Rachael Kerr
AP English 11
May 25, 2010
Outliers Ch. 1&2
Although it may not be a lot, I have received some crucial advantages. I was raised by my parents to do my best; working hard meant more to them than the best grade I could receive. Luckily, I was always a student of higher intelligence, and exceeded my classmates in my work. As established in Outliers, this got me special attention from teachers. Some people might take the praise from parents and teachers as leeway to slack off, but not me. I was so scared that I might fail those who had so much faith in me; I always had the drive to be the best.
Along my academic career, I have had a few things tracking my success. One was the constant butting-in of my aunt; her intent was pure, but her methods were tainted. She herself is a teacher, and she confused me with one of her students. Another was again the paranoia and competition. I was never going to let the sacrifice my parents made by paying to send me to private school go to waste (and some of that drive was to completely surpass those who took that luxury for granted). And I would NEVER let anyone I did not like get better grades than me; spite seemed to get me pretty far.
Over the years, I watched my grades improve in certain subjects I never cared for (history), and ones I actually struggled with (5th grade history, 5th grade math, and penmanship). I always made sure to keep my grades up so I had nothing to worry about outside of school. As difficult as I make this sound, at my school it required little effort on my part.
Unfortunately, I got too used to this life style; I was so used to barely doing anything and being top dog. When I got to high school, I received a rude awakening to real competition. Regrettably, I dropped status. Although, I don’t beat myself up about it because those student above me deserve to be there and actually work to be there.
However, being in an Advanced Placement course has provided me with the exact kind of challenge I need. Having constant assignments that require actual concentration, thought, and academic prowess, I bettered my study habits and my intelligence. Not only in English, but by being (literally) forced to take an Advanced Placement course in US History I learned what I am truly capable of.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
2nd Creative Writing
Rachael Kerr
AP English
May 20, 2010
2nd Creative Writing
Eight Defining Moments in the Life of a Spaz
One: As a kid, I loved watching my sister have to wake up every morning, put on some odd-colored jumper, and sulk off to school. I had the luxury of being underage (excluding this, never has that term been used in a good way for me). So after my sister was dragged to the legally required prison, I spent my day in one of her ballet costumes, or my pjs at my Granny Rose’s house. Here, I helped her do what would later become what is often held against me: my love of cooking. It didn’t matter how tired Granny was, or what other things she had to do; she always made time so I could memorize the recipe for scrambled eggs, or how to make really good French toast, all before I could spell my name. Maybe she saw potential in me, or maybe it was the lack of potential she saw in my sister (to this day, she still asks me to help her make brownies with the box instructions in hand). For better or worse, I was always trying to cook new things after this. Through that I learned what flavors go well together, what consistency sauces should be, and when to “give up” on your “new dish” and call a grown up to “put out the fricken fire”.
Two: Growing up with guys was so much better than any tea-party-hosting, bracelet-wearing, tiara dawning silly girls. Surrounded by boys with in-your-face attitudes, who listened to rap metal, played basketball with a hoop nailed on a telephone pole, watched WWF (that’s right, old school), and constantly wore cargo jeans two sizes too big, my character underwent a dramatic shift. If not for the long hair and shrill voice, my solid color XXL tee, bandana, bruised face, and ‘husky’ sized pants would have fooled you into thinking I hosted a Y chromosome. But wait it gets better, the boys were mostly Hispanic or black…Granny lived in Hyde Park. From them, I picked up just enough foreign words to get me in trouble, and some slang that will never escape me (ever heard me say something is ‘mad’ whatever? Yeah…got that from Marco…).
