to resume normal respiratory function. I’m kind of disappointed by Carson’s lack of eye contact with me, especially after our alpaca-based hijinks in class the other day, but I figure I’ll be able to dazzle him with my unbelievable wit and sarcasm once we’ve both had a few beers at the party. [Sorry, lawyers. I meant Capri-Sun. The best of all the conversational lubricants.]
Afterward I ask Danny what his beef is, even though I quite clearly do not want him to answer, but he just mumbles incoherently about history homework and disappears to the library for probably the first time in his life.
Ajita and I go to the bathroom so she can examine her eyebrows for potato shrapnel and I can text Betty about the party. Not for permission – I can’t think of a time she’s ever prevented me from having fun [perks of being a tragic orphan] – she just likes to be kept in the loop about my social engagements so she can plan when to get drunk herself.
Betty says this in response:
Cool . Baxter, is he the arrogant mofo with the micro-penis complex? I met his mom at parent-teacher night, think her doctor injected her lip fillers with a cattle syringe !
Honestly, the one thing I hate about my grandma is the space she somehow finds between the end of her sentences and subsequent question/exclamation marks. Though at this point I just have to be grateful she gave up on text speak, and calling me hun. Shudder.
I show Ajita the reply as she’s wiping away rogue mascara smudges in the bathroom mirror, and she cackles her witchy cackle. “I’m so jealous,” she says. “I want to be raised by your grandma.”
I helpfully tell her that if she wants I can arrange for her entire family to be killed in a terrifying road accident, but despite all her big talk she doesn’t seem too keen on the idea.
Anyway, after much discussion and speculation, Ajita reckons senator’s son Vaughan made Baxter invite us so he could seduce me with his egotistical banter and ultimately convince me to drop my pants. But I’m crushing on the dude who delivered the invite himself: Carson. So this could be sehr interessant.
Like the true high-school cliché I am, I immediately begin to plan my outfit and strategize on how to convince the boy I like of my brilliance, pushing all thoughts of Danny to the back of my brain.
8.48 p.m.
Danny’s hanging out with Prajesh tonight to make sure he’s doing okay. I think he plans on showing him his collection of vintage Nintendo consoles and having a Mario Kart marathon, so he rain-checks on me and Ajita. To be honest, I’m pretty glad for the girls’ night. With everything that’s going on with Danny’s newfangled feelings toward me, I’m finding myself monitoring my jokes and general behavior around him. It’ll be nice to just relax and not have to worry about making things worse.
We’re chilling and eating junk food in Ajita’s basement, and I decide to fill her in on the latest developments in the screenplay competition and Mrs Crannon’s unbelievable generosity. I mean, fifty bucks. Fifty bucks. I’ve never been in possession of fifty bucks in my life. I’m practically Bill Gates.
“Ajita, consider this. What if – and hear me out, please, because I know this is going to sound absurd – but what if not all teachers are Dementors in human clothing?”
“You’re right, that does sound absurd.” She tosses a Pretzel M&M into the air and catches it in her mouth. This sounds impressive, but you forget her ridiculously long tongue. She’s basically like a lizard catching flies.
“I’m kinda scared, though,” I admit. “About entering this competition.”
“Why?”
I pick at some stray lint on the sleeve of my sweater, despising the admission of vulnerability, but needy for my best friend’s reassurance. “I just keep thinking that I’m too working class. Too ‘common’. They’ll write me off as trash. These opportunities are not for People Like Me, you know?”
Ajita issues a funny kind of smile as she pours the remaining M&Ms down her throat straight from the packet. “I’m Nepali-American. Trust me, I know.”
“Right,” I agree. “And I know your experiences of marginalization are much worse than mine. But do you ever just feel like the deck is stacked against you?”
“All. The. Freaking. Time.” She crumples up the packet and shoves it down the side of the sofa for her parents to uncover in about a year’s time. “And I think I’ll feel that way as long as I live in this country. But what are you going to do – not even try? What’s the worst that can happen if you enter a competition and it doesn’t pan out?”
I properly think about this, and my fear really comes down to this. “I’ll be laughed at. And not in the good way.”
Turning to face me head on, Ajita replies, “So what?”
I smile. I know what’s about to happen. “So I’ll feel stupid.”
“So what?”
“It’ll be embarrassing.”
“So what?”
When one of us is scared to do something for fear of rejection, this is how we talk each other around it. By asking “so what?” and forcing ourselves to justify the fear, we soon realize there’s rarely anything to actually be afraid of.
I’m already struggling to come up with more answers. “So it might make me want to give up writing.”
One more time: “So what?”
Watching as she tucks her legs smugly under her butt, I concede, “All right. You win.”
“No, you win,” she grins. “No matter what. Just by putting yourself out there. Look, it’s human nature to shy away from situations where we might experience shame, especially in public. There’s something primal about wanting to avoid embarrassment at all costs. Not to get too academic on you, but from a psychoanalytic standpoint, it’s about preserving your ego – and thus your sense of personal identity.”
“Calm down, Freud,” I say. “Spare a thought for the idiots in the room.”
“Sorry, I forget about your below-average IQ. All I’m saying is that self-preservation and resistance to shame is natural. But it’s also not logical. And because it’s not a logical fear, it can’t be countered with a logical response. You have to face emotion with emotion. So channel all your passion and bravery and wildness, and shove them in fear’s face, okay?”
“Okay.” I grin back even harder. “You’re the best. Even though you’re far too intelligent to be my best pal.”
“I know. I tell myself this on a daily basis. And yet I’m the one who has absolutely zero idea what to do with my life. Figures. So what are you going to focus on next?” Ajita asks. “You have to be working on something else so you don’t go insane waiting for the results of the competition.”
“I’m not sure,” I say, digging my fist into a bowl of salted popcorn. [It may seem like we’re always eating, but that’s because we’re always eating.] “I had an idea for a short film about a couple in a failing marriage, and one of them – an extremely extroverted individual who never listens to their partner – loses the power of speech to a rare brain disorder. And it, like, totally changes their entire relationship. It upends everything they thought they knew about love and communication and humor. It forces the dominant one in the relationship to swap roles.”
“That sounds cool.”
“Right? But I can’t figure out whether the extrovert who loses their speech should be the man or the woman, because either way the underlying message could be considered problematic. If the man is the outspoken, domineering type, and the wife is super submissive and meek, it feeds into a relationship stereotype you see so often. But then if it’s the woman who ends up losing the power of speech, the message is kind of like, you can only have a successful marriage if the woman sits down