The Boys - E Lockhart

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Go on, see for yourself. Eat a raw marshmallow and tell me you actually want to eat another one.

There were a lot of snowmen in the garbage can near the bake sale table at the end of the first day, actually, but Archer was not discouraged. They had sold well, after all, and since the sale lasted a week, her next project involved handmade marshmallows shaped like stars. Then marsh-mallow Santas and cupcakes shaped like turkeys.

The whole December CHuBS experience had been like shopping with my mother. I put in all this time and energy and ended up with something other people thought was adorable but made me want to chunder. So when I got Archer's note in January of junior year, at first I thought: No way.

1. I'm actually not a good baker.

2. I've done all my service already.

3. If I run Baby CHuBS now, I'll be expected to run Big CHuBS when I'm a senior. No way can a roly-poly 2like me manage to recruit a whole gaggle of underclassmen to do the grunt work of the weeklong December sale.

4.I am not a person who wants anything to do with marshmallow sculpture projects. 5. And-

***

2 Roly-poly. The derogatory term formerly known as leper. Technically, a bug called a wood louse. You have the same response to a roly-poly as to a leper: "Ugh, there's a roly-poly here [on my plate, on my arm, on this bench, whatever]--let's move away." Only, it's nicer, because roly-polies are actually a tiny bit cute, plus they have a good name, so while the Tate Universe may not rate

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I interrupted my own thoughts. Because this was a chance, actually. A chance to reject the dominant Tate Prep aesthetic of marshmallow sculpture in favor of my own roly-poly agenda.

What exactly that agenda was, I didn't know.

Something different.

Something uncute.

Something delicious, maybe.

I told Archer yes.

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them, a few discerning roly-poly lovers will see their true merits and refuse to shun them.

P.S. There is also a kind of dessert called a roly-poly made with jam. That is not what I am talking about.

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5.

I Fixate on a Poncho

tuesday, Noel turned up in my Art History elective. Ms. Harada was showing slides, and he slid into the seat next to me shortly after the lecture started.

He was wearing steel-toed combat boots and a Daffy Duck T-shirt over a black thermal. 1His blond hair was free of gel (unusual for him) and flopped across his forehead.

I reminded myself to look at the art.

His profile, lit by the glow from the projector, seemed so pure, so clean. Like the delicate lines of his face had been cut from marble.

***

1 Also pants, of course, lest your imagination get away with you. He was wearing pants.

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I've missed him, I thought. Even though we hadn't spent much time together before the break.

Even though I hadn't known I was missing him.

Noel flipped open his yellow legal pad and scrawled something across the top: "My hair looks weird, I know."

He had noticed me staring at him. And yes, actually, his hair did look weird, but the rest of him was ... well, he was Noel. I was cranked to see him; what did hair matter?

I turned to a new page in my notebook and wrote: Do you bake?

Noel: Why do you want to know?

Me: Well, do you?

Noel: I reserve the right to remain silent until you answer my question.

Me: I am accidentally in charge of a bake sale.

Noel: Bake sale like the thing in December with marshmallow snowmen?

Me: We had snow women, too. With pink frosting bikini tops.

Noel: Excuse me while I retch.

Me: We also had snow dogs.

Noel: If by "bake" you mean do I construct marshmallow snow dogs, then no. I do not. My talents lie elsewhere.

Me: Not so fast! My policy is anti-marshmallow.

Noel: You seriously want me to make something for your sale?

I had written the first thing that popped into my head that wasn't about Noel's hair, since that didn't seem to be a good direction for the conversation to go.

But yes. I wanted him to.

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Me: Do you know how to bake? Lots of boys don't.

Noel: lam not lots of boys.

Me: Actually, I don't know how to bake, either. Nora helps me.

Noel: What do you mean, "either"? I didn't say I couldn't bake.

Me: Can you?

Noel: Talk later. I want to hear what Harada is saying about Greek sculpture. This could be educational!

Me: Ha ha.

He grinned and flipped his legal pad shut, then remembered he was supposed to be taking notes and flipped it open again to a fresh page.

He spent the rest of the class period writing down facts about Greek sculpture. Afterward, he said he had a meeting with his college counselor and disappeared.

I felt bereft.

How could he write me that Chem class note and then brush me off? What was up?

***

"It was not a pretty situation in Twentieth-Century Am Lit today," I told Doctor Z after school. 2We sat in her office, which is housed in a large, unfriendly compound full of dermatologists and orthodontists and probably even philatelists3 and atheists on the upper floors. I hate the

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2 Just in case you're confused, we don't have the same classes every day at Tate.

3 Philatelists: Big word for stamp collectors. I only know it because my dad's crazy friend Greg is an amateur philatelist. He has a panic disorder and never

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building, with its medical, astringent smell, but once you're inside her door, she's made it cozy. There's a red couch for me and a brown upholstered chair for Doctor Z. Some masks and landscape paintings on the walls. A box of tissues on the coffee table.

Doctor Z was wearing a new poncho. It must have been a Christmas gift-or Hanukkah, or whatever holiday she celebrated. I saw the woman every week and had no idea what religion she was. I didn't know if she was married, either, though I wondered about it all the time.

What was her real life like? What did she do in her spare time? Her last name is Zaczkowski, which I think is Polish, and her skin is medium-brown African American. She's gently plump and has a penchant for handmade crafty-type sweaters and hippie sandals.

This poncho was a step out, even for her. It was made of velvety bright orange yarn and had sparkle fringe at the bottom.

It was very distracting.

How was I supposed to concentrate on my mental health when my therapist was encased in orange sparkle madness?

I felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to ask her if there was a reason for her poncho, though I knew doing so would cause nothing but problems. Plus, I've been in

***

leaves the house. That's what will happen to me if my panic attacks get too bad. I'll get scared to leave the house and I'll stop functioning and people who want to visit me will have to come over and bring me Chinese food. I'll probably even start thinking stamps are actually interesting--which is the kind of thing that happens to you when you never, ever go anywhere.

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therapy long enough to be able to figure out on my own that I had this desire to talk about her poncho because: 1. I wanted to make myself feel superior to someone, anyone, after a crap day at school. Or

2.I was uncomfortable in therapy again after two weeks of winter break and felt the need to get the upper hand in the situation. Or

3. I was angry at Doctor Z just for existing and asking me personal questions, and being obnoxious about her poncho would be a form of retaliation. Or