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I look over at Peter, who is pouring Maggie a whiskey, a tender yet smug expression on his face.
How far would you go to get what you wanted?
And that’s when it hits me. I could write for the school newspaper. It would give me material to send into The New School. And it would be—ugh—real.
No, scolds a voice in my head. Not The Nutmeg. That really is going too far. Besides, if you write for The Nutmeg, you’re a hypocrite. You never hesitate to tell anyone who will listen that you hate The Nutmeg—including Peter, who’s the editor.
Yes, but what choice do you have? asks another voice. Do you really want to do nothing, letting life just happen to you like you’re some kind of loser? If you don’t at least try to write for The Nutmeg, you’ll probably never get into that writing program.
Hating myself, I head over to the bar, pour myself a vodka cranberry juice, and sidle up to Maggie and Peter. “Hi, guys,” I say casually, taking a sip of my drink. “So Petey-boy,” I begin. “I was thinking I might want to write for that newspaper of yours after all.”
He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me, irritated. “It’s not my newspaper.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. And it’s very difficult to communicate with a person who can’t be precise. That’s what writing is all about. Precision.”
And “authenticity.” And “writing what you know.” Two other things I apparently lack. I give Peter a look. If this is what getting into Harvard does to a person, maybe Harvard should be banned.
“I know it’s technically not your newspaper, Peter,” I say, matching his tone. “But you are the editor. I was merely deferring to what I assumed was your authority. But if you’re not in charge—”
He glances at Maggie who gives him a quizzical look. “I didn’t mean that,” he says. “I mean, if you want to write for the paper, it’s fine with me. But you have to check with our advisor, Ms. Smidgens.”
“No problem,” I say sweetly.
“Oh, good,” Maggie says. “I really want you guys to be friends.”
Peter and I eye each other. Never going to happen. But we’ll pretend, for Maggie’s sake.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bait and Switch
“Walt!” I say, catching up to him in the hall. He stops and wipes a lock of hair off his forehead. Walt’s hair has gotten a little longer than usual, and he’s sweating slightly.
“Where were you on Saturday night? We were all expecting you at Lali’s party.”
“Couldn’t make it,” he says.
“Why? What else did you have to do in this town?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but Walt doesn’t take it as one.
“Believe it or not, I actually have other friends.”
“You do?”
“There is life outside of Castlebury High.”
“Come on,” I say, nudging him. “I was kidding. We miss you.”
“Yeah, I miss you guys too,” he says, shifting his books from one arm to another. “I had to take an extra shift at the Hamburger Shack. Which means I have to spend all my free time studying.”
“That’s a drag.” We’ve reached the teachers’ lounge, where I pause before going in. “Walt, is everything okay? Really?”
“Sure,” he says. “Why would you even ask?”
“Don’t know.”
“See ya,” he says. And as he walks away, I realize he’s lying—about the extra shift at the Hamburger Shack, anyway. I took Missy and Dorrit there two nights last week, and Walt wasn’t working either time.