Three: Due to my rebellious stage, I never got my ears pierce as a young girl, and was far too apathetic to cut my hair. So I remained earring-less and scraggily-haired until seventh grade. Turning thirteen, I felt some changes were in order. My mother scheduled an appointment to lop off my mid-back length hair into a bob unable to be put into a ponytail. BIG MISTAKE. I have regretted doing this ever since. Yes, I am happy I donated the fifteen inches of thick waves to Locks of Love, a company for leukemia and chemotherapy patients, and yes, I do believe everyone should try a change, but this was a little much. I constantly remind myself how long my hair could have been now if I never cut it. The upside was, after losing ten pounds from my head, I looked about fifteen. I aged further after getting my ears pierced with gold studs.
“The good news is your earrings look wonderful,” the doctor said “The bad news is now you look about eighteen.”
And boy was he right, I was willing to bet I could drive my mother’s car around with no second glances. By looking older, I felt that I could act older and get away with it. This was true, and caused me to mature more quickly than my three-year-older sister. But I do not regret this in the least, I was able to connect with more mature people which made me feel good about myself. But freshman year with that hair cut was still hell…
Four: Ah high school, the place where no one’s self esteem is safe, where some kids are discovering intercourse and others are discovering deodorant, where everyone finds someone like them, no matter how weird. I was always a loner at my school, because every girl owned a “straightener”, and every boy listened to a rapper with the same name as colorful chocolate pieces. At high school, there were people who didn’t look at me funny when I’d quote Disney movies, or hum Linkin Park, or even when I seem to be reading my “comic books” backwards. In fact, I found they did the same things I didn’t realize I did (Resistance is what?). Going in, I was ready for the worst experience, every old teacher had been warning me of the difficulty of the work, and the challenges I would face remembering to do everything myself. But I was wonderfully surprised to not only see male teachers (of which my previous school had none), but to find that it was just a bigger version of grade school. The teachers were so much nicer, and all the subjects were so much more interesting. I thought it would be difficult being in an advanced English class my first year (especially when I had to sing to spell ‘banana’), but it really made me love literature all the more. And biology? It was my favorite class right next to history (something I thought would never happen). Going to high school set me up for some of the greatest accomplishments of my life; not only did I discover that I wanted to pursue a career in science, but for the first time, I played sports I wasn’t forced into! Crazy!
Five: Freshman and sophomore year, I played volleyball, a sport I always wanted to play but never had the resources. I tried once, and I learned never to try to overhand pass the setter ball. I absolutely loved playing, and each and every game was a source of entertainment and enjoyment. But there was something missing, I can’t describe it because to this day I am not sure what made me turn to soccer. Not to insult volleyball, but it was one of the best choices I had ever made. I sucked at soccer, not in the modest “I’m not all that good” sense. In the sense that hurt my ankle when attempting to kick the ball because I dragged my foot too much. I also found out the second to last game of the season that the goalie is allowed to leave the box, a fact that would have saved very many scored points. Despite the vacuum, the team accepted me and it made me feel really great. At first, I felt odd because both my father and my sister harbor an immense, nonsensical resentment for the “stupid European sport”. After I started playing, though, that didn’t matter to me. Soccer was the greatest sport in the world to me. Being the goalie, I felt every scored point was some way or another all my fault. I felt this way because I loved my team and I wanted to be the best I could for them, but unfortunately my best was far from good enough. But again, that didn’t matter to them; each game no matter how badly I screwed up (and believe me it happened often) they all made sure to congratulate me on a job well done.
Six: Also in high school, I was exposed to this curious species called “boys”. They were like me but with different genetic make-up, different tendencies, different likes and made me rouge and get all giggly. That is to say I didn’t like them…or the idea of them anyway. But somehow they entered my life. In hindsight, I should have been much more excited than I was but I understand why I wasn’t. All the “hot guys” my new girl friends talked about were people I had known all my life and acted exactly like at one point. But later when guys started to interact with me, I got where they were coming from. I slowly discovered my “type” as tall, tone, with longish hair; he liked music, video games, and just being; he knew what he liked, and wasn’t afraid to be himself, and if I was lucky, he had a sexy accent. And when I got a boyfriend, I really felt confident for the first time because I knew I had finally found someone who was just like me (and he was cute too!).
