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  With Nobel Prize Harry's raving recommendation he wrote for Sari's college applications, six of the Ivies were desperate to get my sister to enroll. Who the hell gets to knock back Harvard? Sari did. She chose Princeton because the administration was willing to give her a free ride all the way through to graduation. Free as in free—all expenses paid. I found out about this incredible development halfway through my freshman year at our high school. It was a Saturday afternoon. Sari had already been accepted to Cornell and Dartmouth, so my jealousy was raging high that week and I had escaped to Clara's apartment to confess. We had a blast together fabric-painting our jeans.

  When I returned home and opened the front door, my father was crying over Sari's even more magnificent news like he'd just won the Powerball lottery.

  An hour after the toy premiums internship fight with my mother, Dad broke up my self-pity party when he poked his head into my room with a loopy smile from taking too much cold medicine. “Jordie, can you wiggle the loose cable wire? I need your magic touch.”

  Without any real aid from Sari, I knew that keeping far away from Mom was the best thing for my boiling-over resentment. So I figured I'd help Dad—there is something about our apartment cable reception doesn't like. This temperamental TV's days were numbered. We would soon have TiVo and all the magic that came with a larger coaxial cable; Dad had just placed an order for it that morning, a gift to himself for his upcoming fiftieth birthday.

  As I fiddled with the cable wire until the reception came in clearly, I asked myself how my mother was still allowed to order me around like a three-year-old. I personally thought I could learn a lot at Out of the Box.

  It was such a lost cause that it wasn't even worth fighting. Mom is not someone you want to go more than one round with. And frankly, I was scared that what I'd like to say to her next would get me in the doghouse big-time. Sari, our budding biologist, had recently likened me to toxic sea snakes in Indonesia, underwater serpents that supposedly descended from one family of Australian land snakes. One of her friends in college was studying them. She said that when the snakes get prodded with sticks by scuba divers, they'd take it for a time but then suddenly turn around and charge.

  I did feel like charging. I was a creative person about to be forced into an unthinkably dull semester at some stupid medical company.

  Didn't my mother even listen to me last week when I told her how I was part of a group of students who made an appointment with our principal to widen the scope of offerings? Apparently not.

  She had been ironing her work clothes when I further explained that my friends had designated Jeremy to be our main negotiator. All Mom had actually said that day was that she thought me “very modern” for staying friends with my ex-boyfriend.

  Boyfriend? I haven't mentioned that little tidbit about Jeremy yet. Well, truthfully, it was—as my father's mother, Grandma Pearl, would say—”a tame affair.” It's a little easier to hang with your ex when you only went out for three days, three long all-about-the-Knicks days. That is to say, Jeremy is an extreme sports nut, and asking him even one basketball question (just to be polite, mind you) is like entering a hypertext world gone very wrong. Back in freshman geology, Jeremy was amazingly helpful during exam time. He offered to help me with whatever I wasn't getting. His study methodology was priceless; he'd explain everything on Earth, including the birth of Earth itself, in terms of either football or basketball. We were both enrolled in a mandatory geology class taught by Mr. Munson, a man who frequently shed small drops of disgusting dribble onto our homework assignments before he handed them back. I never knew what to do with my damp returned homework, so as soon as I was out the door I'd drop it by my fingertips into the garbage bin in the lobby of our school. This biweekly purging turned out to be an idiotic move; when it came time to study for our midterm, Munson announced that it would be based entirely on the old homeworks. Jeremy assured me that I would still be okay if I used his signature sports-reference memory techniques. “Picture all the gas and dust floating around as the players at a Cowboys-Redskins game. One bad play and there's a huge pileup at the scrimmage line—and that's when you get a planet.”

  “You're incredible,” I'd said sincerely.

  Out of the blue he kissed me after that compliment!

