Paisley Hanover Acts Out

Chapter One (Part 1)

*I DID NOT WRITE THIS AND I GIVE 100% CREDIT TO AUTHOR: Cameron Tuttle*

Chapter One (Part 1)

I took a deep breath outside the door to Yearbook class and then sauntered-yes, I actually sauntered-into the room, doing my best imitation of calm, confident me. I was totally nervous. I had butterflies in my brain. But it was good nervous, excited nervous. I was one of the chosen people.

Have you ever had the feeling that you were destined for greatness? Not that you would ever admit that to anybody. But have you ever heard the all-in-your-head voice telling you that you're special, that the whole reason you're even on the planet is not just to annoy and bankrupt your parents, that it's also to do something unique and totally amazing?

I had that feeling as I sauntered into Yearbook on the first day of sophmore year. The soundtrack in my head was indie groovy and super danceable-and that was even before I saw Eric Sobel.

There he was, fiddling with the settings on his camera.

No way. Eric Sobel in Yearbook? Using my awesome power of deductive reasoning, I figured he was a staff photogropher this year. Eric Sobel, the star of varsity soccer-varsity-sitting here in Yearbook. I was at the championship soccer game last year, when he was just a freshman, and scored not one but two goals in overtime. We won the game, and when they gave him the MVP trophy, his eyes got all watery, and he almost cried. I could tell. I had binoculars.

Theres something irresistable about a guy who cares enough about something-even if it's soccer-to almost cry.

And just seeing him sitting there in Yearbook cranked the volume on my internal sound system way up. I pictured us studying together after school at Freddie's Pizza, leaning close over our homework, whispering dreamy words like sine and cosine and tangent. He'd laugh, and I'd lovingly push his dirty-blonde bangs out of his eyes. Then he'd smile at me all sweet, and tenderly wipe a small piece of tomato-y pepperoni off my cheek.

I knew immediatley that this year was going to be the best year of my life.

Then I walked into the side of a desk.

Ugh, embarrasing. OMG. I was such a high school cliche, and it was only third period.

"Take a seat, people," said the Yearbook advisor, Ms. Madrigal. She was perched on a stool behind the podium, starting to take attendance. I turned around in a full circle looking around for an empty seat. But every desk was taken. So I made my way over to the far side of the room and hopped up on the window sill. Public school budgets-there are never enough desks for everyone.

I hadn't thought of Eric Sobel as the Yearbook type. But I figured there was a lot of things I didn't know about him-yet. The classroom was filled with student leaders and arty-smarty types, cool brains, people who obviously had intelligent, informed oppinions about things like hybrid cars and the best cafateria food at Ivy League schools, people who went to foreign films on a Friday night and drank too much coffee on purpose. I was in heaven. I was going to learn so much from these people-but more importantly, my seven-point plan was falling perfectly into place.

See, I have this killer seven-point, college-application action plan. It's not like I'm totally neurotic or uptight or anything. I'm just very practical. I've got to have it all worked out if I'm going to be Yearbook editor senior year. I've mapped out the things I need to accomplish over the next three years so I can have a sick college application and lots of options for schools. LIfe is all about options, right? At least that's what my mom keeps telling me. I want options.

My seven-point action plan is not just about getting straight A's or being the best at soccer or joining Yearbook or running for sophmore class vice president. That would be insanely stupid and boring. My plan is to distinguish myself as a highly motivated, unique individual with quirky, creative habits, diverse goals, and quality personal values.

How did that sound? Did you buy it? Did it sound real? I don't want to lay it on too thick-just thick enough to stick in the acceptance pile at the admissions office.

I checked out the other sophomores in class, assessing my competition for Yearbook editor senior year. Yearbook is mostly seniors and juniors with only a handful of sophomores. You have to submit a writing sample and an application to even be considered for the class. Right now, my sophomore competition was Dwight Cashel, a brainiac, but so squeaky clean that he's kind of uptight and annoying. No one would want him to be editor. Then there's Bentley Jones-not only super smart but also a superior human being with so many different talents it pretty much made you sick. I couldn't imagine he wanting to be Yearbook editor when she could be playing the sax in the jazz honor band and running the anchor lap for the mile relay team at State and choreographing and starring in the spring modern dance show. Eric Sobel? No way, he was way too shy to want to be editor. It had to be me. I could so feel it.

Ms. Madrigal had stopped talking. She poked at the air with her index finger, counting each student. "That's strange," she said. "Whose name didnt I call?"

I looked around the room a little confused, and cautiously raised my hand. And then you'll never guess who else did-Candy Esposito. What was Candy Esposito doing in Yearbook?! She already controlled all the popular categories at school. Wasn't that enough?

"And you are?" asked Ms. Madrigal, looking at me.

"Paisley Hanover."

"Oh, right. Hanover. Hmm. . ." She scanned her attendance list, shaking her head. "Candy, I don't see you on my list either. Well." She looked around the room with an embarrassed grin. "This is a little awkward, ladies. It seems that this class is over-enrolled by one student. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but this is an application and invitation class only. If I let both of you in, that wouldn't be fair to the many other students who applied."

A fizzy wad of nervousness ricocheted around my stomach. Was my seven-point master plan already about to collapse into a wimpy, wobbly six-point plan? Eric Sobel looked over at me and kind of smiled. Or did her wince? Oh God, I think he winced.

Ms. Madrigal called the main office on the phone by the door and tried to sort things out. While she talked, Candy Esposito shot me an excited can-you-believe-this? expression, like we were suddenly bonded by this disaster and the best of friends. I gave her an I'm-so-excited-and-confused! look right back. I mean, she's Candy Esposito. What else could I do? I struggled to hear what Ms. Madrigal was saying, but everyone was being extremely selfish by yakking away.

"Okay people," Ms. Madrigal said as she hung up the phone. "Listen up! Paisley and Candy," she said, giving each of us this intense look, "you both submitted excellent writing examples. But apparently there was some clerical error." She swept her gaze around the room. "Now, I could make an arbitrary decision here, but I have a much better idea." As she spoke, she weaved her way between the desks trying to make a personal, Oprah-ish connection with everyone. "Being a member of The Highlander staff requires collaboration. It requires teamwork, probably more than any other class at this school. It also demands the ability to work under pressure, often on a deadline with not nearly enough time to do your best work but having to deliver your best work anyway."

A few seniors laughed. "Don't remind me," said this year's editor, Max Chapin. He was probably going to Stanford.

"There is a space for either Candy or Paisley-but not for both, I am sorry to say." Ms. Madrigal actually looked sorry, which made me feel kind of hopeful. Candy already had enough wins. "But I don't think this should be my decision." She paused, looking around the room.

Oh no. Oh please no.