For three hours, I sat there, fuming, making endless pro and con lists and looking up ways to fight faculty decisions. Then my school phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Pen Pal: So...on a scale of 1 to planning a coup, how much do you hate this assignment?
My finger hovered over the keypad for long seconds. If I started typing, I would have lost the battle. It hadn't even been a whole day since the project was announced. There was a chance I still could have made my case and swayed the board. However, that's not what happened. Instead, I caved, too eager to voice my annoyance. I quickly updated my contact info, assigning myself a name that echoed my protest.
Academic Hostage: I'm the program's number one adversary. I've already drafted my PowerPoint.
Pen Pal: A PowerPoint? That's impressive but also mildly concerning.
Academic Hostage: Why not both?
I still recall biting the side of my thumb as nerves riddled my body. It was in that moment that I realized I was slightly unhinged, so I tapped out another reply.
Academic Hostage: I also have a backup plan involving interpretive dance, in case the presentation doesn't work.
I shouldn't have cared what the person behind the proverbial veil thought of me, but I did. That was why I'd spent years suffocating the messy, imperfect parts of myself. At school, my reputation preceded me, but responding to that first text cracked something open. I didn't have to be the ice queen anymore, at least not with my pen pal. For the first time in years, I could choose who to be. Everyone saw the polished surface, perfect grades, and perfect behavior, the perfect daughter who never colored outside the lines, but this stranger knew nothing of my carefully constructed façade. I could unearth the version of myself I'd buried beneath all those expectations. I could remember what it felt like to breathe.
Pen Pal: Skip the PowerPoint and go straight for the dance. A dance protest would be legendary.
I found myself actually smiling at my phone, which on some levels felt like a personal betrayal, but it also felt good.
Academic Hostage: I think I'll save it. A legendary dance protest deserves a worthy opponent. When they announce our next project is friendship bracelets, I'll bust out my dhol and lehenga.
That was my first slip. I was the only student at the school with Indian heritage, and that detail could have spelled game over if my pen pal had connected the dots. Most people at school saw only the surface: dark eyes, black hair, golden skin that marked me as vaguely "other" without caring enough to dig deeper. I held my breath, waiting for a reply, but they either completely missed my careless mention or they were decent enough to ignore it. Instead, they did something unexpected and changed their name.
Captive Audience: Careful, you're dangerously close to making this assignment seem less terrible.
Once again, my fingers hovered over the keypad, a smile tugging at my lips. I had no clues about who my new pen pal was. All I knew as I flopped back onto my pillows was that I didn’t hate the assignment as much anymore.
"Asha, come on. Let's get out of here. We can finish this up after the game," Emma says, pulling me away from my new favorite thoughts: him.
And yes, I do officially know it's a him. He slipped up, mentioning where he was one day. He might have ignored my slip, but I called him out on his, quickly letting him know I wasn't aware the men's locker room had poor ventilation and reeked of sweat and overpowering cologne that burned your nose.
"I know to you this is just another dance, but for me, my name is tied to it, and I need this to go perfectly." I stand, backing away from the spotlight, settling on an amber hue that will drench the walls and stage.
"Correction, Hale's name is tied to it. He won the election, remember?" she snaps, and I roll my eyes.
The defeat still irks me. I was so sure I was going to beat him for student body president last year. Trigger claimed he transferred to Ridgewood for me, and I promised him he'd regret it. So far, I feel like I've failed at keeping my word.
I campaigned hard, and everyone was congratulating me before I'd even won. To my surprise, Trigger did exactly what I asked of him, and then he won. When I asked for a recount, Mr. Greco made me his VP. My blood boiled so hot I had to walk out of the room before I said something I'd regret. I wanted to set his office on fire and all the ballots, demand another election where the counting of the votes could be observed, but I didn't. I learned a long time ago that not everything in life will go your way, but Emma isn't entirely correct.
"True, but winning and losing are fundamental outcomes in life, and I'm playing the long game," I tell her as I retreat to my supply table.
"So, you're fine getting your hands dirty to make him look good?" She hops off her step stool with a roll of crepe paper that hasn't been used. Emma has been doing more texting than helping me tonight.
"Three faculty members, including Mr. Greco, have strolled through while I've been in here decorating solo."
"But they know he's warming up with the team for the game. I don't see how that helps you," she says, popping her gum and tossing the unused roll on the table.
"It proves he can't fulfill his duties as president." I begin opening the battery-operated tea lights that I plan to place in vases. "I'm building my case to have him removed."
"Or…" She takes the bag out of my hands and sets it on the table. "For just this once, you can be busy too. Look around. You more than pulled your weight. Make him finish tonight after the game or tomorrow morning—his choice—but you…"—her voice elevates with excitement as she takes a tape gun out of my hand—"need to get your fine ass to the game. Come on, you have to admit you're at least a little excited to meet Penn in person."
Last month, I missed our only off-campus day, which happened to be the day Emma met her new boyfriend and his best friend, Penn. Rather than exploring the city, I was stuck re-strategizing homecoming themes because Trigger didn't like any of the ones presented in the meeting. Naturally, I spent the meeting texting my pen pal, venting about the entire situation.
Academic Hostage: Meetings suck. That's all.
Captive Audience: The WORST, especially when you must repeat yourself for those who aren't paying attention.
