Tell Me Three Things(8)

Right. Maybe not so nice after all.

“But—” But what? I was looking forward to being your partner? I like your serial killer eyes? Or worst of all: Please? I don’t finish speaking. Just look back down at my leather book bag, which I thought was cool until I got here and realized everyone else’s was a fancy French brand that you hear about in rap songs.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get an A.”

Then the Batman walks out so fast that it’s almost like I imagined him there. Some perverse version of a superhero. And I am left alone to gather up my stuff, wondering how long it will be till someone talks to me again.



Me: It will get better, right? Eventually, it will get better.

Scarlett: I’m sorry I’m not the type to lower our discourse to emoji use since you totally deserve a smiley face right now. Yes, it will get better.

Me: Ha. It’s just. Whatever. Sorry to keep whining.

Scarlett: That’s what I’m here for. BTW, that email you forwarded? My guess: TOTALLY A SECRET ADMIRER.

Me: You’ve read too many books. I’m being set up. And stop YELLING AT ME.

Scarlett: No way. I didn’t say he was a vampire. I said he was a secret admirer. Most def.

Me: Wanna take bets?

Scarlett: You should just know by now that I’m always right. It’s my one magic power.

Me: What’s mine?

Scarlett: TBD.

Me: Thanks a lot.

Scarlett: Kidding. You are strong. That’s your power, girl.

Me: My arms are v. toned from stress-eating ALL the cookies. Hand to mouth. Repeat 323 times. Hard-core workout.

Scarlett: Seriously, for a second, J? Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean you shouldn’t ask for help sometimes. Remember that. I’m here, ALWAYS, but you might want to take up that offer from someone local.

Me: Whatever. Ugh. Thanks, Dr. Phil. I miss you!

Scarlett: Miss you too! Go write back to SN. NOW. NOW. NOW. Now tell me the truth? Anyone at your school unusually pale?





To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])


From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])


Subject: Conjuring my spirit guide


Okay, I call mercy. You’re right. This place is a war zone, and I could use some help. So I’m going against my gut here and just hoping I can trust you. Are you still game for just a few questions? (And if this is Deena, you win. You got me.)





To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])


From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])


Subject: at your service, m’lady


now you got me curious about this Deena chick. why is she out to get you? the offer still stands.





To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])


From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])


Subject: I’m virtually curtsying.


The Deena story isn’t particularly interesting. Stupid high school girl stuff. Speaking of which: you said that there was a short list of people I should befriend? Not to sound too desperate, but some guidance would be appreciated on that front.


What’s up with WV Giving Day and what will happen to my toes if I leave them exposed?


Do those weird lunch cards come preloaded with $$ or what?





To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])


From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])


Subject: toes chop suey


start with Adrianna Sanchez. she’s shy, so she won’t approach you first. But she’s cool and smart and secretly funny once you get to know her. I don’t know why, but I feel like you two could be good friends.


community service day with Habitat for Humanity. it involves hammers, hence closed-toe shoes. your Vans should be fine. they’re cool, by the way.


nope, not preloaded. machine outside the caf takes only tens and twenties and credit cards.



Huh. Maybe this SN guy knows me better than I thought. Adrianna Sanchez is the girl with the oversized Warby Parker glasses who sits next to me in English class. The one who reminds me of my friends back home. I blush a little at his Vans compliment. I’m such a sucker.





To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])


From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])


Subject: The One Percent


Credit cards? For real? Is everyone here rich?





To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])


From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])


Subject: come for a ride on my G4.


honestly? we have a couple scholarship kids, but this place costs mad bank, as i’m sure you know. it is what it is.



Spelled out in black-and-white: Reason #4,657 why I don’t fit in here. My dad’s not a film marketing mogul, whatever the hell that is; he’s a pharmacist. Back home we were far from poor. We were what I knew as normal. But no one had their own credit cards. I shopped at Target or Goodwill with saved-up cash, and we wouldn’t just buy a five-dollar coffee without first doing the unfortunate math and realizing that the drink cost almost an hour’s worth of after-school pay.

My parents were never much interested in money or clothes or any of the fancy-pants crap that’s ubiquitous here. I wasn’t the kind of kid who asked for designer stuff—it was never really my style, and even if it had been, I’m pretty sure my mom would have given me a lecture. Not just because we couldn’t afford more than the occasional splurge, but because my mother considered name brands and decorative stuff wasteful. Silly stuff for silly people. She was much more interested in using whatever money she and my dad saved to travel to interesting places or to donate to good causes. Experience over things, she used to say, and then talk about some social science study she had read that definitively proved money doesn’t buy happiness. I wish I could say I always agreed with her—I remember one fight we had over a two-hundred-dollar dress for the eighth-grade dance—but now I’m proud of how I was raised, even if it means I’m even more of a stranger in a strange land at this school.