  But it all too quickly felt too friendshipy. Maybe his penchant for onion rolls and Tabasco-flavored Slim Jim and Mango Xtremo Gatorade had something to do with our fast breakup—who was I to suggest a breath mint at the three-day relationship mark?—but mostly I couldn't handle going out with a sports fanatic, and I simply told him so. My ever getting intensely interested in televised team sports was and is about as likely as a construction worker wanting to know all about pirouettes.

  Jeremy was tall when I met him, with the same deep voice, but his body wasn't fully cooked yet. One summer away, another blast of hormonal action, and even Blanca was calling him a stud. But Clara and I still privately felt, as far as his boyfriend suitability went, his obsession with televised sports canceled out his looks.

  Almost three years since our blinked-and-you'd-missed-it freshman-year romance, Jeremy and I were still safely in friendship territory—even if once in a while I was amazed to see how built he'd become under my nose. I could see other girls whispering about him when he walked toward me on the street.

  He could have had any of the many acceptable B-list girls (besides me and Clara). But Jeremy had another flaw besides his sports mania: overconfidence.

  Our meeting with Dr. D to widen internship opportunities was a fiasco. It was my fault in a way, as I'd backed up Jeremy when he said he was the best suited to talk for all of us. “Absolutely, Jeremy should go first. He's the only one who could do this right—he's on varsity debate.”

  I think Jeremy wanted to speak passionately mainly because he was dying to intern with the announcers for the New York Knicks. He was disgusted by the “horrifically dull” internship choices, and with six of us artsy types in tow, he demanded action.

  “Dr. Herman, there are at least one hundred juniors who signed up for junior internship this semester. However, there are only seven or so positions available that I, or anyone in this room for that matter, would be happy to score. We have other interests that we'd like to explore as career possibilities, and we hope that the school would help us in that direction.”

  Dr. D clucked her tongue in horror and shook her head. “Did you say 'score' 1 This is a hallowed school for kids who excel in math and science.” She stuck her chin out as she spoke down to us. “If you are here for any other reason than for our official mandate, that's not my responsibility. English does not appear to be one of your strengths, regardless.”

  For the next twenty minutes Dr. D breathed dragon fire and stared us down with her scary green eyes. She refused to acknowledge that a good chunk of her students, at least 10 percent of us, like me, had gotten into her “hallowed school” by acing the vocabulary and reading comprehension— not math—and accepted a spot to save our parents money on private school tuition. (English counts for half the test at Manhattan Science, just like on the SATs.)

  After the catastrophic meeting, we huddled outside her closed door. Jeremy was the most depressed, and ashamed to look any of us in the face. “I can't believe I used that word.”

  I put my finger to my lips. Dr. D could have been listening.

  School was over for the day, so we regrouped on the stoop of a brownstone across the street from our school, the only one on the block where the residents would let students sit. “What Dr. D really meant,” would-be novelist Clara said, “is that anyone who doesn't dream of being a Nobel Prize-winning scientist can rot in their creative juices.”

  Tara Jones, the Manhattan Science perfect 10, overheard us talking. She was leaning against the railing of the stoop, taking advantage of the same hangout spot. She was in another conversation with some other stunning girl I didn't know, probably a senior, but she turned around and scolded us in her Alabaman accent. “Listen
to y'all talk!” Her ponytail swished as she ripped into us. “Y'all are spoiled rotten,” she said again, her venom glossed over by Southern charm.

  I wish I could say that she cared more about her split ends than her schoolwork, but the truth is, she famously had a nearly perfect academic average as well as a stunning face and body.

  Even though the sky was gray and the strong, cold fall wind was blowing yellow and orangey leaves sideways toward our stoop, Tara was dressed in a miniskirt that rose high above her pale knees. She paused midlecture to wet her chapped lips with her tongue.

  “How can you say that, Tara?” Jeremy took the opportunity to chime in, and then nervously chewed his pinkie cuticle. There was an even bigger rumor about Tara than the one about her grade point average. Supposedly, not long after she moved to New York to be a model, she already earned more money than her mother and father combined. I heard that juicy tidbit from Jeremy himself, who reported on her every move. Boy, did Jeremy have it bad. Worse than I had it for Vaughan, which was pretty bad, let me tell you. The crazy thing was that Jeremy did not have a girlfriend because of Tara. Many girls in our class would have been delighted to be asked out by him; I'd fielded enough gushy questions to be sure of that. But Jeremy was ridiculously, fu-tilely, holding out for Tara and staying “available.”

