Most Likely To Succeed
Summary: Shannon Kilbourne, convinced she can run her own life and the lives of everyone around her, has lost control. Concurrent to BFF.
Rating: Teen for mild language, adult situations, and controversial issues.
Disclaimer: The BSC is the property of Ann M. Martin and Scholastic.
Author's Note: This story is set in the same universe as my stories, Regretting Stacey and BFF. It exists on the same timeline as BFF.
Tap, tap, tap.
I keep my head bowed over my paper, firmly concentrating on my Italian translations. I'm supposed to be writing a paragraph about myself. My pencil scratches almost noiselessly on the paper, thin and straight letters appearing faintly. I write Piaccio delle lingue straniere. I enjoy foreign languages. Is that correct? I pause before moving to the next sentence. Piaccio delle lingue straniere. I enjoy foreign languages. Something looks wrong. I made a mistake
Tap, tap, tap.
I shouldn't second guess myself. I move onto the next sentence. Sono spedito negli inglesi, in spagnolo, ed in francese. I am fluent in English, Spanish, and French. Yes. That is correct. Next sentence.
Tap, tap, tap.
I sigh and set down my pencil. I steal a quick glance at Signore Chancey, then turn discreetly around. "What?" I hiss, lowly.
My friend, Meg Jardin, immediately stops tapping her pencil against the back of my chair. She leans forward, tipping our heads together in a confidential manner. "What are you rallying the vote on for me?" she whispers with a grin.
Oh, honestly! I roll my eyes. "That's why you've been tapping the back of my chair for the last ten minutes?" I ask, voice still low. "You know I can't tell you."
"Is it Best Smile?" Meg presses. Her grin spreads, displaying lovely white teeth. "Is it Prettiest Eyes?" Meg bats her dark brown eyes at me.
"Meg, you know the rules. We can't discuss this," I insist, facing forward again.
Meg Jardin is one of my closest friends. We've been friends as long as I can remember. Still, she can be a pain. She's been pestering me (and everyone else) all week about the Senior Awards. The Senior Awards are a big deal at our school, Stoneybrook Day School. They're an especially big deal this year because we're finally seniors. Senior Awards are things like "most athletic", "most talkative", and "best car". It's kind of silly, I guess. But the week before elections, everyone in the senior class runs around, campaigning for their friends for certain awards. It's tacky to campaign for yourself. The elections are run by the yearbook staff, which I'm actually on. Except I work in the Student Life section, not the Senior section. I'll learn the results in May along with everyone else.
Meg leans over my shoulder. "I'll tell you, if you tell me," she offers.
I shake my head. My friends and I agreed. We wouldn't reveal what each person is nominated for. We took turns sitting in my kitchen while upstairs everyone else took a vote. We've campaigned discreetly, yet enthusiastically, for each other.
Meg leans even closer, so her lips brush my ear. "Most likely to succeed," she hisses.
I whip around. "What?" I ask, a bit too loudly. Several students shush me and Signore Chancey clears his throat in warning. I lower my voice again. "Are you serious?" I ask Meg.
She nods her head. "It was unanimous. Everyone agrees you deserve it."
I turn around again, sort of slumped in my chair, in shock. Most likely to succeed. The most coveted of the Senior Awards. In a school as competitive as Stoneybrook Day, every senior wishes for the distinct privilege of being held above everyone else. The most likely, of everyone, to succeed - to be prosperous, recognized, rich, triumphant. It is an honor to win and an insult to be passed over.
Secretly, I hoped to be nominated.
The fifth period bell rings. Signore Chancey reminds us of tonight's homework assignment, which I've already copied down in my notebook. I'll finish my translations tonight. I'll double and triple check them.
"So, Shan," Meg says, sidling up to me after class. "What am I nominated for?"
I smile. "You'll know when you win," I reply and breeze down the aisle.
Out in the hallway, I hurry around the corner to my locker to exchange my Italian book for my geology book. Geology is my new passion. I have lots of passions. School and extracurriculars are very important to me. I'm taking a heavy load this year. But then, I take a heavy load every year. At Stoneybrook Day, slacking off, even in senior year, is definitely frowned upon. We're all supposed to be Achievers. This year my classes are tough, but exciting. Not only am I taking geology and second-year Italian, I'm also taking European history, World Literature, calculus, and microbiology. I wanted to take sociology or anthropology instead of the mandatory study period, but Dr. Patek, our headmistress, refused to waive that requirement. She said that with yearbook and all my other activities, I have enough already. My friends agree. They think I'm crazy. I'm certain they are taking bets as to when I'll crack. But it's the second week in October, we've been in school five weeks, and I'm at the top of every class.
