Samantha
On Monday afternoon, I slip into my Economics classroom and slump down at my desk, which is right next to a very large portrait of a scowling J.P. Morgan.
Once the rest of the class filed in and everyone sat down, Mr. Cox strides to the front of the room.
"Before today's video, I have an announcement." He looks at me. What now? Is he seriously going to call me out for kneeing Flynn Jameson this morning after calling Natasha a slut? That moron had it coming.
"For her first essay assignment, Samantha Baxter made a very eloquent, convincing argument on the invisible-hand theory," my prof proclaims, stroking his dull green tie. "And as you may have heard, I have nominated her for a Purple Orchid award."
Mr. Cox begins to applaud, and the rest of the class follows. It lasted an intolerable ten seconds.
The Purple Orchid is the most prestigious essay contest in the country, the college essay equivalent of an Oscar. If I won, People and Time would do a feature story on me. The Purple Orchid winner four years ago is now managing editor of a very famous fashion magazine. The winner before that had become a congressman at 29.
Clinton Oneal, who sits next to me, leans over his desk, lightly taps my shoulder. "Nice job."
I shrug impassively. "Thanks."
"You must have worked really hard on it, huh? Did you use extra sources?"
I grit my teeth. Jazz shares two classes with Clinton, and she's right: He is notoriously nosy.
Later that same afternoon at field hockey practice, I pull ahead of my teammates on our warm-up lap around the field. It's been a mildly warm day and the girls are all a bit slower than usual.
Lizzie pumps her arms to catch up. She says breathlessly, "I heard about the Purple Orchid. That's awesome."
"Thanks." I duck my head. It's frustrating how fast the news had spread at N.Y.U. At least ten people have come up to talk to me me about it since then.
"I bet you'll win," says Lizzie. "And then you'll be on TV! Can I come with you for your debut on the Today show?"
I shrug. "It's a really cutthroat competition."
"Shut up." Lizzie slaps my shoulder. "You're always so modest."
I clench my teeth. As much as I've been trying to downplay this Purple Orchid thing, everyone's reaction had been the same--You'll definitely win it. Get ready for your close-up! And it's making me crazy.
Lizzie turns to Vanessa Carlson. "Did you hear the big Samantha news? She won the Purple Orchid. The Manhattan Sentinel is coming over to interview her this week."
"I didn't win," I bark irritably. "I was only nominated."
"No surprise there." Vanessa beams at me. "Sam is pretty, athletic, and smart."
"Thanks, I guess?" Receiving compliments is fine, but there's something odd with the way Vanessa is staring at my face.
Wednesday morning, I stare at myself in my mahogany vanity mirror. I warily pick up my brush and begin raking it through my chin-length black hair until my scalp hurts. Jack, my dorm mate, had already gone to his first class. I've been excused from my morning subjects for this meeting.
Jillian, the reporter from the Manhattan Sentinel, will be showing up soon for my big interview and photo-shoot. A stylist is bringing wardrobe options, and a hairdresser, Nina, is due any minute to give me a blow-out.