  Even though I was technically his ex-girlfriend, he'd had no hesitation admitting the week before that he had lusted for her since the day she transferred into the school in tenth grade, a year after we broke up. He claimed that in his oceanography class she spat out micrometric knowledge like C-3PO. “And this is from a girl so gorgeous that she could model a potato sack and get me hot.”

  Tara rolled her eyes at Jeremy, an action that must have wounded him severely. “How can I say that? Do you think anyone in Alabama even knows what an internship is? Y'all are worried about filing at a major metropolitan hospital, and where I come from you're lucky if your boobs are big enough to get you an after-high-school job at Hooters. Otherwise it's McDonald's or the garage.”

  Jeremy nodded, a pathetic guy in love. He couldn't believe Tara was not already hooked up with Vaughan or one of the other hotly desired boys in our school—like Perry Nelson, the way-hip senior class editor of our school paper.

  As several drops of rain fell on my head, I smiled with all my will and told her she had a point, so that Jeremy wouldn't rail against me later. But I was still fighting mad about the diminished opportunities, because this is New York and not rural Alabama, and I sure as hell had not landed a Ford Models contract that makes me that much more interesting to the male student body, and I didn't have the knack for oceanography that Harvard seems to want in students at the age of sixteen.

  “It's classes like oceanography that really impress the college recruiters,” I once overheard Dr. D say.

  Tara may have come from “the real world,” as she repeatedly said, but Manhattan Science was my real world, and between parental and school expectations, this world was a pressure cooker. Tara looked to better herself, and here I was teamed with my friends, fighting for what we wanted too. I'm sorry, but we were born into this New York madness. We'd known nothing different. Who was she to judge us?

  What would she say if she'd known how much I was willing to fight for a good internship? Something derogatory, no doubt.

  The next day, per my promise to my mother, I headed to the internship counselor to see what I could find besides the agency spot. I had to wait, as there was a student being counseled in her office and the door was shut.

  I read the flyer posted on the memo board outside Becky's door, a notice about the upcoming junior class Halloween dance. Most school dances were unanimously regarded as too cheesy for a downtown Manhattan high school—of course we had a senior prom, but there was no junior prom, and no one was asking for it—but the junior Halloween dance was a bona fide big deal, a chance through costume selection to show off how killer ironic you were.

  Usually it fell on a weekday, but this year it fell on a Saturday, so word was that it was going to be dee-luxe.

  Becky's door opened.

  The kid being counseled turned out to be Jeremy.

  “What did you get?” I whispered before entering Becky's office.

  He pointed to the door with his thumb. “Well, I'm not getting the best vibe from her about the Times. I'm sure I'll get stuck with some administrative hell.”

  “I wish I even got an opportunity to interview for it.”

  “Oh, that's right, you were sick. Bad luck.” He winced. “Do you think Clara could have gotten the internship?”

  “She's not saying.”

  He rolled his eyes—she hadn't said anything about her internship interviews to either of us. It was simply not like her to play her cards so close to her chest. I was too anxious to ask, for what I might hear: “Oh, the Times, didn't I tell you—?”

  Jeremy pointed to the dance flyer. “Do you think Tara would go if I asked her?”

  “You're really going to ask me that?”

  “Sorry. I'm just working up my courage.”

  “Good luck there. You'll need it.” I admittedly said that rather obnoxiously. But even if he had a few gal fans among my junior class ranks, this was Tara the Cover of Seventeen Model we were talking about. The boy needed a reality check.

  “Haven't you heard, Popkin? Beautiful girls never get asked out on dates.”

  “Was that payback?” I said in a jokingly accusatory way.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was that an insult? Are you saying I'm not beautiful?”