After sliding my geology book into my messenger bag, I begin to fight my way through the sea of navy and plaid. Sixth period is lunch for grades nine through twelve. The cafeteria is in the sixth-through-eighth building, so it's always an ordeal to make it through the connecting hallway alive. At some point along the way, Meg and our friend Lindsey fall wordlessly into step beside me. Meg's still pouting from our earlier conversation and Lindsey is attempting to copy someone's economics homework in a sloppy rush.
"Should have done it last night," I tell her, as we enter the sixth-through-eighth building.
"I had a date," she replies, not looking up.
"There's your problem," I answer.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
My own boyfriend, Mick Stone, doesn't live in Stoneybrook. He's from Greenvale, but right now, he's away at college. He's a freshman at Idaho State, where he's on a wrestling scholarship. We met last April at his grandparents' fiftieth wedding anniversary party. My mom works for his grandfather. Next week is our six month anniversary. I don't mind the long-distance relationship. It works for us. As much as I care for Mick and enjoy spending time with him, he isn't here to distract me, nor I him. We're both so busy with school and activities. The distance is good for us.
"Yo, Shannon!" shouts an unmistakable voice from down the hall. Several heads turn, but Kristy doesn't mind. She and Abby continue shoving their way through the crowd toward us.
"Whatever you do, don't go in the library today! Ms. Shellback is in there eating ribs and sauerkraut!" Abby announces when she and Kristy reach us. Abby waves her hand in front of her face and makes a terrible face. "I told her I was allergic. She said I'd have to leave then."
"It was a worthy effort to spare our nostrils," Kristy says, patting Abby on the back. "Let's eat!" Kristy makes a grand gesture with her arm, then charges into the cafeteria.
I've known Kristy Thomas and Abby Stevenson a much shorter time than I have the rest of my friends. Kristy and I have been friends for about four years. Abby and I, a little less than that. Both live across the street from me, but that's a development from recent years. Kristy grew up across town and attended public school through eighth grade. Abby is originally from Long Island. She moved to Stoneybrook with her mom and twin sister during eighth grade. The three of us once belonged to an organization called The Baby-Sitters Club. Kristy was the founding president. The club disbanded after eighth grade. Also after eighth grade, Kristy and Abby decided to not continue their education in the public school system. Instead they started high school with me at Stoneybrook Day. No one knows why they made this decision. I was away at drama camp that August and when I returned, Kristy told me the news. No real reason, she said. I suspect she and Abby got in some trouble. I can't imagine what they did.
"Does anyone have anything better than peanut butter and grape jelly on whole wheat?" I ask, opening my lunch sack. We all bring our lunch to school. Even Kristy. Freshman year, she kept trying to gross us out with the school lunches, so we banned her from our table. After a week and a half in exile, she came around. Now she brown bags it like everyone else and keeps her observations to herself. I'm proud to take partial credit for the civilization of Kristy Thomas.
"I have cream cheese and olive on a croissant," Meg offers, obviously forgetting she's put out with me.
"Fancy," I comment, reaching across the table for the sandwich.
"I like peanut butter," Meg tell us, unwrapping my sandwich. "Mom won't buy it. She says it's low-class."
Kristy rolls her eyes. "I wasn't aware food products have social status," she says.
"They don't," Meg says through a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. "That's my mom's opinion, not my own."
"Maybe you should keep it between you and your mom then," Kristy suggests. She takes a swig of her seltzer, then rolls her eyes at me.
As I'm unscrewing the cap on my bottled ice tea, Greer Carson flies through the cafeteria doors, rushing straight toward us. Greer is my best friend. We've been best friends since the fifth grade. We don't have much in common anymore, but I think we'll always be best friends in some sense.
"You will not believe what just happened to me!" Greer shrieks, coming to an abrupt halt behind Kristy and Meg. Greer makes huge, exaggerated gestures whenever she talks, and drags out all her words. She wants to be a stage actress someday. To Greer, every moment is a performance opportunity. "So, I'm walking down the hallway in the administration building," Greer begins walking in place, pumping her arms. "And suddenly! I'm hit by a wave of nausea! I panicked. What would I do? I ran for the restroom, but the women's room was locked! I pounded on the door and Mrs. Melbrit called out in her craggy voice, 'come back in half an hour, deary.' I couldn't wait that long, so I threw open the men's room door," Greer swings out her right arm, hitting Kristy in the head. "Sorry, Kristy. So, I threw open the men's room door and there was Mr. Holton standing at the toilet with his pants down. And I saw it."
