She Drives Me Crazy(11)
Danielle pointedly ignores the last one. I feel a twinge of embarrassment, knowing I sound pitiful.
“We need to give our moms a talking-to about meddling,” Danielle says. “My mom barged in on my shower this morning because she came up with another idea I could write about for the Common App essay. And you know what it was? How I’m a great big sister to Teddy. As if admissions counselors care about that.”
Danielle and her seven-year-old brother, Teddy, were both adopted. Danielle’s mom is Black, like Danielle and Teddy, and her dad is white. Her parents met in a ballroom dancing club in college. Like, for real. Sometimes they spontaneously tango when we’re hanging out at their house.
“Why is your mom so worried about this essay?” I ask, grateful for the change of subject.
“She’s not.” Danielle busies herself with chewing on her thumbnail. “I’m worried about it, so she’s hovering. Everything I’ve read says you should avoid mission trips and personal heroes because those are the ultimate clichés. It’s better to share an anecdote that reveals your personality. But, like … what am I supposed to say?”
We slam our lockers and lean against them, thinking. It’s a nice escape from my new reality.
“You’re one of the smartest people in our grade,” I tell her. “You know so much about this application process, you could probably run the whole guidance department if you wanted to. Just like you’re running our basketball team.” I freeze, realizing the answer. “Wait! You can tell the story of how you’ve stepped up to be our coach!”
No one asked Danielle to take over our team. It’s just that Coach Fernandez isn’t really a coach—she’s the computer teacher who runs the robotics club. After our old coach retired last season, the school couldn’t find anyone new to coach girls’ basketball, so Fernandez agreed to sign on as Official Adult Person; otherwise, we wouldn’t have had a season. She pops by practice maybe once or twice a week, but otherwise lets Danielle do her thing.
“It would make a great story,” I continue enthusiastically. “You can paint yourself as our fearless leader!”
Danielle flinches like a mosquito landed on her. “No. That’s so braggy.”
“Dude, the point of an admissions essay is to be braggy. Isn’t that why you do all the things you do?”
“I do them because I’m a long-suffering perfectionist.” She shoots me a familiar smile: the one she uses to deflect attention off herself. It makes me want to hug her and shake her at the same time, because she’s so wonderful but so determined to downplay it. It’s like she hides herself under a lampshade so no one will see how brightly she shines. Even when she staged a coup in fifth grade for alphabet reversal—so those of us who were always at the end of the line finally got to be up front—she made me switch places with her so she didn’t have to stand first in line.
I’m trying to think of another angle for her essay when we’re interrupted by our two guy friends, Gunther Thomas and Kevin Todds. They’re best friends the same way Danielle and I are; they even have lockers right next to each other. There’s something about my friends and the alphabet.
“Look who’s the talk of the town,” Gunther says, slinging an arm around my shoulders.
I wince, all thought of Danielle’s problems forgotten. “You guys heard, too?”
“A couple of the band guys were talking about it,” Kevin says. “They didn’t actually know your name, but we knew it was you because they described you as ‘gay Ginny Weasley.’”
“Charming,” I say with a scowl. “Glad to know I have such a powerful reputation.”
“Better than Tow Truck Girl,” Gunther says, and I punch his shoulder.
We’ve been friends with the boys since freshman year. Gunther is short and stocky, with thick brown hair and a blond birthmark on the crown of his head. He plays our mascot, the Fighting Reindeer, which means he spends a lot of time prancing around and charging people with his antlers. Kevin is a few inches taller than Gunther, with a round face and acne scars on his light brown skin. His big thing is music. He’s been in marching band all four years, and he’s trying to line up auditions for college conservatory programs.
“What’s new with you, Danielle?” Kevin asks. “I heard you played well last night.”
Danielle shrugs and tries to shift into a casual pose, but she ends up stumbling into her locker. She’s gotten increasingly weird around Kevin lately. Like, nursing-a-secret-crush weird. “Yeah, I played all right.” She wrinkles her nose. “Better than you at mini golf, anyway.”
Kevin presses a hand to his heart. “Damn. Low blow.”
Just then, Irene and her entourage sweep into the hallway. It’s one of those subtle things where everyone around us continues to go about their business, but you know they’re aware of the popular kids entering their midst.
“There’s your buddy,” Kevin says with a sigh. “Revving up for Homecoming Court this weekend. Another day in the life of the princess.”
“And now she’s got Scottie to drive her pumpkin carriage,” Gunther says, his eyes twinkling.
Irene doesn’t look at me as she walks by, but I can sense other people staring at me, hoping for us to interact. I slam my locker closed and try to lose myself in conversation with my friends, but it’s like an invisible string has tethered me to Irene and I’ll spend the whole day linked to her no matter what I do.