AARON
I’m trying to finish annotating this chapter of The Great Gatsby for class, and I find myself unable, and extremely uninterested, in writing anything down. Don’t get me wrong, Fitzgerald is a great novelist. I mean, I think. I haven’t read anything else he’s done. Or maybe it’s just that English classes sucks the fun out of reading.

Erica sits down in front of me for class. She’s got this big toothy grin and slams her hand down on my desk to snap me out of my contemplation. “You didn’t do it yet?”

I groan. “No. There’s nothing worthy of noting here.”

“Do you have, like, one good note?” I turn my book towards her and she snorts. I’ve written “someone save gatsby from this bitch” because most of the story’s issues would resolve itself if Daisy just left Tom for Jay. “That doesn’t count.”

“I know.” I flip forward a couple pages and ask, “Does his home count as vague imagery for 1920’s opulence?”

“Okay, now you’re just talkin’ out your ass.” The bell rings, and Mrs. Sandovsky walks in and puts down our quizzes from last week on her desk. She makes an announcement and then leaves, but I’m not really listening. “Hey, I found out the spring musical from Mr. Willard.”

“Who?”

“Hello, Dolly!” Erica’s mouth hangs open like I’m supposed to begin jumping up and down in excitement. She neglects to remember that, despite being gay, I have zero interest in performing for anyone. She rolls her eyes and sighs. “It takes place in New York City right before, like, the 1900’s.”

That catches my interest, because I like old architecture. And history. “Oh. That’s…cool.”

She purses her lips. “You don’t sound that excited.”

I shrug. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this. Like, at all. I’m not really interested in it.” Erica traces the pencil divot on the desk before I ask, “Are you propositioning me?”

“Well – ” Mrs. Sandovsky returns with two binders and puts them down on the desk. Erica doesn’t finish her statement, and I’m left feeling annoyed.

“Okay, lets hear what you have to say about chapter 6, guys.” She picks up the stack of quizzes. “But first, here are your quizzes from chapters 3 and 4.”

After class lets out, I grab her in the hallway. “If you’re going to ask me something, do it before I go to Spanish. Or do it at lunch.” She begins to turn, but I grab her again. “No, don’t do it at lunch. I’m gonna spend two periods wondering what you’re going to ask me. Don’t do this to me.”

She pats my shoulder and smiles this horrible, shit-eating grin. “I’ll see you in la cafeteria, friendo. And you’re gonna be late to Español if you don’t hurry.” Erica turns on her heels and walks down the hall towards the auditorium, leaving me to sift through the crowd of people moving to their classes.

After forty-five minutes of me trying to figure out why I had decided Spanish would be a good language to take, and then forty-five minutes of geoscience (which, by the way, is taught by the severely underrated Mr. Vito), I basically run to the cafeteria and claim the table before anyone else gets the chance. Wishing I had bought food before getting there, I wait for Erica.

Ten more minutes pass before she walks up with three little baskets of chicken nuggets and one cup of fruit. Erica passes one basket to me and then curtly adds, “We’re sharing one of them.”

Now I’m suspicious. “When do you buy food for me?” I stick one chicken nugget in my mouth before saying, “You still owe me from the past, like, five times I bought you lunch.”

Erica places down the fruit between us and says, “This is the request, Aaron.”

My eyes dart between the fruit and her face. I think I’m more impressed that she’s propositioning fruit. Either she’s trying hard to be healthy or she’s just losing her mind. “This…is your request.”

“N…” She swipes the fruit to the side. “One of the register people was judging me.” Erica turns to the side and mutters, “Fuckin’ bitch.” She turns back to me and says, “No. My request is…that you come and work for the set department.”

“No.”

“Hear me out,” she says.

I take another nugget. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I don’t know anyone else who reads about this shit for fun.”

“Theater stuff?”

She groans and points to my backpack. “I’ll make a bet right here and now. There’s at least one thing on buildings in your bag.”

There is one thing on buildings in my bag. One on cooking. And one thing on sewing. I like the processes. “And if I say no?”

She moves the breaded chicken away from me. “You forget the Milkshake Incident, right?”

I glare at her and smile. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize we were throwing shit in each other’s faces today. Because I haven’t forgotten Les Miserablés. Did you? Do you really want to play this fucking game, Erica?” Her incident is more embarrassing, and I know she’ll back down.

Finally, she relents. “Fiiine.” She takes a grape from the fruit cup. “But the set for the musical’s going to be shitty because you didn’t help.”

“You mean the set’s going to be shitty because you failed to blackmail me?”

Erica sneers at me, slides the nugget basket back my way, and takes a big bite out of one.