Cracked Up to Be

Chapter 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 wars--every day, a turf war--six 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."

            "You're disgusting!"

            "Hey, Parker!"

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

            "Fuck off, Chris."

            He's been on about the G-spot for like, a week.

            "Don't 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 I'm bullshitting him.

            "Chris, I respect you too much to do that."

            "That's 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 let's 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 there's my uniform skirt, which has a mustard stain on the front of it because I can't 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 could've brushed my hair if I'd wanted to forego the bus ride and walk all ten miles to school, but supposedly if I miss anymore classes, I could maybe not graduate and if I have to spend another year in this concrete block--

            I probably shouldn't finish that thought.

            "Shoes, Parker!"

            Principal Henley's got her arms crossed and her eyebrow up.  I bring my hands together like I'm appealing to God.  I might as well be.

            "One day only, Mrs. Henley.  See, I got up really late and I couldn't 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.

            "You're due at the guidance office in five minutes."

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

            Her eyebrow goes down.  It's 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 there's 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 blonde 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," she's 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."

            "Why do you sound so surprised?"  I open my locker.  "I'll figure something out."

            "Bet you fifty bucks you're fucked."

            "You're on," I say.  "I can do a lot with fifty bucks."

            She laughs and heads wherever she's heading.  Cheerleading practice, maybe.  No.  It's too early, and anyway, I don't care.

            Lerner's 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 bell's 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 don't 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, I'm still brushing my hair.

            It's not meant to be insolent--it's not insolent--but the things is, I can't 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 I'm mocking her somehow. 

            Sorry, I can't stop, I want to say, but I don't.  I don't think I'm really sorry about it either, but she should know this isn't some kind of slam at her for making my life a little more inconvenient than it already is.  If it was, I'd be a lot more creative about it. 

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

            "You're 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, I'd want to kill myself.  It's not like well-adjusted people ever come into the guidance office.  You either get the crazy underachievers or the crazy overachievers and both come with their own depressing set of problems.

            I don't know.  I'd just want to kill myself if I was her, that's all.

            "Yeah," I say.  "So we'd better get on with it, huh?"

            "Right."  She clasps her hands together.  "You already know this, Parker, but I think it bears repeating:  no cutting, no missed days, no exceptions.  You will complete your homework and you will hand it in when it's due.  Off-school lunch privileges are suspended until you can prove to us that you're trustworthy again and--"

            "But what if I wake up one morning and I'm vomiting uncontrollably, or I'm hemorrhaging or something?  Do I still have to go to school?"

          ...