THE NOTEBOOK IS PROPERTY OF JENNIE KIM
A few minutes outside the Albany city limits sits an elite private high school.
Fulton Edge Academy.
Fulton Edge has the distinction of having taught more government officials than any other school in the nation, an honor they carry with pride, evident in the fact that it's displayed everywhere. Seriously. Everywhere. There's even an unsightly banner hanging in the main corridor. College preparatory, with an emphasize on political science, it's the perfect place for a high-profile congressman to send his rebellious teenage son—a fact you know well, considering that's how you ended up here, drowning in a cesspool of blue and white uniforms for your fourth year in a row.
Classes have already started, first day of your last year, but you're wandering around, in no hurry to get where you're going—American Politics. Not to be confused with Comparative Politics, of course, which you'll have later in the afternoon, bookending the oh-so-exciting subjects of Literature (Political Literature Between the World Wars) and Math (Mathematical Methods in Political Science). The only thing in your schedule unscathed is P.E., likely because they haven't figured out how to incorporate the government.
Fifteen minutes late, you open the classroom door and walk in, disrupting the teacher already invested in a lecture. Your footsteps stall for a fraction of a second, like your feet can't bear to go on, before you shut the door and commit to being here. You're a walking, talking dress code violation, with your tie hanging loose, your white button-down not tucked in, a bit of chaos in the midst of manufactured perfection, throwing off the whole political prep school aesthetic.
"Ms. Manoban," the teacher says, casting you a narrowed look. "Nice of you to grace us with your presence this morning."
"Pleasure's all mine," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you head to the back of the classroom, to the lone empty desk. "Would've shown up sooner, but well… I didn't really care to be here."
There's an awkward stirring, a throat clearing, a long pause of nobody talking, as you settle into your seat. You don't just throw off the aesthetic—you alter their whole image. It makes them uncomfortable.
"As I was saying," the teacher says. "The Founding Fathers…"
The man talks. He talks a lot. You rock your chair on its hind legs. Your gaze scans the classroom, surveying your classmates, faces you know well but not ones you care to look at, until you glance to your right, to the desk beside you, and see her.
A face you've never seen before.
She's just a girl, nothing special about her. Brown hair falls halfway down her back, hanging loose. Her skin isn't sun-kissed like the other girls here. There are only three of them in the entire twelfth grade—three out of a class of thirty. A mere tenth of the senior population is female.
Maybe that's why you stare, why you can't seem to tear your eyes away. Girls are like unicorns in this place, even the most common ones. They can't all be royalty.
Or maybe there's another reason.
Maybe it's something else that sets her apart.
Your gaze, it's not easy to ignore, although the girl tries. Her skin prickles as if you're touching her. A shiver flows down her spine. She's fidgeting, toying with a cheap black ink pen on top of a notebook that she hasn't yet written in.
Nervous, she lets go of the pen and balls her hands into fists as she shoves them beneath the desk. Your gaze lifts, brown eyes meeting hers for a moment before she looks away, acting as if she's paying close attention to the lesson, but nobody cares that much about the formation of the first cabinet.
The class drags on for forever and a day. The teacher starts asking questions, and nearly everyone raises their hands. She keeps hers hidden beneath the desk, while you continue to rock your chair without a care.
Despite not volunteering, the teacher calls on you. Over and over. Manoban. You rattle off answers, rather bored with it all. The others stumble, but you don't even have to pause. You know your stuff. It feels a bit like a circus act, like a lion jumping through hoops.
If they poke you too much, making you perform, might you start ripping heads off? Hmm…
When class is over, everyone packs up their things. You drop your chair down, making a loud screech, as you shove to your feet. You didn't bring anything with you. No books. No paper. Not even a pencil. You stall between the desks, leaning closer to the new girl.
"I like your nail polish," you say, your voice playful, as she picks up her yet untouched notebook.
She looks up, meeting your eyes. You're amused, the first hint of anything beyond boredom. Her gaze shifts to her nails then, to the chipped blue glittery polish coating them.
You walk away.
"Be on time tomorrow, Manoban," the teacher calls out.
You don't even look at him when you say, "No promises."
The day drags on and on and on. You sleep through most of Literature and don't do a single Math problem. Comparative Politics is repetitious as you again spew out answers to questions. The girl sits near you in every class, close enough that your attention drifts to her whenever there's a lull. You watch her as she fidgets. You watch her as she struggles. You watch her fumble her way through wrong answers. Others watch, too, whispering to each other, like they're trying to figure out how a commoner weaseled her way onto their court, but you watch her like she's the least boring thing you've encountered.
When P.E. arrives at the end of the day, you're more interested. It's mindless, running lap after lap, and you're fast—so fast it annoys the others. They don't like you being better than them. On top of ruining their image, you're putting a dent in their self-confidence.
When class is over, everyone heads to the locker rooms. You're soaked with sweat but don't bother to change, standing right outside when the girl exits, but she barely makes it a step before an administrator's voice calls out. "Kim."
She stalls, turning to look at the man as he lurks in the hallway. "Sir?"
"I know you're new to the school," he says. "Have you had the opportunity to read the handbook?"
"Yes, sir," she says.
"Then you know you're in violation of school policy," he says. "Nails are to be natural, which means no polish. Rectify that by tomorrow."
He walks away.
She looks at her nails.
You laugh.
You, who have been in violation of that policy all day long without anybody saying a word about it.
There's a small parking lot beside the school for the students who drive, but you head around to the front, to a circular driveway for pick-up. She goes that way, too, lingering in the back of the crowd, sitting down on the ground and leaning against the building, pulling out her notebook.
Opening it, she starts writing.
Black sedan after black sedan swings through, the crowd whittling down. After a half hour, only a handful of kids remain.
After forty-five minutes, it's just you and her.
You're pacing around, your gaze flickering to her. "Guess I'm not the only one stranded."
"My dad works until four," she says, pausing her writing to look up. "He should be here soon."
"Yeah, well, my father's an asshole," you say. "He enjoys making me suffer."
"Why don't you drive?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I don't have a car."
"I do," you say, "but my father's an asshole. He thinks if I have my car, I'll skip my classes."
"Would you?"
"Yes."
She laughs, and you give her a smile, as a black car approaches the school—a limo.
"So, Kim, huh?"
"You can call me Lalisa."
"Lalisa."
You smile when she says your name.
The limo pulls up, and you look at it, hesitating, like maybe some part of you doesn't want to leave her alone there.
Or maybe your reluctance has more to do with who awaits you.
Speaker Marco Manoban.
The back window rolls down, and there the man is, his attention on something in his hands as he says, "Get in the car, Lis. I have things to do."
His voice carries not an ounce of warmth. He doesn't even look at you.
You glance back at the girl before getting in the limo, while she turns back to her notebook.
And you don't know this, but that girl? The one left outside of that school alone? She's sitting there writing about you. You have all the makings of a modern-day tragic hero, and she's never felt so compelled to explore somebody's story before… even if that's kind of creepy, ugh.