Cancelled, p.9
Cancelled, page 9
“Interesting point,” Mr. Manning says, waving a finger from me to John Mark. “You seem to be implying Adam wouldn’t have been tempted by the fruit.”
“Yeah. Tahlia just said women are the weaker sex.”
“I said Milton implied that,” Tahlia snaps bitterly.
“Adam would have eaten it if he was tempted first,” I continue. “No one could have resisted the devil. That’s the point of his existence. Besides, how many times have we seen men unable to resist temptation? Gatsby, Macbeth—”
“There wasn’t any divine intervention with the Fall,” Katie Delcavo pipes up. “It was a free act the moment they made a choice. Eve just made it first.”
“Which is why Eve takes the brunt of the blame,” Faith adds, looking haughtily at me. “She’s the temptress that started it all. Nothing but a harlot.”
There’s some low oohs from the class. I don’t break eye contact with Faith. I want her to know I understand the underlying implication.
“Okay, well, Faith, that’s not exactly the right use of that word, but good attempt. Temptation is a moment of weakness, but it doesn’t mean you are weak,” Mr. Manning says. “The roles could have been reversed, yes.”
We spend the rest of class reading the next passage in the epic poem. I barely pay attention, skimming to earlier sections of the text. Mr. Manning has us annotate our books as part of our grade, and I’ve taken full advantage of writing all my thoughts in the margins. My eyes stop at a certain highlighted chunk I’d marked earlier in the year.
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,
What can we suffer worse?
Duncan and Faith have made sure I can suffer worse, though to be fair, none of us can escape the hellhole of high school without some type of suffering.
* * *
—
Instead of eating lunch with my friends that afternoon, I am summoned to the guidance counselor’s office.
I’ve been in Mrs. Burchill’s office a handful of times. Seniors are required to meet with her once a semester to ensure they’re on the right path with college applications. I already discussed Stanford with her back in September, so I have no idea why my presence is being requested.
“Brynn,” she says when I open the door. “Have a seat.”
Mrs. Burchill is one of the more laid-back faculty members. Younger than most of the instructors here, she’s smart and witty and straightforward. She has bright auburn hair, multiple ear piercings, a tiny nose stud, and some kind of intricate tattoo on her forearm that she attempts to cover with bracelets per Greenlough’s faculty code. Like her name, she embodies chill.
“Did Stanford change something about their application system?” I ask.
Her eyes find mine. “This isn’t about Stanford.”
She scoots a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels my way. I take one, popping it in my mouth as I wait for her to go on.
“I know the last week has been tough on you,” she begins. “The dean filled me in. How are you doing?”
“Uh.” I scramble for the right word. “Surviving, I guess.”
“Mm-hmm.” She studies me, but I don’t have anything more to add. “Listen, Brynn. I hear students talk in the halls, but there was one thing in particular I found interesting. You, my dear. Being discussed as someone they rely on for, what was it? Matchmaking advice?”
My heart drops to my butt. I never thought I’d have to explain this to my guidance counselor, of all people. “It’s more like . . . communication techniques. For engaging in conversation with someone you like.”
I’m not out here playing Cupid with love lives, but I am giving them tips that allow them to be their own matchmaker. It’s very different from setting someone up.
“You understand your peers. On a level I cannot. I mean—” She places both palms flat against her desk. “I overheard a student say they were ‘screaming, crying, throwing up’ after their crush responded to their Instagram story. Did you know that merely translates to excitement? I almost sent them to the nurse.”
I glance around her office, confused. “Am I in trouble?”
“Apparently calling someone a ‘snack’ is a compliment?” Mrs. Burchill says to herself. When she finds me staring at her, she snaps back to the present. “No, you’re not in trouble. But it’s clear your classmates don’t trust you, because of how you’ve been unfairly blamed.”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly beloved right now,” I mumble. “Don’t expect to see me crowned prom queen.”
She folds her hands together. “Perhaps you can attempt to get back in their good graces?”
“Well, they cancelled me for something I didn’t do, so”—I suck my teeth—“it appears to be a them problem.”
Mrs. Burchill slides a piece of paper in front of me. I glance down at it, realizing it’s one of USC’s essay prompts.
Tell us about something outside of your educational concentration that interests you.
“I know the goal is Stanford,” Mrs. Burchill explains. “But your backup schools are important. I think you can address your current situation with this prompt.”
She’s joking.
“So, what? I say, ‘Hi, USC—my classmates have ostracized me, but I’m VERY interested in not being a world-class loser at your prestigious campus’?”
Her green eyes bore into mine, unamused. “Write about why you like helping people. Tell them this story. Product design isn’t all about innovation, you know. Whether it’s on a large or small scale, it’s about improving people’s lives.”
“I tell USC about my flirt coaching?” I say in disbelief.
“It’s why I suggested winning your classmates over. They need you. And you like helping them.” She leans back in her seat. “Am I wrong?”
