The Van Pact

6: Stevie

"You're gonna love what I found in Yearbook." Valerie grinned. We had a few minutes to talk before the assembly began, as the rest of the seven hundred or so members of our class filed into the auditorium and sat down (yes, I know I said there was nine hundred in our freshman class. Linden Valley, Pennsylvania is a mid-sized, Rustbelt city, which, as the local PBS station likes to claim, is on the brink of a new economic renaissance. That just means that we have a lot of rich New Yorkers moving in. The rest of us, the actual townies, are still poor. Linden Valley Central High has more than three thousand students altogether. Two hundred of our townie classmates had, by senior year, dropped out. Yes. I know. I'm embarrassed on behalf of Linden Valley, you don't have to tell me anything.).

"Which teacher's old, ridiculous photo is it this time?" I asked.

"How predictable do you think I am?" Valerie unzipped the black Jansport backpack on the floor by her feet, and pulled out a yellowed Seventeen magazine. "It was in the periodical section." She handed it to me.

"I didn't know you could check periodicals out." I flipped the magazine onto its back and looked for a bar code.

"You can't," Valerie snatched the magazine out of my hands. "I convinced Ms. Muller to let me have it."

"Why do you even want a magazine from-" I eyed the scrunchie-clad model on the front cover, "whenever that was published?"

  "1989," Valerie theatrically licked her fingertips and paged to the middle of the magazine, "and it's got some truly excellent 'conversation starters and flirting pointers.'"

She showed me a pictorial with two lists of "conversation starts and flirting pointers" printed in wacky, angular font. "Read conversation starter number four!" she insisted. "It's tremendous!"

I read the second to last conversation starter in the list. "'You know what I wish they taught us more about? Mesopotamia.'"

Valerie tossed back her head and giggled. If I ever tried to laugh like that, I'd throw out my neck. It looks carefree and Daisy Buchanan-esque when she does it. I envy her Aquarius sun. Of all the signs to be born, I get Cancer. It's about as terrible as the same-named disease.

"You understand why I had to seize it, now, right?" Valerie took the magazine and slid it back into her backpack.

"I don't get it," I said, still thinking about the conversation starter, "who's the 'they' in that sentence? History teachers? The American public school system in general?"

"Why Mesopotamia?" Valerie shrugged. "There's so many questions."

The microphone squeaked and interrupted our conversation. Ms. More, our class's assistant principal, stood on stage with three of the biggest try-hards in the grade. As soon as I saw the flashcards in Cleo Alexopoulos's pale, clammy hands, I knew what was happening.

"Student election speeches," I moaned. "I should have stayed home today."

"Stevie," Valerie played righteous indignation. "Voter apathy like that is the reason why the American political system is broken."

"Okay, okay," Mrs. More's somewhat masculine voice echoed from the microphone. "It's senior year. Let's get this Punch and Judy show over with. Running for class secretary this year, unopposed, is Cleo Alexopoulos," she waved her muscular arm behind her at Cleo. "Unopposed means you don't have to give a speech, Cleo."

Cleo mumbled something inaudible from where we sat and shook her sweaty flashcards.

  "No, you don't get a speech," Mrs. More blew up the bangs of her brown mullet. "Everybody has to vote for you. Vote for Cleo, everyone. In fact, write her name on your ballots now." Mrs. More noticed somebody in the front row. She opened her mouth to speak, stopped herself, and took the microphone out of its stand. "Do you guys have your ballots? No?" She glanced back at Cleo. "Ay Cleo, why don't you go hand out the ballots?"