The Story of Us: Part IV (aka “Notes On a Scandal”)

Hello, awkwardness.

One advantage of being the only freshman on a newspaper staff of upperclassmen was that I didn’t have to deal with any of them until the end of the day – and none of my other friends knew what happened aboard the cruise to hell. I could conjugate French verbs and perfect the art of the thesis paragraph in peace.

And then came sixth period, and I had to face what I had done – and the guy I had done it to.

If Lois and Clark could keep the peace in The Planet’s newsroom during their rocky periods, Chris and I certainly could stay professional in Room 214. After all, it wasn’t like we had broken up – we were never technically together, right?

I tried to pretend that Tolo never happened. That we didn’t dance all night. That we didn’t hold hands in the darkness.

“That’s what couples do.”

Easier said than done.

To his credit, Chris didn’t say much about what had transpired at the prom. I don’t know if he was stunned, embarrassed or angry – or maybe all three – so we kept a polite distance as we worked on The Clover Leaves’ senior issue. I had a front-page story – and renewed confidence that I was in this to become an award-winning journalist, not someone’s girlfriend.

Regardless, that didn’t stop everyone else from talking about the state of our relationship. Even high-school journalists have an insatiable desire to be up in everyone’s business and report every salacious detail.

And for the first time in my school-going life, I couldn’t wait for the year to end.

But it wasn’t over yet.

Before I get into this, I should explain that at our high school, there were three P.E. classes going on at the same time each period, and each class spent a third of the semester in the pool and two thirds in the gym. I was in the first of the third-period classes to swim, so, in theory, I should have been rid of Chris not long after prom. Well, unfortunately, his previous high school in Everett did not require swimming, so he got to join the incoming class when his headed off to the pool.

Stupid Snohomish County.

But Chris’ presence ended up being the least of my problems.

Enter Alythya.

(I want to take a moment to say that at one point I thought about changing names to protect the innocent parties in this story … and then realized there are none.)

Alythya was a year ahead of me and a year behind Chris, and our families went to the same church. I didn’t know her well – we went to different junior highs – but she came across as friendly but quiet – maybe even a little shy.

Boy, was I wrong. When Alythya wanted something, she made no secret of it.

And her hair wasn’t even dry from the pool when she decided she wanted Chris.

Imagine his surprise to go from someone who said she would rather date Superman than him to someone who was brazen enough to attempt to peek down his shorts during P.E. and then announce, “impressive.” I almost wish I had witnessed this, if for nothing else but to see the look on his face. Years later, he still looks slightly horrified when it’s mentioned. Oh, the things you miss while working on your mile time.

Still, there’s something to be said for normalcy (even if it comes with a side of bitchiness), because before long, there was Chris, hitting tennis balls to me and acting as if prom hadn’t been as successful as the Titanic’s maiden voyage. I think the remote location of the tennis court appealed far more than the prospect of me as a doubles partner, but nevertheless, it was clear he had no interest in Alythya being anywhere near his balls – tennis or otherwise.

I felt oddly satisfied. Had I won? Had I ruined him for other women?

Turns out my smugness wasn’t so far off.

A few days later, he handed me a folded note as I headed into French class.

Ahh, the note. Anyone who remembers high school knows that at least 90 percent of the time, a note leads to no good. And this was no exception.

Admittedly, I don’t remember exactly what his carefully-penned prose said, but when I asked Chris for clarification a couple nights ago (while he was brushing his teeth, no less), he said he was testing the waters – and, if nothing else, hoping that we could at least be friends.

All I remember is that I was furious. I didn’t want Chris, and while I didn’t want him wanting anyone else, I certainly didn’t want him wanting me.

So I replied. And I mean replied.

Two days later, I was handed another note – more tersely this time – that addressed what he felt were baseless accusations. No, he said, he was not trying to usurp the incoming editor; he merely would talk to our adviser about ways to make the paper better. No, he wasn’t only interested in sports, and, in fact, felt that watching grass grow was more interesting than tennis.

And, as I had suspected, he didn’t like Alythya, and that her attention made him uncomfortable – but not for the reason I had expected. He wasn’t interested in her because he was still interested in me. He hoped we could be friends, but that since that didn’t seem realistic at this point, that we could at least not have any animosity toward each other. In his eyes, I wasn’t “just another freshman,” which I admit gave me pause. I had fought so had to establish a name for myself on the Clover Leaves staff, and, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, his approval meant something. After all, he had journalistic legitimacy – or at least as much as you can have when you’re not even old enough to vote.

And, ever classy, he wished me well on swim team the following year, and added that I should smile more because I have beautiful teeth. (As an adult, I admit this is one of the best compliments I have ever received. It’s nice to know someone noticed how seriously I take my oral health.)

I vacillated between being touched and being livid, and, being a typical hormonal teenager, the latter won out. I couldn’t believe he had the audacity to insult tennis (not that I played) or to try and convince me that he hadn’t hatched some nefarious plot to steal the editor position out from under its heir apparent, who, in the wake of Promgate, had reclaimed the title of my No. 1 crush.

My lack of response was a low blow – but Chris dealt me one right back.

Within a week, he walked into the gym, ready to run, in the same shirt … same shorts … and holding hands with Shanna.

I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating.

Talk about playing dirty. He knew I didn’t like Shanna, and he knew I would be ballistic.

And I was. I think I dropped about 10 minutes off my mile time that day, just to keep as far away from Shanna as possible. Not that it took much – she was about as athletic as a rock.

A flute-playing rock with 80s hair and stretch pants. How … could he have gone … from me … to her?!?

Not surprisingly, it didn’t last more than a few days – Chris swears they never even went on a date – but he had gotten to me, which I’m sure is exactly what he wanted.

And the last couple weeks of the semester were extremely awkward.

I vented. I glared. I stomped. And I had mercifully blocked this out, but Chris reminded me a few years ago that when we were passing around yearbooks in journalism, I grabbed mine and told him that I didn’t want him to sign it.

Yes, I know. Very mature.

Somehow, we made it to the last day with no bloodshed, and as 11:30 neared on the classroom clock, everyone gathered near the door, ready to be free of deadlines and drama until September. When the bell rang, several of our classmates hugged each other, knowing it was the last time they would ever work together on The Clover Leaves’ staff.

Chris and I weren’t that lucky.

We looked at each other – and then looked away.

The year was over.

To be continued …