networks do it.â
âIâm teaching students to be better than whatâs out there now.â
I forced a smile. âOkay.â
âOkay. Keep up the good work.â
I left the newsroom to get the afternoon edition of the Washington Post at the front office. As I walked back to class, I lookedat the stories from the first few pages. All of them couldâve been written by numerous reporters. How was someone like meâa scholarship student who had only just started at Chiswickâsupposed to find a story only I could write here?
For a moment, I had the fleeting thought that maybe I should just go back to Clarendon High, where I could stick out. Where I had a real shot at being the best.
Thatâs where my head was at when I ran into Raf in the hallway.
I guess I was wearing my frustration on my face, because when he saw me, he said, âHey, Pip. Whatâs the matter?â
I sighed. âYou wouldnât understand.â
âWhy?â
âBecause you duct-tape cheerleaders to walls and dance the flamenco in lunchrooms, and youâve never had to worry about paying for a thing.â I shook my head. âYou do not know what real life is.â
âSure I do,â he said with a smile.
âNo. You sit on the top of your marble staircase, with your maids and your chauffeurs and your dad who gets you out of every bind youâve been in, and your diplomatic immunity, and you look at the commoners like me, and my used car, and my money worries . . . you look at us with an unaffected curiosity.â
He rocked back on his heels a bit. âWow, Pip. Donât stop there. Tell me more.â
I knew I should stop, but I couldnât. I was too frustrated.And I was high up on my soapbox. âIf you keep going like this, you wonât be able to face any struggles in life, and . . . without struggle, you wonât know the feeling of . . . overcoming struggle.â This was all sounding better in my head. I wasnât yelling, but I sounded a bit manic, even to my ears. âAnd overcoming struggle is a really good feeling. Believe me. Also, if you limit your circle of friends to only those with trust funds, youâll miss out on life. Because real life happens with the peasants.â Did I just use the word âpeasantsâ?
âI know peasants,â he said with a smug grin.
I frowned. âYou donât even know where they sit in the lunchroom.â
He went quiet.
âIâm sorry,â I said. âI had a bad day . . . week . . . month, and I took it out on you.â
âNo oneâs ever spoken to me like that,â he said. His lips curved upward.
âBecause youâre surrounded by yes-men who are too scared to tell you no.â
He stared at me for a few moments, silent again.
âOkay, well, I have to go. I have a job.â It wasnât my paying job at the Yogurt Shop. It was in the newsroom, but I didnât tell him that.
He grabbed my arm. âTell me more. I can take it.â
âGet someone else to tell you.â
âBut it will mean more coming from a peasant.â
I shook my head. âNo. You donât want to hear more.â I shook my arm free and walked away, irked.
Irked. Rafael Amador irked me. No peasant wanted to hear they were a peasant. Even if I had used the term first. It was bad form.
I went back to the newsroom, where Mack was working on the layout of the paper. I peeked over her shoulder and saw the picture of Raf and the dancer on page one. One!
Normally, I loved being above the fold, but a spoiled boyâs birthday bash did not warrant above-the-fold treatment.
Suddenly, Raf and his richness and his entitlement and his no-need-for-scholarship money and his quick comebacks didnât feel like a random problem. It felt like a personal attack. Like he embodied the complete injustice of my situation.
I turned to my computer and impulsively tried out a headline.
THE
Tammy Cohen
Tom Bielawski
Ceri A. Lowe
James Swallow
Anna Martin
Wilbur Smith
Steven R. Schirripa
Janice Maynard
Eileen Dreyer
Nancy Holder