I cover my mouth. "Old Mr. Holton?" I gasp.
"Yes. It was all shriveled," Greer says. "I swear, my hand to God."
"Ew!" Meg exclaims.
"How long did you look?" asks Kristy.
"I didn't stare at it!" cries Greer.
"How are you sure it was shriveled then?"
"It just was," Greer huffs and squeezes in between Meg and Kristy. "Thank you for ruining my story."
"I was curious, that's all," Kristy replies, stabbing her fork into her fruit cup. "I mean, I have the man for economics next period. I don't want that vision clouding my thoughts on the subject."
Greer purses her lips as she unwraps her sandwich. "And his toupee was sitting on the sink," she adds.
Kristy points her fork at Greer. "Now that's the kind of detail I want to hear," she says.
I laugh. "He takes it off to use the restroom? Why would he do that?"
Greer shrugs. "Maybe Kristy can ask him next period."
"Don't give her any ideas!" I warn, still laughing.
I look over at Lindsey and Abby, who have been uncharacteristically quiet. Lindsey's still hunched over Karl Schmauder's homework. Across from her, Abby's bent over an open binder scribbling in her sociology journal.
"I thought you had sociology in the mornings," I say and when Abby's doesn't answer, I repeat myself.
Abby glances up, her thick, curly dark hair falling over half her face. "I was busy last night. Mr. Retchfield said to turn it in by the end of the day," Abby tells me, then lowers her head and resumes her hurried scribbling.
Kristy gives me a look from across the table. A look that clearly means, typical Abby. Abby is a lazy student and everybody knows it. She doesn't worry much about homework or due dates. She swore to buckle down this year. I know she's starting to think about college. But it already seems like she's fallen behind.
"What time should we expect Anna tomorrow?" I ask Abby, even though I realize I shouldn't bother her. But she needs to learn to do her homework at home. "Around four, like usual?" Anna is Abby's twin sister. We're close friends. She never attended SDS, but Stoneybrook High, the public school, where there's an orchestra. Anna is a wonderful, gifted violinist. Since last year, she's attended a special music school in New Haven.
"She isn't coming," Abby mumbles without looking up.
"Why not?" I demand. "She hasn't come the last two weekends! I cleared space for her in my schedule and everything!" Last year, Anna came home almost every weekend. But since her school started in August, we've hardly seen her. She never comes home when she promises to.
Abby shrugs, but doesn't answer.
I finish Meg's sandwich in silence, chewing slowly. I hate it when people disappoint me. I always fulfill my promises.
Across the table, Greer nudges Kristy with her elbow and jerks her head toward me. I turn to see what they're staring at. It's my younger sister, Tiffany, striding purposely toward our table, a scowl planted firmly on her face.
"You didn't pack my lunch this morning," she accuses me as soon as she nears.
"Yes, I did. It was in the refrigerator."
"You said you put it in my backpack!"
"I did not!"
Tiffany scowls at me, then turns to Lindsey. "Move over. I want to sit beside my sister," she orders. Lindsey obeys, sliding into the next chair. Tiffany sits down beside me and picks up my half-eaten green apple. She bites into it without asking. Tiffany is in the tenth grade. At least, technically. She didn't pass most of her ninth grade classes, except earth science and strangely enough, third-year French. Tiffany can carry on quite the conversation en français. Now she's repeating most of her ninth grade classes. "I think I pulled something during gymnastics on the charlie horse," she informs us.
"I think you mean the pummel horse," Greer corrects with a smirk.
"Whatever," Tiffany shrugs, stealing one of my iced oatmeal cookies. "I need a ride to work. I'm covering Marsha's shift," Tiffany tells me. After Tiffany's last report card, our parents revoked her allowance. Tiffany had to get a job. She works at Hot Dog On A Stick in the Washington Mall. I think our parents should just reinstate her allowance. Her job takes up the time she should be studying. Plus, I have to drive her back and forth to Stamford three or four days a week.
"You're telling me this now? I have a rehearsal after school and an Honor Society meeting," I reply, neatly flattening my lunch sack and folding it into a pocket of my messenger bag. I try to use to the same sack all week.
"Why do you have to go to rehearsal?" Tiffany demands. "You're not in the play!"
"I wrote it," I snap back. The play is only ten minutes long. It's called The Broken Hour-Glass and I wrote it mostly by myself. Greer helped a bit. She's the star. She plays the mother. The play is part of Stoneybrook Day's Creative Arts Faire, which is in a few weeks. Every student must participate in some way. I chose to write a play, which Greer, Kristy, and Karl Schmauder star in. Abby is our sound effects person. Several other students wrote plays or composed songs or choreographed dances. They will all be showcased on a special night.