Seven: Drama. Not the snap-at-you-in-a-‘Z’-formation kind, but the spirit-fingered kind. I always wanted to get into it, but I never had the confidence or the opportunity. At my elementary school, the kids who got picked for the plays were the kids whose parents were on the PTO, which brought “getting involved with your children’s school” to a whole new level. But junior year, my high school finally decided to get together and bring the drama club back (or as they called it the “Performing Arts” club). This was fortunate for me in many ways, one being I would finally be in the literal spotlight I had always desired to be in. Another was that I would finally have someone watch me to tell me whether I had potential at acting at all, or everything I thought I could do was actually rubbish. Which brings about another perk, it finally put all of my psychotic tendencies to use. You see, I often times would run a situation (real life or what I believed to be) over in my head, which would periodically escape from my mind into my body and mouth, forcing me to act and speak as though I were a normal human being. Luckily, all that practicing faces in a mirror paid off.
Eight: Over the years in high school I had learned to express myself. The most important times were typically not in school (although once I did dye my hair red; I was called Ariel and placed under watch for fear of selling my voice by my best friend). When it came to seeing the real Rachael, you would have to catch her in between costumes, three days out of the year, in the Hynes Convention Center. Anime Boston, a convention where people who had so much free time they recreated costumes of their favorite Japanese comic or cartoon characters came to talk to other people with equal amounts of free time, and buy over-priced manga (as they were called) they could just buy at any bookstore. But it was there I was able to be myself by dressing up in whatever I felt like wearing, acting like someone else I revered as an idol, and meeting “best friends” I would remember until I left that day and slept. There was something exhilarating about being the odd one out among a group of ‘normal Bostonians’ (even if I ended up being the odd eighteenth out). After years of doing this, I brought some of that spunk back with me, and I started being the real me. I said what I felt, dressed and did my hair how I wanted, and learned that even if I wasn’t accepted by the 215 students at Trinity Catholic High School, I would always be accepted by the seventeen thousand con-goes at Anime Boston! Datebioh!
AP English
May 20, 2010
2nd Creative Writing
Eight Defining Moments in the Life of a Spaz
One: As a kid, I loved watching my sister have to wake up every morning, put on some odd-colored jumper, and sulk off to school. I had the luxury of being underage (excluding this, never has that term been used in a good way for me). So after my sister was dragged to the legally required prison, I spent my day in one of her ballet costumes, or my pjs at my Granny Rose’s house. Here, I helped her do what would later become what is often held against me: my love of cooking. It didn’t matter how tired Granny was, or what other things she had to do; she always made time so I could memorize the recipe for scrambled eggs, or how to make really good French toast, all before I could spell my name. Maybe she saw potential in me, or maybe it was the lack of potential she saw in my sister (to this day, she still asks me to help her make brownies with the box instructions in hand). For better or worse, I was always trying to cook new things after this. Through that I learned what flavors go well together, what consistency sauces should be, and when to “give up” on your “new dish” and call a grown up to “put out the fricken fire”.
Two: Growing up with guys was so much better than any tea-party-hosting, bracelet-wearing, tiara dawning silly girls. Surrounded by boys with in-your-face attitudes, who listened to rap metal, played basketball with a hoop nailed on a telephone pole, watched WWF (that’s right, old school), and constantly wore cargo jeans two sizes too big, my character underwent a dramatic shift. If not for the long hair and shrill voice, my solid color XXL tee, bandana, bruised face, and ‘husky’ sized pants would have fooled you into thinking I hosted a Y chromosome. But wait it gets better, the boys were mostly Hispanic or black…Granny lived in Hyde Park. From them, I picked up just enough foreign words to get me in trouble, and some slang that will never escape me (ever heard me say something is ‘mad’ whatever? Yeah…got that from Marco…).
