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Authors: Kate Hattemer
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reading,” I said quickly.
“ ‘At her male comrades,’ ” said Luke, “ ‘who are without exception drawn to her and her promise of romance.’ ”
Jackson took the paper from Luke, who seemed to havelost all muscular control. “This doesn’t read like a review for a school paper,” he said. “I don’t think a student wrote it.”
“The use of the word ‘foxy’ eliminates that possibility,” said Elizabeth.
“ ‘But the theme of the series is the enduring notion that art is worthwhile for the sake of art.’ Well, that’s just wrong,” said Jackson. “
FAS
is about social drama. Which means it’s about the artists, not the art. It’s art for the sake of life, not the converse.”
We looked at Jackson with newfound respect, which happened about every two weeks.
“Also,” said Jackson, “the writer of the review is obviously interested in the drama, not the art. But at the end the writer’s like, Oh, yeah, this TV show has a
theme
.”
Luke was taking notes on a napkin.
“He’s assuaging his guilt,” said Elizabeth. “This isn’t crappy no-brain reality TV. This is
art
. It’s practically the History Channel. It’s like going to a museum. It’s classy.”
“We can feel good about hosting a reality TV show,” said Jackson. “Because it’s not
really
reality TV.”
“Brilliant,” said Luke. “No actors to hire. No sets to build. This schlock can be filmed with practically no expense to kTV, and then marketed as high culture. And look, everyone’s going for it. Willis Wolfe. Coluber. Our parents. The millions watching it every Friday night, including every person in this cafeteria. We’ve all bought in.”
“Coluber,” said Jackson.
“He’s a snake,” said Luke. “Someone had to orchestrate this.”
“Someone had to pull Selwyn into it.”
“You guys just suspect him because he’s so sleazy,” I said. “It was probably Willis Wolfe. He knows LA producers from starring on that sitcom.”
“Willis Wolfe is a simpleton,” said Luke. “He’s good at keeping his teeth white and his hair blond. He’d never come up with this.”
“We’ve got to do something,” said Jackson.
“
Thank
you, man,” said Luke, clapping him on the back. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“You keep writing your poem,” said Elizabeth. “But we have to do something real.”
“Poetry is real.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Elizabeth. She was wearing jumbo pink feather earrings that made it look like she’d chased down a molting flamingo. “But we need to figure out who’s behind it. What they’re getting out of it.”
“We have to investigate,” said Jackson. His eyes glazed over. He pulled out his smartphone and started tapping away.
“Ethan, I have a job for you,” said Luke. “We can’t take action until we know the facts.”
“Whatever you say, sergeant. Command and I shall obey.” I figured that “action” meant “the next stanzas.”
“The people on the show might know something we don’t. Your dream will be realized.”
“What?”
“Go talk to Maura Heldsman.”
“WHAT?”
“Say something besides what.”
“What.”
“You’re so predictable. Go ask Maura Heldsman what it’s like to be a contestant.”
“I can’t just start a conversation with her. She’s a senior.”
“And she’s pretty, and she’s famous, and you’re in love with her. I get it. You have to override that, comrade.”
“She’d talk to you a lot sooner than she’d talk to me.” Luke was good-looking, well liked, and known for his writing skills. Artistic talent gives you street cred at Selwyn. (Unless you play the harp, in which case it destroys any street cred you have, which is probably none, since you play the harp.) I, on the other hand, had the figure of a Q-tip: big head, big feet, nothing in between. My drawings were not chosen for the school calendar, and I wasn’t even in the second-highest band. I shouldn’t have been the one to talk to
“ ‘At her male comrades,’ ” said Luke, “ ‘who are without exception drawn to her and her promise of romance.’ ”
Jackson took the paper from Luke, who seemed to havelost all muscular control. “This doesn’t read like a review for a school paper,” he said. “I don’t think a student wrote it.”
“The use of the word ‘foxy’ eliminates that possibility,” said Elizabeth.
“ ‘But the theme of the series is the enduring notion that art is worthwhile for the sake of art.’ Well, that’s just wrong,” said Jackson. “
FAS
is about social drama. Which means it’s about the artists, not the art. It’s art for the sake of life, not the converse.”
We looked at Jackson with newfound respect, which happened about every two weeks.
“Also,” said Jackson, “the writer of the review is obviously interested in the drama, not the art. But at the end the writer’s like, Oh, yeah, this TV show has a
theme
.”
Luke was taking notes on a napkin.
“He’s assuaging his guilt,” said Elizabeth. “This isn’t crappy no-brain reality TV. This is
art
. It’s practically the History Channel. It’s like going to a museum. It’s classy.”
“We can feel good about hosting a reality TV show,” said Jackson. “Because it’s not
really
reality TV.”
“Brilliant,” said Luke. “No actors to hire. No sets to build. This schlock can be filmed with practically no expense to kTV, and then marketed as high culture. And look, everyone’s going for it. Willis Wolfe. Coluber. Our parents. The millions watching it every Friday night, including every person in this cafeteria. We’ve all bought in.”
“Coluber,” said Jackson.
“He’s a snake,” said Luke. “Someone had to orchestrate this.”
“Someone had to pull Selwyn into it.”
“You guys just suspect him because he’s so sleazy,” I said. “It was probably Willis Wolfe. He knows LA producers from starring on that sitcom.”
“Willis Wolfe is a simpleton,” said Luke. “He’s good at keeping his teeth white and his hair blond. He’d never come up with this.”
“We’ve got to do something,” said Jackson.
“
Thank
you, man,” said Luke, clapping him on the back. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“You keep writing your poem,” said Elizabeth. “But we have to do something real.”
“Poetry is real.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Elizabeth. She was wearing jumbo pink feather earrings that made it look like she’d chased down a molting flamingo. “But we need to figure out who’s behind it. What they’re getting out of it.”
“We have to investigate,” said Jackson. His eyes glazed over. He pulled out his smartphone and started tapping away.
“Ethan, I have a job for you,” said Luke. “We can’t take action until we know the facts.”
“Whatever you say, sergeant. Command and I shall obey.” I figured that “action” meant “the next stanzas.”
“The people on the show might know something we don’t. Your dream will be realized.”
“What?”
“Go talk to Maura Heldsman.”
“WHAT?”
“Say something besides what.”
“What.”
“You’re so predictable. Go ask Maura Heldsman what it’s like to be a contestant.”
“I can’t just start a conversation with her. She’s a senior.”
“And she’s pretty, and she’s famous, and you’re in love with her. I get it. You have to override that, comrade.”
“She’d talk to you a lot sooner than she’d talk to me.” Luke was good-looking, well liked, and known for his writing skills. Artistic talent gives you street cred at Selwyn. (Unless you play the harp, in which case it destroys any street cred you have, which is probably none, since you play the harp.) I, on the other hand, had the figure of a Q-tip: big head, big feet, nothing in between. My drawings were not chosen for the school calendar, and I wasn’t even in the second-highest band. I shouldn’t have been the one to talk to
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