Courtney Summers - Cracked Up to Be

cracked up to be

one

Imagine four years .

Four years, two suicides, one death, one rape, two pregnancies (one abortion), three overdoses, countless drunken antics, pantsings, spilled food, theft, fights, broken limbs, turf warsevery day, a turf warsix months until graduation and no one gets a medal when they get out. But everything you do here counts.

High school.

No, seriously, Jules, just feel around in there and tell me if you have one

Fuck off, Chris

And tell me where it is, the exact location.

Youre disgusting!

Hey, Parker!

He reaches out and grabs me by the shoulder. I shrug, shrug, shrug him off.

Fuck off, Chris.

Hes been on about the G-spot for, like, a week.

Dont fail me now, Parker. Where is it?

Cosmo , December 94. The Sex Issue. Came with a map and everything.

Hell yes! I knew I could count on you. He points at me, grinning, and then the grin falters and he says, Wait. You bullshitting me?

I make him wait for the answer because Im bullshitting him.

Chris, I respect you too much to do that.

Thats so sweet. You look good today, Parker.

You bullshitting me?

I respect you too much to do that.

I look like shit today for a variety of reasons, but lets start with the muddy running shoes on my feet. Running shoes are expressly forbidden to wear with the school uniform, but damned if I know where my dress shoes disappeared to between now and yesterday. And then theres my uniform skirt, which has a mustard stain on the front because I cant do something simple like make a sandwich for lunch without screwing it up. I plucked my rumpled polo shirt from my bedroom floor and I guess I couldve brushed my hair if Id wanted to forgo the bus ride and walk all ten miles to school, but supposedly if I miss any more classes I could maybe not graduate, and if I have to spend another year in this concrete block

Shoes, Parker!

Principal Henleys got her arms crossed and her eyebrows up. I bring my hands together like Im appealing to God. I might as well be.

One day only, Mrs. Henley. See, I got up really late and I couldnt find my dress shoes and I was so worried about getting here on time

And the hair

Can be brushed, I say, smoothing my hand over the tangles.

Youre due at the guidance office in five minutes.

Oh, joy, I say. Her eyes flash and I smile. No, really.

Her eyebrows go down. Its good, but not as good as when I got away with everything. I elbow my way through a mass of people to get to my locker because theres something immensely satisfying about the toughest part of my arm connecting with the softest part of everyone else. A shapely embodiment of a female Satan appears on the horizon, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder as she commands the attention of her many underlings. My former underlings.

Becky Halprin.

I just bluffed my way through it, shes saying as I pass. Hey, Parker?

I half turn. What?

Did you get that essay finished for Lerner?

Shit.

That was due today?

Becky stares at me.

You only had the whole weekend.

I open my locker. Why do you sound surprised?

Bet you fifty bucks youre fucked.

Youre on, I say. I can do a lot with fifty bucks.

She laughs and heads wherever shes heading. Cheerleading practice, maybe. No. Its too early, and anyway, I dont care.

Lerners essay.

I grab my English binder and flip through it until I find the page with FRIDAY and HOMEWORK scrawled messily at the top but nothing underneath. Great. The bell rings. Guidance office.

Shit .

I grab my brush, slam my locker shut and race against the flow of students heading to their respective homerooms. I reach the office while the bells still ringing. I take a minute to catch my breath, stalling, because Ms. Grey would cream herself if she thought I actually made the effort to be on time and I dont like giving people false hope. I count to ten and run a brush through my hair. One. Two. Three. Ten. Again. A few minutes go by. A few more.

When I finally decide to enter the office, Im still brushing my hair.

Its not meant to be insolentits not insolentbut the thing is, I cant stop. My hair looks fine, but I just stand there brushing it in front of Grey, who sits at her desk looking all devastated, like Im mocking her somehow.

Sorry, I cant stop , I want to say, but I dont. I dont think Im really sorry about it, either, but she should know this isnt some kind of slam at her for making my life a little more inconvenient than it already is. If it was, Id be a lot more creative about it.

I sit down across from her and run the brush through my hair a few more times.

Youre late, she finally manages.

My hand relaxes. I lower the brush and rest it in my lap. Grey looks like a bird, a dead-eyed sparrow, and if I had her job, Id want to kill myself. Its not like well-adjusted people ever come into the guidance office. You get either the crazy underachievers or the crazy overachievers and both come with their own depressing set of problems.