Three: Due to my rebellious stage, I never got my ears pierce as a young girl, and was far too apathetic to cut my hair. So I remained earring-less and scraggily-haired until seventh grade. Turning thirteen, I felt some changes were in order. My mother scheduled an appointment to lop off my mid-back length hair into a bob unable to be put into a ponytail. BIG MISTAKE. I have regretted doing this ever since. Yes, I am happy I donated the fifteen inches of thick waves to Locks of Love, a company for leukemia and chemotherapy patients, and yes, I do believe everyone should try a change, but this was a little much. I constantly remind myself how long my hair could have been now if I never cut it. The upside was, after losing ten pounds from my head, I looked about fifteen. I aged further after getting my ears pierced with gold studs.
“The good news is your earrings look wonderful,” the doctor said “The bad news is now you look about eighteen.”
And boy was he right, I was willing to bet I could drive my mother’s car around with no second glances. By looking older, I felt that I could act older and get away with it. This was true, and caused me to mature more quickly than my three-year-older sister. But I do not regret this in the least, I was able to connect with more mature people which made me feel good about myself. But freshman year with that hair cut was still hell…
Four: Ah high school, the place where no one’s self esteem is safe, where some kids are discovering intercourse and others are discovering deodorant, where everyone finds someone like them, no matter how weird. I was always a loner at my school, because every girl owned a “straightener”, and every boy listened to a rapper with the same name as colorful chocolate pieces. At high school, there were people who didn’t look at me funny when I’d quote Disney movies, or hum Linkin Park, or even when I seem to be reading my “comic books” backwards. In fact, I found they did the same things I didn’t realize I did (Resistance is what?). Going in, I was ready for the worst experience, every old teacher had been warning me of the difficulty of the work, and the challenges I would face remembering to do everything myself. But I was wonderfully surprised to not only see male teachers (of which my previous school had none), but to find that it was just a bigger version of grade school. The teachers were so much nicer, and all the subjects were so much more interesting. I thought it would be difficult being in an advanced English class my first year (especially when I had to sing to spell ‘banana’), but it really made me love literature all the more. And biology? It was my favorite class right next to history (something I thought would never happen). Going to high school set me up for some of the greatest accomplishments of my life; not only did I discover that I wanted to pursue a career in science, but for the first time, I played sports I wasn’t forced into! Crazy!
Five: Freshman and sophomore year, I played volleyball, a sport I always wanted to play but never had the resources. I tried once, and I learned never to try to overhand pass the setter ball. I absolutely loved playing, and each and every game was a source of entertainment and enjoyment. But there was something missing, I can’t describe it because to this day I am not sure what made me turn to soccer. Not to insult volleyball, but it was one of the best choices I had ever made. I sucked at soccer, not in the modest “I’m not all that good” sense. In the sense that hurt my ankle when attempting to kick the ball because I dragged my foot too much. I also found out the second to last game of the season that the goalie is allowed to leave the box, a fact that would have saved very many scored points. Despite the vacuum, the team accepted me and it made me feel really great. At first, I felt odd because both my father and my sister harbor an immense, nonsensical resentment for the “stupid European sport”. After I started playing, though, that didn’t matter to me. Soccer was the greatest sport in the world to me. Being the goalie, I felt every scored point was some way or another all my fault. I felt this way because I loved my team and I wanted to be the best I could for them, but unfortunately my best was far from good enough. But again, that didn’t matter to them; each game no matter how badly I screwed up (and believe me it happened often) they all made sure to congratulate me on a job well done.
Six: Also in high school, I was exposed to this curious species called “boys”. They were like me but with different genetic make-up, different tendencies, different likes and made me rouge and get all giggly. That is to say I didn’t like them…or the idea of them anyway. But somehow they entered my life. In hindsight, I should have been much more excited than I was but I understand why I wasn’t. All the “hot guys” my new girl friends talked about were people I had known all my life and acted exactly like at one point. But later when guys started to interact with me, I got where they were coming from. I slowly discovered my “type” as tall, tone, with longish hair; he liked music, video games, and just being; he knew what he liked, and wasn’t afraid to be himself, and if I was lucky, he had a sexy accent. And when I got a boyfriend, I really felt confident for the first time because I knew I had finally found someone who was just like me (and he was cute too!).
