How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater by Marc Acito Page B
Authors: Marc Acito
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“blackmail,” dotting the “i” with a little smiley face.
“Blackmail is a perfectly fair exchange of money for services,” Natie continues, “in this case Al's money for our silence. It's pure capitalism; criticizing it is practically un-American. Now think, Edward, you must know something juicy about your dad.”
Aside from the way Al cheats in line at the bakery by pretending it's his number when no one else claims it? “No,” I say.
“Well, maybe you could get your mom to tell you something,” Natie says.
Kelly casts daggers at him and I can see he immediately understands he shouldn't have brought up my mother. Just the mention of her instantly makes me sad. Sure, Mom could probably tell me something, if I knew where to find her. I told her not to go to South America. I told her it's full of Nazis and drug lords and dictators but, no, she just had to climb Machu Picchu and get in touch with her past lives. I push my chair away from the table and go to the fridge.
“Murdering Al is starting to sound better and better,” I mutter.
Kathleen returns, her freckled face scrubbed shiny, her blond hair dark with wetness.
“Then we better think about killing Dagmar, too,” Natie says, “just in case he's changed his will.”
Kathleen puts on a kettle for tea.
“It wouldn't be hard,” I say. “I'm sure my sister could get us something from the pharmacy to poison them.”
Natie scratches his frizzy head. “Then all we'd have to do is burn down your house to make it look like they got killed in a fire.” I imagine Dagmar's fascistically finished floors buckling while her freaky photographs curl up on the walls and disintegrate. I smile as I think of her lifeless body melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West. But then I think about losing my father. Right now he's worth more to me dead than alive, but he is still my dad, after all.
I turn to Kathleen. “We're not really serious about murder,” I say.
Kathleen reaches into the kitchen cabinet and pulls out a mug with the words LIFE IS SHORT. EAT DESSERT FIRST on it. “Oh, homicidal thoughts don't scare me,” she says. “It's the suicidal ones I worry about.” She smiles at me and I feel buoyed by her concern.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I am capable of doing things I haven't conceived of yet.
I turn to Natie. “Suppose I worked twice as hard,” I say. “Suppose I work forty hours a week instead of twenty, or find a job that pays more, or start working right away. I might be able to sock away $10,000 all by myself, couldn't I?”
“It's possible,” Natie says.
Kathleen reaches for a jar of honey.
“Then that is what I'm going to do,” I say. “I'm going to join the working class.”
Kelly squeezes my shoulder. “Good for you,” she says.
“After all,” I say, “how hard can a real job be?”
I rise the next morning feeling very I-did-it-my-way-ish and ready to lick this thing. The crisp early autumn air makes me feel focused and brittle, like the way you imagine preppies in New Hampshire must feel. Even the thought of going back to that necessary evil mandated by law, physical education, doesn't get me down. In fact, I'm actually looking forward to gym for the first time in my entire school career. You see, seniors at Wallingford High get first pick of the sports, so naturally they always choose the blow-off ones like archery or golf or badminton, sports no one is good at or, even if you are, who really cares?
So after changing into my appropriately irreverent gym outfit (tie-dyed T-shirt and flowered Bermudas—it's a statement about what a joke this class is), I head into the gymnasium looking for Ms. Burro, the phys ed teacher and my archnemesis.
Teresa Burro has movie-star looks. Unfortunately for her that movie star is Ernest Borgnine. Thus cheated by fate or genetics, this dump truck of a woman is obviously determined to make as many people miserable as possible. Her tragic flaw is that she's a stupid, ugly
“Blackmail is a perfectly fair exchange of money for services,” Natie continues, “in this case Al's money for our silence. It's pure capitalism; criticizing it is practically un-American. Now think, Edward, you must know something juicy about your dad.”
Aside from the way Al cheats in line at the bakery by pretending it's his number when no one else claims it? “No,” I say.
“Well, maybe you could get your mom to tell you something,” Natie says.
Kelly casts daggers at him and I can see he immediately understands he shouldn't have brought up my mother. Just the mention of her instantly makes me sad. Sure, Mom could probably tell me something, if I knew where to find her. I told her not to go to South America. I told her it's full of Nazis and drug lords and dictators but, no, she just had to climb Machu Picchu and get in touch with her past lives. I push my chair away from the table and go to the fridge.
“Murdering Al is starting to sound better and better,” I mutter.
Kathleen returns, her freckled face scrubbed shiny, her blond hair dark with wetness.
“Then we better think about killing Dagmar, too,” Natie says, “just in case he's changed his will.”
Kathleen puts on a kettle for tea.
“It wouldn't be hard,” I say. “I'm sure my sister could get us something from the pharmacy to poison them.”
Natie scratches his frizzy head. “Then all we'd have to do is burn down your house to make it look like they got killed in a fire.” I imagine Dagmar's fascistically finished floors buckling while her freaky photographs curl up on the walls and disintegrate. I smile as I think of her lifeless body melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West. But then I think about losing my father. Right now he's worth more to me dead than alive, but he is still my dad, after all.
I turn to Kathleen. “We're not really serious about murder,” I say.
Kathleen reaches into the kitchen cabinet and pulls out a mug with the words LIFE IS SHORT. EAT DESSERT FIRST on it. “Oh, homicidal thoughts don't scare me,” she says. “It's the suicidal ones I worry about.” She smiles at me and I feel buoyed by her concern.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I am capable of doing things I haven't conceived of yet.
I turn to Natie. “Suppose I worked twice as hard,” I say. “Suppose I work forty hours a week instead of twenty, or find a job that pays more, or start working right away. I might be able to sock away $10,000 all by myself, couldn't I?”
“It's possible,” Natie says.
Kathleen reaches for a jar of honey.
“Then that is what I'm going to do,” I say. “I'm going to join the working class.”
Kelly squeezes my shoulder. “Good for you,” she says.
“After all,” I say, “how hard can a real job be?”
I rise the next morning feeling very I-did-it-my-way-ish and ready to lick this thing. The crisp early autumn air makes me feel focused and brittle, like the way you imagine preppies in New Hampshire must feel. Even the thought of going back to that necessary evil mandated by law, physical education, doesn't get me down. In fact, I'm actually looking forward to gym for the first time in my entire school career. You see, seniors at Wallingford High get first pick of the sports, so naturally they always choose the blow-off ones like archery or golf or badminton, sports no one is good at or, even if you are, who really cares?
So after changing into my appropriately irreverent gym outfit (tie-dyed T-shirt and flowered Bermudas—it's a statement about what a joke this class is), I head into the gymnasium looking for Ms. Burro, the phys ed teacher and my archnemesis.
Teresa Burro has movie-star looks. Unfortunately for her that movie star is Ernest Borgnine. Thus cheated by fate or genetics, this dump truck of a woman is obviously determined to make as many people miserable as possible. Her tragic flaw is that she's a stupid, ugly
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