfing along on a sugar high. I wonder how many Hershey bars it will take to get her to an Audrey II level of insanity.

  “Jana’s vocal range won’t really matter if she’s mic’d offstage,” Leslie chirps.

  “True,” Ms. Cutler agrees. “If you’re really that bad, we can always pipe in a recording from the soundtrack.”

  “And Sadie’s size will be an advantage for the onstage part,” says Leslie.

  “Why, is Audrey II an elf?” I ask. Everyone laughs. I usually ignore the insinuated insults, but by this point in high school, when everyone else has left me far, far behind, vertically speaking, the short jokes get old.

  “What?” I ask, searching around for anyone willing to make eye contact and spill the truth. “If she’s not short, then what is she?”

  “Leafy,” says one of the brave sophomore girls on the far side of the room.

  “Define leafy.” I picture myself dressed as a wood nymph or some other gorgeous mythological creature.

  “Audrey II is a plant. A hideous, man-eating plant.” Derek scrunches up his ruddy face in what I suppose is mock-horror. “Feed me, Seymour! You know that line, right?”

  “I don’t know anything. Who’s Seymour?”

  “The guy who works in the Little Shop of Horrors and loves Audrey the First,” Leslie says.

  “Wait. Back up a second. Are you saying that not only is my part not a lead role or even an understudy, but it also is not human?”

  “Our part,” Jana corrects me.

  “Your part is a big plant puppet,” Derek says.

  “But Audrey II is a lead role,” Leslie insists. “The show can’t go on without her. You’ll be front and center stage. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Do Jana and I get top billing on the sign in front of school?”

  “Wait, Sadie,” Jana raises her hand, as if asking permission to speak. “If we get top billing on the sign, everyone riding by school will associate us with a flesh-eating plant.”

  “Good point. But, if we take the plant role, will it count for our … thing?”

  Jana’s head bobs up and down. “Leslie said the show cannot go on without us. Sounds like a fantastic achievement to me.”

  “Okay, I’m in. But I want to be a sexy plant. With some green sequins or something.”

  Fill It In – February 20th

  Your Lazy Sunday Morning To-Do List

  1. Definitely not running.

  2. Not attending play practice.

  3. Not working on mathlete problems.

  4. Not waking up before ten a.m.

  5. Not working on college applications.

  6. Not cleaning my room. (Sorry, Mom).

  7. Not studying for Driver’s Ed. (Really sorry, Mom).

  8. Not eating breakfast, because there is not one scrap of food to be found in our kitchen.

  9. Not waking my mother, because she will hound me about numbers six and seven.

  10. I guess I’m going out. Time for an adventure.

  Chapter Ten

  Although Mom’s belly is probably way past full after last night’s dinner out with friends, mine sounds like a kitten mewing under my shirt. I hike a half-mile to the grocery store as the purring increases to a full-fledged growl.

  Inside Market Fresh, I count out the last of my spending money. I’d done some sporadic babysitting and dog walking for my apartment neighbors, but held off looking for a real job, worried that any commitment to part-time employment will result in the whole awesome achievement list grinding to a dead halt. Jana depends on me to follow through on our mutual promises.

  With a sigh, I shove the crumpled bills back into my wallet. Maybe we can rip through the rest of our achievements in time for me to build my bank account before the money drain of senior week and college. If I ever find a college willing to accept my late application.

  Of course, I’m wearing ratty sweats and dirty fake Uggs reserved for sloshing through snow and rain soaked streets. I didn’t even bother to fix my ponytail before leaving the apartment, a surefire way to guarantee running into at least one person you don’t want to see. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when I turn into the produce aisle and nearly smack right into Andy and his family.

  The Super Ks, as I like to think of them, all spit and polished to perfection. Andy, the oldest child, is shadowed by his middle-school-aged twin brothers, impossible to tell apart, and his younger sister, lagging a few steps behind the bigger boys, chattering nonstop.

  Watching the Super K men all shifting their long limbs back and forth awkwardly, obviously out of place in the busy supermarket, I can’t prevent a smile from breaking out on my unwashed, oil slick of a face. How Andy gets away with being such a mess is a mystery, because his younger brothers’ blond crew cuts remind me of newly shorn sheep. Even the baby sister’s shiny blond hair is arranged in tightly braided pigtails.

  Hoping to escape notice, I dart behind a tower of crated oranges.

  I’m an instant too late.

  “Hey, Sadie,” Andy calls. I freeze mid-step and glance back to find him looking reliev
ed. Apparently, I’m a welcome diversion to his family outing.

  “Uh, hey, Andy.”

  “Can this be little Sadie Matthews?” I feel Andy’s mom looking me up and down.

  I paste a smile on my face and turn to greet her. “Hi, Mrs. Kosolowski.”

  She pats the side of her blond hair, pulled into a tight bun and sprayed to the consistency of a stone monument. I pry my fingers from the handle of my shopping basket and shake her hand. It feels like the polite thing to do.

  “Your mother showed me your graduation picture when I stopped in the office last week,” Mrs. Kosolowski says. “I told her you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. Gorgeous.”

  Heat creeps into my face. Gorgeous is not an adjective anyone uses to describe me. Jana is the gorgeous one. I’m her cute but boring sidekick. Too embarrassed to meet Andy’s gaze, I pick up a Granny Smith apple and toss it into my basket. He must also be mortified by the way his mother’s fawning over me. I hope she doesn’t know about our attempted arranged marriage, courtesy of the senior class.

  “Sweetheart, have you eaten breakfast?” she continues.

  “No, actually, I haven’t,” I admit, and then experience the awful realization that this was not the answer I should have provided.

  “Then, please, stop by our house on your way home.”

  “Mom makes waffles on Sundays if we don’t get thrown out of church,” one of the little short-haired Andy clones says, his voice dripping with fake excitement. The other twin rolls his eyes at the blatant bribery.

  “Has that happened?” I ask, amazed.

  “Only once. But Andy saw the dead mouse first. He told me to pick it up, so you wanna guess who got in trouble when Mrs. Dalton fainted?” twin one says.

  “I said get rid of it. Instead, you dangled a dead rodent in the ninety-year-old woman’s face,” Andy says.

  “Andrew never gets blamed for anything,” says twin two.