Mutual Use

Chapter II

CONRAD

"Conrad! CONRAD!"

I am swarmed with microphones, cameras, and interviewers as I step out of the school--frazzled and still vaguely in shock.

That was fast.

"Okay guys, I can take a few questions before my father arrives," I announce as I straighten my shirt and run my fingers through my hair.

"Conrad! Are you happy about your potential status?" A blonde woman to my right asks, placing a mic to my mouth.

"Absolutely. I've been waiting for as long as I could remember to get the chance to follow in my family's footsteps, and my time has finally come. I can't wait for Chicago-"

"Conrad, you're alleged ex-girlfriend, Taylor Matthews, has also claimed a potential status. Any comments on that?"

It really shouldn't have been a surprise that Taylor was selected as a potential paragon. Her ambition was always something that I liked about her, and it was hard to believe that I hadn't thought about Taylor--today of all days.

My surprise and stupidity must have shown, because everyone slowly inched closer in anticipation.

"I think that's awesome. Really, there's no one who deserves it more," I started, then turned from the interviewer to the camera over his shoulder and said, "Congrats, Tay! See you in Chicago!"

"Are you rooting for Ms. Matthews for Generation Mary's female paragon?" A high voice in the back sounded.

"I'm rooting for everyone! I mean, honestly, there must be an abundance of viable candidates given our plentiful and so, so blessed generation. I think Generation Mary is going to have their work cut out for them when voting time comes around!"

A chorus of voices erupts, but are interrupted by a car horn. Just over the crowd, I can see the top of my dad's grey Ford.

"Thank you so much, guys! If you'll excuse me."

Of course they don't excuse me. They follow me all the way to the car, and linger on the side walk after we pull away. I watch the clump shrink in the rear-view mirror.

FREYA

"Freya! FREYA!"

I am swarmed with cameras and mics and well dressed people that are calling my name.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

I look down at my rumpled lifeguard sweatshirt from last year's summer job and my shorts that are a little too short on my larger-than-normal thighs. I touch my hair, tangled and matted from a very long day at school, and know that I can't escape it. This is my life now.

I walk through the double doors.

"Freya, how do you feel right now?" A man to my left, looking to be in his late forties or early fifties, shoves a microphone up to my mouth, and I shrug nervously, moving a piece of hair behind my right ear.

"Shocked, I guess. This whole thing is surreal." My eyes are wide, and there are cameras flashing and people yelling, and I'm beginning to get light-headed. 

"Freya, how excited are you for Chicago?"

I think for minute, knowing that whatever I say will be printed and scrutinized.

I don't want to win, but I also don't want it to be apparent that I don't want to win. If a bash in this very fragile system, it will follow me everywhere.

"So excited," I say, trying my hardest to sound sincere, "I can't wait!"

"Freya, you're-"

A hand presses on the small of my back, and a voice pipes up, "Sorry folks, but this one's got a bus to catch,"

I look over my shoulder. Avery. Thank god.

"Excuse us, excuse us,"

He puts his other hand on my shoulder and steadily pushes me through the crowd and to my bus, the third one of the many that line the sidewalk.

Before getting on the bus I turn around and hug him tightly, eternally grateful to have him here for this. "Thank you," I whisper into his ear, admittedly aware of his hands leaving my waist when we break apart.

He winks at me, then brings his hand to my hair, moving a fallen strand behind my ear. "You're gonna by okay, Frey," he says, then disappears into the crowd of reporters.

I turn around and start to climb the stairs, trying not to notice the pitying look the bus driver gives me.

As I walk down the aisle, I am engulfed in just that atmosphere. Pity. Looks from the little kids in the front of the bus and the middle schoolers the the middle and my classmates in the back.

I hate it. I loathe it. It takes everything in me not to turn around and shout, "Just stop looking at me like that!" 

The girl I usually sit next to, Abigail, is not in our typical spot. I look around. She's seating in the seat in front of me with Sean, a freshmen who usually has the luxury of sitting alone. Not anymore, I think. At least not until I leave for Chicago.

I mentally groan, and place my head on the bus' window, feeling the cool condensation diminish.

Crap, crap, crap.