No. She’s not. In fact, she’s aggravatingly right. Analyzing conver-sations and providing solutions gives me such an adrenaline rush. It’s about fostering connections between people. I’m the training wheels they need until they feel confident on their own. Ultimately, they don’t need me. They just need that push.
But I’ve also relied on them. Their money was my safety net.
“I know Stanford is number one, and I know you’re trusting the dean to deliver that letter of rec for you, but think about this. Okay?”
“You make infuriatingly good points,” I say.
“All part of the job.” She takes a pretzel for herself. “Since you’re here, should we discuss how this rumor has been affecting you?”
My emotional armor hardens around my heart. Dwelling on my feelings in my guidance counselor’s office won’t fix Duncan’s lies. I know this for a fact. Growing up, my mom would push me to find solutions instead of spiraling into a single, devastating emotion.
“Your tears won’t change the C on your science test to an A,” she’d say. “So what are you going to do next time?”
I’d fix it. Which is what I’m going to do in this predicament, so I snag one last pretzel and say, “Nope.”
She studies me as I stand. “Talking about your emotions isn’t a waste of time, I promise.”
But I’m practically launching myself at the door. “Telling you how I feel won’t solve any of my problems.”
I would know. Majoring in product design means solving problems using logic. You don’t exactly use your emotions to figure out how to build a better folding chair prototype, for instance. You use engineering skills.
“But it can release you from their burden,” Mrs. Burchill counters.
I’m already stepping out of her office. “Thanks for the pretzels.”
“Mm-hmm.” She spins in her chair. “You know where to find me when you decide it might be worth a shot.”
* * *
—
The only logical way I’ll be able to get back in my classmates’ good graces is to figure out who the hell is responsible for my downfall. That’s why Cadence, Marlowe, Tahlia, and I are sitting around Tahlia’s kitchen table after school strategizing our next move.
“He cheated on Lenora and she took him back because she thinks it’s you,” Marlowe’s saying. “That screams toxic to me.”
Tahlia nods in agreement. “And if we tell her about the lip gloss, would she even believe you?”
I’m about to reply when a text chimes on my phone.
Len
Tell your friends to quit messing with my boyfriend’s things.
I should have known she’d be pissed. I type out my reply.
what will it take for you to believe me?
Len
What are you trying to prove?? You’d really put the blame on some innocent girl so the whole school stops hating you?
I stare at her text. I hadn’t thought of it this way, but I can’t deny it’s a valid point. There’s a reason the true identity of the banana imposter hasn’t been revealed. This person isn’t coming forward after witnessing how I’ve been treated.
After I read the texts to my friends, Tahlia goes, “I hate it say it, but she’s right. If we keep trying to solve the lip gloss thing, we’ll be exposing whoever did hook up with Duncan. Is this the right way to go about it?”
I bite my bottom lip. If we find out who it is and expose them, we’re not putting a stop to the larger issue of shaming. But it’s also not fair to let me take the blame.
“So I’m supposed to just accept it?” I say. “I need my clients back—I need people’s trust again.”
I would also love to graduate as someone who is not the most hated person at Greenlough Academy. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. At this rate, they’ll probably throw banana peels onstage when I walk up to get my diploma.
Cadence looks deep in thought. “There has to be a way to prove it’s not Brynn without exposing whoever it was.”
As they discuss this, I quickly redo my client calculations. I was averaging about four to five students a month, plus success dates. That equals a few hundred dollars. Losing that will hurt, but not if I can get back on track.
I’ve also been thinking about USC’s prompt. Mrs. Burchill thinks I should discuss why I like helping people. It’s such a layered answer. It can’t only be because I’m good at it.
“Maybe Charlie can copy Mrs. Connoway’s footage of us leaving that night,” Marlowe proposes. “At least we’ll have some evidence. Then we can form a plan around that.”
It’s a baby step in the right direction, but the main problem still remains. Even if we do find out who was with Duncan, we can’t publicly out them. If we do, we’re no better than him. There has to be another way.
Suddenly, Cadence leaps to her feet. It happens so fast that her chair nearly topples over. “I’ve got it!”
“What?” Marlowe asks as Cadence chaotically grabs her backpack, nearly stumbling over herself in a rush to get to the door. “Got what?”
“Just trust me. I’ll have everything ready tomorrow.”
And then she slams the front door on the way out.
The three of us exchange bewildered glances, momentarily stunned by the abrupt departure.
“Well,” I venture, “let’s hope this idea involves less crime.”
10
“I’m Team Lenora all the way.”
“Brynn should’ve known better.”
“What a train wreck, honestly.”
I don’t see Cadence at lunch the next day, but she tells me to meet her outside the photo lab after school. No one is around, which is a relief. I need a reprieve from the relentless glares.
A few seconds later, she arrives.