"I can take you, Tiffany," Kristy offers. "I have to go to the Exercise Shoppe for new knee pads for tonight's game." Even though Kristy never reached five-foot-two, she's on the varsity volleyball team. I think she's the smallest player in the state.
"Kristy! You're in the play!" I protest.
Kristy gives me a doubting look. "Shannon, I sit on a couch for ten minutes. I don't even have any lines!"
"You have the most important part! You break the hour-glass!"
Greer drops her brownie. "Excuse me, but what am I doing on stage? Spinning around in circles?"
"You're both important," I say, diplomatically.
"Thank you," Greer says, slipping her arm around Kristy's shoulders. "And mommy thinks you're very important, too." Greer is Kristy's mother in the play. She enjoys pretending she really is Kristy's mother. Sometimes Kristy finds it funny. Sometimes she does not.
"Knock it off, Mom," Kristy says. "Abby can sit on the couch today."
"I have homework!" Abby pipes up, still lost behind her curtain of curly hair. "I need new knee pads, too. Thanks, Kristy."
"Fine. I'll sit on the couch," I tell them. It's only a single rehearsal after all. And Kristy only pantomimes breaking an hour-glass anyway. We're still trying to convince Dr. Patek to allow her to break a real one on stage.
Tiffany pushes back her chair and stands up. "Great. Thanks, Kristy. I'll change into my uniform when I get home, then walk over to your house. Gotta go now. Ms. Head's waiting for me in the oceanography lab." Oceanography is Tiffany's only tenth grade class, other than fourth-year French.
When Tiffany leaves, Greer smirks and opens her mouth.
"Please don't say anything about my sister," I say, cutting her off before she can begin.
After lunch, the six of us head back to the high school building together. We branch off slowly. Kristy and Lindsey headed into Mr. Holton's economics class, Greer and Meg down the math wing, and finally Abby and I slip into Dr. Mackey's geology class. Dr. Mackey used to teach at Stamford Community College. We're very lucky to have him.
"Did you finish the mineral identifications?" I ask Abby, as we take our seats at a center table. At the start of the school year, I wanted to sit in the front. Abby wanted the back. We compromised.
"I thought that wasn't due until tomorrow!" Abby exclaims, throwing open her geology binder and furiously paging through papers.
"It is due tomorrow, but I'm turning in mine today."
"Can I copy?" Abby asks, eyeing my neatly completed table.
"No," I answer, flipping the paper over.
Abby grumbles something and slouches over her binder, shutting me out. I don't know what's with her lately. She's become so tense and secretive.
Geology passes much too quickly. I'm surprised when the bell rings. I stop by my locker to collect a few books. Eighth period is my study period. Unlike a lot of kids, I actually use it as a study period, too. Meg and Greer are always trying to trick me into gossiping and passing notes. I have study period in the school library. The library is part of the administration building, so I have to walk briskly to make it there before the late bell. As usual, Meg and Greer save me a seat at their table. Today, the library smells vaguely of sauerkraut.
I'm halfway through my European history assignment when the announcement comes over the loudspeaker. Dr. Patek instructs all seniors to report to the cafeteria for the Senior Awards voting. Greer, Meg, and I giggle the whole way to the cafeteria, Meg still pleading with us to reveal our vote for her. I giggle with excitement in the secret knowledge of my forthcoming nomination.
We can't find Kristy, Abby, and Lindsey, so we sit at a table with some other friends. The yearbook advisor, Miss Leon makes everyone sit facing the front of the cafeteria, seated with a chair between them and their neighbors. Senior Awards are serious business. She passes out sheets of light green paper and calls for the voting to begin. I neatly print the names of all the people I agreed to vote for. Most Athletic: Abby Stevenson. Biggest Personality: Kristy Thomas. Neither has been at SDS long enough to win. More than anything, the Senior Awards are a popularity contest. Most Dramatic: Greer Carson. No competition there. For a boy, I fill in Karl Schmauder. Most Talkative: Lindsey Dupree. Best Car: Meg Jardin. She has the cutest vintage Jaguar convertible. For cutest couple, I vote for my friends Polly and Bart, even though Greer wanted everyone to do a write-in vote for them as Biggest Stoners. I fill in the rest of the categories with the names of deserving classmates. Then I reach the last category. Most Likely To Succeed. I glance around, discreetly, ensuring no one's sneaking a peek. I write in, very carefully: Shannon Kilbourne.