Cancel Your Future

Chapter 13

Maybe it was the satisfaction of manipulating the junior class president in order to get my way, or maybe it was the adrenaline from running around the field, but I was excited.

Some people get excited about television shows, or movies.

Others about social events.

And me... Well, I get my jitters from impersonating a serial killer.

The fact that I was literally a second away from a heart attack? Trivial.  The fact that Shawn McLean kept calling me "shorts" each time we ran past each other and I wasn't sure if he was referring to my pants or my height? Irrelevant. But seriously, though. Thanks for the first trimester smoking, mom. Really appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed your cigarettes the same way I enjoy being vertically challenged each day. I didn't want to be a giant or anything, just tall enough to see over the dashboard. That would be nice, actually.

But enough with my birth malfunctions. I knew I was succeeding when I overheard the chatter in the girls' locker room about Jane Doe. It's funny how Elle can gossip to half our grade and she'd be believed, consoled even, yet when I'm put in a life-death situation it's "Gee, Andrea. That's great. Have you ever considered writing a play?"  Well, you know what? When I'm a famous author, living in New York with my degree in creative writing, filthy rich, and married to Mark Zuckerbug or something, I'm going to write one. It'll be called How To Succeed In Threatening to Kill Your Peers Without Really Trying and I want Daniel Radcliffe to play me. (Being short, and all.) It'll be on Broadway, damn it!

I probably put more effort into running to the abandoned English room than the laps in gym class. I'd told Clapton to meet me earlier with his laptop to record the interview for the blog. I was expecting to meet an asshole, yes, but the wrong one showed up. I peeked through the glass to see it was Virgil, lit cigarette between his thin lips and senior Gregory Gallagher. Quickly pulling out my cellphone and hitting the record button, I peeked through the keyhole.

"Fifty or nothing," Virgil muttered between cigarette puffs.

"How about," Gregory rummaged through his varsity jacket pocket and pulled out what appeared to be bills. "Thirty-three dollars and a Metro Card." Seriously, though. What business do suburban teenagers have with owning a subway pass? The closest this town has to transportation is the crappy bus that never shows up.

"I told you fifty. I'm out," Virgil made his way toward the door.

"No, wait!" Gregory added a few more bills to his bid and handed them to the other teenager. "Fifty."

"Good choice, Gallagher," He replied with a smirk. "I'll be there on the eighteenth."

"But don't I have to go?"

"No. I'm pretending to be you."

"Oh.. But don't you need to an I.D.?"

"Yes, I'll make a counterfeit one,"

"..Oh, but I don't think it'll work. I'm tall."

"Goodbye, Gallagher," Virgil sighed. My heart almost skipped a beat when I heard the doorknob jiggle. Lucky for me I think fast on my feet and pretended to scribble my name on one of the sign up sheets by the wall. Virgil then concluded,  "I'll score you about a twenty-three hundred. Send me a postcard from Stanford or something, okay?"

+ + +

"You're signing up for homecoming committee?" Scoffed Virgil when he walked out of the room to find me guilty as charged. "I don't think I've ever seen you at a pep rally, let along a school spirit event."