Volume Three - WordPress.com — Get a Free Blog Here

“You are the crème de la crème, the best of the best!” Chester raises his chin up slightly, the exact way Mrs.
De Sousa does when she’s drilling it into our heads that we’re from a super school.
I hate it when they say such things. I think it’s too elitist. But Nova Academy is one of the finest high schools
in the country. It’s a school for gifted and talented students, and has spawned some prodigies and now famous
people.
“I still remember Pixel Wallace.” Chester continues flipping through the pages of the catalog. “Accepted into
Harvard at the age of fourteen.”
Stuff like that makes me wonder what I’m doing at Nova.
Pixel and I had some classes together. She was discussing “projective geometry” with the teacher, at the
speed of a bullet, while the rest of us worked on some algebra. Math whizzes like Chester T. (a.k.a. “Chas-ti-ty”)
understood “projective geometry,” but not me. I tested into Nova’s program because of my high score on
Languages and Linguistics. It’s probably due to my interest in cultural studies.
“Did you get a chance to check out The Lysistrata online?”
“A little bit. It looks posh.” I am halfhearted about the fact that we won’t be getting paid as interns though,
as with many other interns...
“It does look posh. It’s about the number one museum around!” Chester must have sensed my lack of
enthusiasm. “Come on, I know you like history. It’s going to be fun.”
Suddenly, the seatbelt signals above start to flash. My ears hurt. The pilot’s voice comes on. There is some
audio static before anyone can hear what he’s saying.
“Ladies...and gentlemen...”
But the static takes over again. I feel like lurching. My hands are freezing.
“You look stressed,” says Chester. He’s right about that.
“I’ve heard about horror stories, where passengers’ cups and saucers went flying,” I mutter to him.
“During turbulence?”
“Yeah.”
The plane jerks. A baby starts to cry somewhere. I stare out the window at the surrounding dusky, gray skies.
We will be landing at night.
“Maybe it’s the wind,” Chester says flatly. He gazes out the small square box of a window. “Unless a bird got
in the engine.”
I wish he had not said that. I stare at the motion sickness bag in front of me.
Then, Chester holds my hand. “It’ll be okay in a bit.”
My other hand clutches the edge of the seat. I think he notices.
“Think happy thoughts...” he says, taking a look out of the window too. He lets go of my hand to put his
seatbelt on.
Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.
I’d like to rest my head against his shoulder, just to feel safe, but I don’t. I think it might give him the wrong
idea. Everyone already thinks we’re a couple but we’re just good friends. Of course people will believe what they
want to believe.
I recollect some fun incidents with Chester over the years. Way back in the fourth grade, he got me a lime
green pencil box for my birthday, while I got him a giant chocolate bar (our birthdays are a few days apart). I
remember being taller than him until around eighth grade when he suddenly shot up, and now he’s a lot taller
than me. He’s also been working out these last couple of years, so his name has popped up in “girl talk.”
We’ve been on group dates but never just the two of us, so I don’t know why people think of us as an item. I
never give that impression. Like I said: you can’t stop people from believing what they want to.
The plane shakes a little again and I am jolted out of my memories. As I try to think about more “happy
thoughts,” I realize how much of a life I am lacking, and how much I am missing out on. Apart from
maintaining good grades, reading lots, and going on the once-in-a-blue-moon “date,” what else have I actually
been up to? Yes, I’ll be in the world-class city of Roxeth for a fortnight—and work starts on Monday, tomorrow,
oh joy—but two weeks isn’t going to make a magical difference. Besides, cities are busy, crowded, and noisy.
And I hear public transport in Roxeth is expensive, so I’ve brought extra money for that. If not, there’s always
the good old plastic card (thanks, Dad).