“I had an idea.” There’s a glimmer of mischievousness in her eyes. “The student body is biased. Everyone’s taking Lenora’s side. They’re already sympathetic toward her, you know? They’ve called you a homewrecking slut—”
“Please let there be a point,” I moan. I know Lenora’s anger toward me is overpowering her anger toward Duncan, so she’s letting herself stay in a shitty relationship without knowing the truth. “How are we supposed to shift the blame without ruining someone else’s life?”
“You don’t,” she says simply. “You shift the thinking.”
I think she expects this knowledge bomb to cause more of an explosion, but she’s lost me. “What do you mean? You just said they’ve already taken a side.”
“Yes, but we’re going to encourage them to form new opinions. Then they’ll see Duncan isn’t the victim,” she explains. “The double standard is real. I mean, it’s like they forgot he was the one who cheated on his girlfriend. All they want to do is blame you for being a ‘temptress’ or whatever, so we make them see why they’re wrong.”
She whips out a freshly printed flyer. It’s a black-and-white photo of my face, one she took during lunch the other day. I look focused, intense. The only part of the image that isn’t black-and-white are my lips, which are a bold red. A thin banner runs across the middle of my face. In a blocky typewriter text, Cadence has printed:
JOIN THE FEMOLUTION.
I still don’t follow. “What’s a femolution? And why do we need flyers?”
“A revolution to denounce sexism,” she explains. “If we’re really going to shake things up, we need to make a statement. Crush the oppressive patriarchal regime. Think about it. Greenlough’s partially responsible for the students’ backassward ways of thinking and, thus, the reason our peers are coming down on you so hard.”
It’s beginning to make sense, but I don’t quite see her full vision. “Go on.”
“This school is a rich fucking bubble of entitled, privileged people who want nothing less than perfection.” The passion in her voice grows stronger. “They perpetuate one standard of that ‘perfection.’ Like, have you thought about how ninth graders are required to take sex ed? All they did was push abstinence on us. They shouldn’t be teaching from a place of judgment. And it wasn’t even inclusive! We never even broached the subjects of gender identity and different sexual orientations. Sex is seen as shameful unless you’re a guy, which is why the whole school has cancelled you instead of Duncan.”
She takes a breath, giving me a second to process. She’s not wrong. Duncan’s the one who cheated, yet everyone’s given him a pass. We can blame society for propagating these double standards, but it also should be the school’s responsibility to teach these types of progressive topics.
“If we can drop this dated stigma around sex and get more people to open their eyes, we can reshape the way students are thinking. And that will reflect on how they see you. Without shifting the blame on whoever decided to not come forward.” She pauses. “I’ve always respected you, you know.”
This catches me off guard. “You have?”
“Yeah, you never care what people think. Even after getting called out for being a huge flirt.”
I consider the way I’ve deflected other’s opinions of me in the past, calling them out and shutting them down. It’s carefully practiced confidence. I use it like a weapon, but now it feels as though part of it has been stripped away from me.
All because of Duncan.
“Maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but I do care,” I admit.
“But you’re never afraid to push back,” she explains. “Do you realize how many girls don’t clap back? They let the shame eat at them.”
I remember what I told Charlie on Friday night. How staying quiet is part of the reason why prickwads like Duncan and Thomas win.
Not anymore.
“We educate them in a way that Greenlough isn’t, then let them form a new opinion of you.” She glances down at her stomach. “And me too. I lost my close friends after . . . Well, you know. They stopped texting. Didn’t want to hang out, let alone be associated with me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Her expression softens. “Neither did you.”
A surge of confidence swells inside me. We can try and change people’s minds about how we treat each other here, and if it gets through to people, I’ll have my side hustle back. Cadence won’t feel as ostracized, and my reputation will be restored. Plus, it’s clever enough to stay out of trouble with McTiernan so I can earn my letter of recommendation to Stanford.
This could actually work.
“Okay,” I say, eager to get started. “What’s the first step?”
“We unleash a series of planned propaganda that leads to your ultimate finale at the Senior Showcase in December,” Cadence explains, her excitement building. “I’ll get here early to put these flyers in the hallway on Monday.”
“Why Monday?”
She grins. “Because Miss Rothman signed off on my Evolution of Feminism club today, and we need time to plan our first meeting.” She removes a tube of bright red lipstick from her pocket and smooths it over her lips. It matches the image of me in the flyer. “These flyers are merely promoting our new organization—and the underground agenda of our femolution. Knowledge is power, baby. And we’re taking the power back.”
It’s a plan. Not only a plan, but a good plan. We have to make them see the root of the problem in order for them to see my side.
“Okay.” I feel a tiny bit of hope flutter in my chest. “I’m in.”
Cadence looks pleased. “Great. I’m headed out. Need a ride?”
I glance at the double doors at the end of the hall. “No, it’s okay. I’m going to walk.”
Now she’s confused. “Why would you walk when I’m offering you a ride?”
I flick my eyes to my Keds. “It’s just—it’s warm outside. And our hot water’s been out? So if I walk, the cold shower won’t be as bad.”
