It’s halfway through June, which means it’s halfway through CampNanoWriMo. I started the month ahead of schedule, then went to California for a wonderful wedding, and let myself slip away from writing. Then I got back home and back on the wagon.
Yesterday I went in for a yearly skin check with my dermatologist. He decided to biopsy a spot on my foot. The spot had previously been biopsied about 6 years ago and the results were normal. However, they did a punch biopsy which can result in sampling error. So yesterday my Dr. decided a shave biopsy was in order. They numbed my foot and carved that thing right off. On the plus side, he thinks there’s very little chance of it being abnormal. On the minus side, I have to stay off my feet as much as possible for a few days. This is very difficult for me. I walk my dogs twice a day, I go to spinning, Pilates, swimming. I lift weights and just, in general, enjoy mobility and being able to put pressure on my foot.
But rather than fight it, I’m looking at this not as being sidetracked from working out, but as a push to write more. Guess who doesn’t need her feet to type? This gal. So over the past two days I’ve written for hours at a time. I’ve done more than 6,000 of my draft. I feel like I’m back on track to finish June CampNanoWriMo as a winner!
So, a word about Chapter 2, since I didn’t post all of Chapter 1. Adva’s best friend is Cyn. Adva and Cyn get to school on the first day and- scene:
My ambition in life
Is to look good on paper
All I want is a slot
In some big corporation
-“Terminal Preppy” Dead Kennedys
When your parents and other adults relate to you their most favorite memories of high school, what they usually fail to mention is that it’s not much different from middle school- one extra grade, tons of extra hormones. What high school is, though, is a wakeup call for most people. The friends you make in high school, the groups you join, the activities in which you participate will define you for a minimum of four years. But really, for a lifetime. It is with this in mind that my fellow freshmen and me cautiously proceed to the place that will dictate our lives for the foreseeable future: The cafeteria.
You’ve seen it in movies and it’s true. Your table in the cafeteria and the people who inhabit that table with you every day define who you are. You might be nothing like the people who share a table with, maybe you ended up there by accident. Oops, too bad for you. That table and what people on the outside call the people at the table and what they think about the people at that table becomes who you are, whether you like it or not. The first day of high school pressure isn’t about forgetting your locker combination, losing your way to class, or tripping on your new platform shoes; it’s about where you choose to sit, or what table chooses you.
Have I introduced this complex situation enough yet for you to wonder where it is that I ended up sitting that fateful morning of the first day of high school? I’ll ask you to hold out just a little longer to find out about me, while I tell you all about what I see when I walk into the cafeteria as a fresh from the bus, fresh faced freshman.
The double doors swing open, I swear it seems to be in slow motion, and everyone turns to stare at the new crop of people joining them for breakfast, gossip, and catching up. The first thing that hits me is the smell. A maple-y, bacon-y odor mixes in the air with Ralph Lauren, Beyoncé, Brittany, and Tommy Hilfiger. There may be hints of classier perfumes, too, like Chanel, or Liz (Taylor or Claiborne), but I wouldn’t know. I’m still a fan of Bath and Bodyworks Plumeria body spray, which I can tell now is a fatal, social mistake. The popular girls can literally smell the fear on you if you smell like a body spray rather than a sophisticated perfume. Strike one for me.
“What is your damage?” Cyn whispers to me, since I’m still standing in the double door entrance to the cafeteria, when the rest of our bus mates have pushed by to find their rightful place. Did I mention we both love the 80s- movies, music, fashion? We often quote 80s movies to each other, especially when there’s no other perfect way to say something.
“Nothing. I just can’t believe what is happening in here. It’s like clique-central. Where are we supposed to go?”
Cyn looks at me and shrugs, “Who cares? Will you just get out of the doorway? This isn’t your spotlight moment, dude.” She chuckles and drags me into the room.
I shift my backpack onto the other shoulder and scan the room. Imagine this part like a movie montage.
To my immediate left are two round tables pushed together by the jocks, or rather, the minor sport jocks. Soccer, tennis, track, and field hockey players are crowded around the two tables. They rock Fila, Nike, puma, and yes, reebok shoes, shorts, and logo tees. You might think wind pants and velour track suits are a thing of the past? Wrong. The girls are slim with single toned hair- brown or blonde, mostly straight. Ponytails outnumber hair down, though a few French braids can be found in the mix. There aren’t tons of guys at this table, mostly because they may dabble in the minor sports, but they hang with others in the major sports. The guys that are here are nondescript, brown/blonde wavy-ish, mid-length hair. They’re all cute in an all-American sort of way; they’re also all nice. What is it about the guys that play soccer in high school? They’re so friendly and nice. The girls, too. In fact, Katie Genard looks up and says, “Hi Adva! How was your summer?”
“Oh, um. Good,” I mumble back not really believing I’ve been noticed in this crowd.
“I read your summer reading list article in Teen Raves magazine. It was awesome!” She turns to the rest of the table and announces, “ Guys, did you know Adva keeps an amazing blog? You should totally check it out. What’s it called, again?”
I hate being put on the spot. I want to be a writer, and in order to do that you have to have an audience, but this feel so weird and awkward. I’m a terrible at self-promotion. “It’s acrimoniousadva.wordpress.com. It’s not that great, I’m just starting out.”
Katie laughs and wave her hand, “You’re just being modest. It’s awesome. You’re a great writer. And Cyn, didn’t you do the artwork for the cover?”
“I did,” Cyn responds. She painted this beautiful portrait of bubbles that I use as the header on my blog.
A guy I don’t recognize looks us up and down and then speaks up, “Sounds like you two are quite the artistic pair. I wonder what other sorts of beautiful art you two make together.” He starts wiggling his eyebrows and elbows his buddy. We get this a lot. Cyn had super short, messy hair and dresses fairly androgynously. I have wild, curly hair and wear jeans and white men’s V-neck t-shirts every day.
“Really? The year hasn’t even begun and you’re making remarks about us being lesbians? Good work outta you, jock-o, sorry to tell you, though homophobia is so 2010,” Cyn grabs my arm and storms off. I silently take back what I’ve said about all the minor jocks being nice guys. Though that guy is probably just slumming with the minors until the heaving-hitting major jocks show up.