I hold back a laugh because my little brother takes his food orders very seriously. “Naked, except for cheese is a philosophy I can fully support, dude.”
We pull out of the lot and head down the road toward the highway and our favorite burger joint. Ronin talks all about his day and his best friend and extra recess and their class pet, and I find myself soaking up every word. Yea, I’m ready to get out of my mother’s house, away from her craziness, and excited to live with my friends—my brothers—but I’ll miss the hell out of this little guy. My mom’s done some fucked up shit over the years, but having Ronin is the one thing I’m grateful for.
Willa
The apartment is dark, but that’s nothing new. My dad works the day shift in the maintenance department of our housing complex—that’s how we can afford to live here—but at night, he usually plays poker with some friends or hangs out at one of the bars out on the highway.
I head right to the kitchen because I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since lunch, which is at 10:45 in the freaking morning. I could’ve stayed at the diner and eaten, but I hate sticking around after my shift is over. I always feel like I should be working, even when I’m off the clock. Opening the fridge door, I expect to find food, since my dad was supposed to go grocery shopping after work. But the only things inside are a half-empty container of chocolate syrup, and some of those individually packaged slices of American cheese. And, unsurprisingly, the fifty bucks I left for my half of the groceries is nowhere in sight. I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll be getting it back, or that he’s got bags of food in his car right now. Nope. That money is surely in the hands of one of his poker buddies, but I can’t stress about it. I learned a long time ago that worrying doesn’t make the situation any better—it just makes me feel worse. Besides, raging and fussing won’t get that money back. And soon enough, I won’t have to worry about my dad or the fact that he’s a crappy father and a shit roommate. Pulling up the calendar app on my phone, I smile. Sixty-four days. That’s all I have left until graduation. I am, quite literally, counting down the days.
The pantry’s not much better, but at least I still have some Froot Loops. I pour those into a bowl and settle on my bed, telling myself that dry cereal is every bit as delicious as a turkey sandwich would be.
I could study for my Calc test, but it’s two days away, so I procrastinate a little and open my ancient laptop. If I’m eating Froot Loops for dinner, I deserve a little Gilmore Girls. A familiar episode plays across the screen. I could probably recite most of the lines, but I just lose myself in the story.
Soon, I’m daydreaming. And not about Stars Hollow. I’m thinking about the summer. About working at the diner full-time and saving enough money to get an apartment on my own next year. Well, not totally on my own. I’ll probably have roommates. And a tiny apartment with only one bathroom. But it’ll be great. And even if it’s not, even if one roommate is bitchy, and one has a hateful cat, and one is constantly hogging our shared room making sex noises with her boyfriend, it’ll be better than this. I’ll be on my own, going to school and relying on myself. Because as much as I’d love to have someone to lean on, to share things with, I know that’s not real, at least not for me. I’ll stick with TV boyfriends. Besides, I’ve yet to see a man in real life who’s hotter than Jess Mariano anyway.
Chapter 1
Knox
Two MonthsLater
Week of graduation, senior year
Sittingin the dimly lit auditorium, surrounded by the other 237 members of the graduating class of Westfield Senior High, I listen to detailed instructions on how to graduate high school.
Apparently, my peers can ace AP Calc, weld shit with blow torches, and speak fluently in foreign languages, but walking across a stage one at a time is a challenge that requiresdays of practice.
“Now remember, as you process into the auditorium, keep your eyes on the person in front of you and keep the pace moving forward. This is not the time to pose for a picture. Believe us, there’ll be plenty of time for cap and gown pictures before and after the ceremony. The band will be playing the Westfield alma mater on a loop as you walk in…” Ms. Chamberlin, our senior class adviser, drones on, and I half-heartedly tune into her instructions. I mean, it’s a high school graduation, not a Broadway musical. How freaking hard can it be?
Honestly, that’s kind of been my attitude for the past four years.How hard can it be?And I’m pretty sure the phrase “capable of better work” was written explicitly for my report cards. I’m not a literary scholar like my best friend, Ty. And I’m sure as hell not an athletic phenom like Booker. And though I like to think of myself as a fucking delight, there’s no doubt I’m not half as charming as Whit.
My three best friends are overachievers, all in their own ways.
The only thing I excel at is mediocrity.
Why put forth maximum effort when you can coast?
And it’s not that I'm that big of a loser. It’s that I just haven’t really found anything I’m passionate about yet, so it’s hard to give a shit.
And Ireallyhaven’t given a shit this year, seeing as how my three best friends are already away at college. Sucks being the youngest. I’m counting down the days until I can join them.
The slide on the projector screen changes, nabbing my attention. Ms. Chamberlin tells us to look to our right and left and mentally catalogue the names and faces of the people we’ll be sitting next to and processing with. To my left is Jake Gaffney. We had trig together last year and were on the same Little League team in elementary school. He’s a good guy. If I had to guess, I’d say he’ll come to the five-year reunion with his head shaved bald, a full beard, and proudly bearing the title of manager at the local Shop n’ Stop. Good for him. To my right is a guy I swear I’ve never even fucking seen before. A quick glance at the folder in his lap tells me his last name is Garrigan. All right. Cool.
I take a quick glance around the auditorium. It’s funny. I’ve gone through thirteen years of education with these people (except for that Garrigan kid. Maybe he’s lost?). We’ve hit all of our major milestones together—first day of kindergarten, first dances, getting our licenses, but in a few days we’ll walk across this stage and on to the rest of our lives.
And yea, I’m looking forward to the next step, especially because my guys—my brothers—have been off at college all year without me. We're pretty tight, and have been since we all met and got stuck rooming together at summer camp when we were kids. Didn’t matter that we went to different middle and high schools. There’s a bond between us that time and distance can’t fuck with. Ty went away to Connecticut to some fancy-ass high school, Booker went to Rockvale Christian Academy so his mind couldn’t be poisoned by the heathens who run rampant in a public high school. Whit went to Westfield, like me, but since he graduated last year, it’s been weird not to see him in the halls or hang out after school.
Soon enough, I remind myself that, in a matter of weeks, I’ll be heading up to Bainbridge to live with my best friends and attend the summer session. And I can’t wait.
But while I’m here, I’m gonna enjoy the hell out of this week—there’s a picnic at the lake tomorrow, senior trip the day after, and a blowout party after graduation. This whole week feels like one big celebration. As if to emphasize this point, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Tommy:Dude, we’re heading to Sophie Brewer’s house after this. Her place has it all: an indoor pool, an outdoor pool, a hot tub, a stocked liquor cabinet, and parents who are out of town. You in?
Knox:You had me at hot tub.
My answer is only half true. Yea, the hot tub is a bonus, but there’s one at my house, too. The problem with that is that my mom is also at my house. And since she’s Satan’s meaner younger sister, a party at Sophie’s sounds pretty good.
Ms. Chamberlin finishes up and reminds us to fill out the form with the correct spelling of our last, middle, and first names and deposit it in the empty box by the doors on our way out. Real high tech. Once we’re dismissed, half the class grabs their papers from their folders and heads for the double doors. The other half—of which I am most definitely a member—rifles through their folders in search of said paper. I find mine readily enough and scribble my full name on the form.