  I hissed at him like an angry snake, and he play-punched me. Then he very nicely kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, “Are you fishing for a compliment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I'll give you one. You're very pretty, honey.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled. “Even if that was a face-saving fudge.”

  Becky craned her head out and we knew she'd seen the kiss, but she didn't say anything except “Next.”

  “Okay,” Becky said with such little enthusiasm that I wasn't really worried she had even registered a potential school gossip item. “So where are we with you?”

  “I visited the toy premium company.”

  “Oh, right. I am happy to report they loved you.”

  “Well, I need something else. My mother won't let me take it.”

  She looked at me and sighed. “Come back after ninth period and we will discuss it.”

  I looked at my watch. Two p.m. Time for another eyeful of the sublimely gorgeous Vaughan.

  “Hey, Zane,” Vaughan said as he sat down and shoved the wayward bit of his wavy very-blond hair behind his ear, “how did your internship interview go?”

  Were Vaughan and Zane friends? I remember thinking how odd that would be.

  “Good, I think.”

  “I'm pretty certain I aced my interview at the NYU Medical Center emergency room.”

  “I'd think the emergency room would be nerve-racking,” Zane said in a surprisingly relaxed voice.

  Maybe not friends, I reevaluated. And perhaps Zane talked much more easily with guys.

  Vaughan, as smart as he was handsome, was determined for Zane to see why an emergency room internship was the most happening spot of all. “Maybe so, but Harvard's going to eat this up. If you want to be a doctor, what better place to learn? There wasn't a down moment when I was there. Hey, where is yours again?”

  “I'm going for the Finneran research spot at Columbia. A bit more low-key.”

  “Cool,” Vaughan said. Since I knew all about Finneran, I tried to focus on what Zane was saying for a bit, but it was hard not to think about Vaughan's bright blue sweater, which brought out his awesome eyes.

  “My sister had that internship three years ago,” I piped up.

  “Really?” Zane's neck was already turning color.

  “She loved it.”

  “Are you applying there too?” he said nervously.

  “I was
sick, so I haven't had all of my interviews yet. I have my counseling meeting with Becky this afternoon. But honestly, I wasn't thinking of Finneran as an option.”

  Jeremy had been eavesdropping on my eavesdrop.

  “Well, stay clear of the Times, Popkin. I'm dreading you telling me you sweet-talked Becky into a last-minute interview. You're my biggest threat, you know.”

  “She is?” Vaughan said.

  “Are you kidding? Jordie could be the best writer in our grade.”

  At those complimentary words, one of Vaughan's brown eyebrows shot up. “Really?” I wasn't thrilled with his dumbfounded look. I could tell he didn't take me too seriously, which was a bit ego-shattering, as this dismissal was coming from the very guy I desired most. And I wasn't used to anyone sizing me up as a ditz. Back in Clarkson, I was always top of the class with Mindy Neiman.

  Unfortunately, Vaughan had never seen me shine in my English classes, where I routinely got a “FANTASTIC!” comment on my papers.

  You should probably know about my old English class.

  At the end of sophomore year, my English teacher asked if she could send in an essay of mine to the National Council of Teachers of English for something called the Achievement Award in Writing. I was totally thrilled because Mrs. Kleinman had a lot of kids who hung on her every word. Mrs. Kleinman's tiny build—she was barely five feet tall— and her light blue eyes gave her a bit of a fairylike presence. But it was her calm, friendly smile and way of speaking to students without condescending to us that made her everybody's favorite English teacher.

  “What shall we enter, Jordie?”

  I'd liked that she said 'we,' that she thought of us as a team. I had thought about it all night and suggested both my “faux fairy tale,” in which Cinderella falls for the coachman instead of the prince, as well as my character study of my neighbor's white poodle, who terrorized my apartment building floor before she died in a dogfight in our lobby—she thought she was a pit bull. But Mrs. Kleinman thought they were both too cutesy for this kind of competition.