Propped up cross-legged in front of the family computer, I was having a schizophrenic argument. A nagging, practical piece of me insisted that I was hurting people: Chelsea, Katie, the football team, even the cheerleaders got the short straw. Then a devilish impulse always seemed to retaliate that: What’s done is done. I might as well finish!
The mouse slinked toward the Internet ReportCard icon. My devilish side always found a way to win. I typed in Matt’s name and password with slow, determined accuracy. The PC hummed loudly under the desk, waiting for his information to appear. Fully loaded, the black and orange homepage sprang to life. Taking a deep breath to calm my spastic nerves, I maneuvered the mouse to ‘Math’ and watched as the assignments and grades filled the screen. My sweaty hand scrolled down to the final grade space. A “D” seemed to glow brighter, larger, more prominent than any of the opposing letters on the page.
Biology sported an F. Another D summarized American Literature. Vocabulary and Art Appreciation ranked at D-‘s. Numbers flew around untamed in my excited mind. Five classes out of eight were below a C. I abruptly closed the ReportCard window, replacing it just as rapidly with a blank word document. Pausing briefly for reflection, I typed with nimble fingers the heading I had planned for so many months: The Conspiracy behind the Titles – The truth about Wickett High School’s Legendary Football Team.
My head rested on my knees while I lay curled in a chair in the newspaper office. Loneliness pervaded the room like a malignant disease. Hatred stabbed at my insides mercilessly. Who would try to pull a stunt like that anyway? I thought furiously. Why would Mrs. Kennison let me print the article? She could have stopped me. Why is it my fault that the team sucks without Matt Faron? Thoughts swam in the chaotic channels of my mind, all defeated by one omnipotent reality. I hated myself for embodying all the school’s pride and joy in 2 small pages, and destroying it in a public display.
Delia?” The deep voice rose my tear-stained face like a snake charmer. “Are you going to the pep rally? Maybe you could help me find a seat…since I’m going to guess the team isn’t going to save me a spot this time.” The recurring nauseous feeling punched me again. Biting my bottom lip, I looked at him, his uncertain expression, hopeful eyes, faint, bittersweet smile curling at his lips.
“So you’re not mad?” I asked, my voice cracking from disuse.
“No…” he began, “I’m mad. But…everyone hates you for writing it. Everyone hates me for lying. Isn’t there something about similar people liking each other?”
A smile played at the corners of my mouth. “ummm… I think you’re thinking that opposites attract.”
“Oh…”
“That’s okay. We’re still pretty opposite.”
“Yeah.”