Seven: Drama. Not the snap-at-you-in-a-‘Z’-formation kind, but the spirit-fingered kind. I always wanted to get into it, but I never had the confidence or the opportunity. At my elementary school, the kids who got picked for the plays were the kids whose parents were on the PTO, which brought “getting involved with your children’s school” to a whole new level. But junior year, my high school finally decided to get together and bring the drama club back (or as they called it the “Performing Arts” club). This was fortunate for me in many ways, one being I would finally be in the literal spotlight I had always desired to be in. Another was that I would finally have someone watch me to tell me whether I had potential at acting at all, or everything I thought I could do was actually rubbish. Which brings about another perk, it finally put all of my psychotic tendencies to use. You see, I often times would run a situation (real life or what I believed to be) over in my head, which would periodically escape from my mind into my body and mouth, forcing me to act and speak as though I were a normal human being. Luckily, all that practicing faces in a mirror paid off.
Eight: Over the years in high school I had learned to express myself. The most important times were typically not in school (although once I did dye my hair red; I was called Ariel and placed under watch for fear of selling my voice by my best friend). When it came to seeing the real Rachael, you would have to catch her in between costumes, three days out of the year, in the Hynes Convention Center. Anime Boston, a convention where people who had so much free time they recreated costumes of their favorite Japanese comic or cartoon characters came to talk to other people with equal amounts of free time, and buy over-priced manga (as they were called) they could just buy at any bookstore. But it was there I was able to be myself by dressing up in whatever I felt like wearing, acting like someone else I revered as an idol, and meeting “best friends” I would remember until I left that day and slept. There was something exhilarating about being the odd one out among a group of ‘normal Bostonians’ (even if I ended up being the odd eighteenth out). After years of doing this, I brought some of that spunk back with me, and I started being the real me. I said what I felt, dressed and did my hair how I wanted, and learned that even if I wasn’t accepted by the 215 students at Trinity Catholic High School, I would always be accepted by the seventeen thousand con-goes at Anime Boston! Datebioh!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
'City of Angels' Creative Writing
Rachael Kerr
AP English
May 18, 2010
‘City of Angels’ Creative Writing
The Uninterested Pauper
Everyone loves having that one rich relative who sends hundred dollar checks for birthdays, graduations, and insignificant shortcomings. Although you hate the fact that they flaunt their wealth, that is quickly defused by “Look! Free money for learning how to drive!” It so weird-too- that you only go to one party they have each year, with no gifts, but just a twelve-pack and your church clothes. So after all that, being given a week in their house would be a blessing from the most generous God. But for me, I was a little less loud-mouth hymn, and a little more “I have better things to do”.
But that didn’t matter because there I was, against my will on a four-hour plane ride from Camden, New Jersey to Beverly Hills, California. I remained quiet, feeling the appropriate course for someone of my stature should be barely seen, and never heard. I silenced my astounded reaction as I watched uppity businessmen get snippety with their flight attendant because their water wasn’t bottled using the water Bernadette drank from the bank. Here I was, eating peanuts from a baggie I brought with me (I thought you had to pay for the ones they gave you) and this guy was complaining his t-bone was too well-done. And these were the kind of people I was going to be bumping elbows with for the next week.
I knew I didn’t belong as soon as I got off the plane. As I turned to thank the hostess, the woman behind me walked right into me, not paying attention die to the pressing conversation of which of her tennis courts she would play on taking place beneath her manicured finger nails.
“Fuck!” I shouted.
Her alligator pumps tore the blister on my heel from my oversized hand-me-down shoes. She reeled back as if I had insulted how the fire red top she dawned complemented her overly bronzed face. Furious whispers from the snooty rubbernecking crowd chased me down the clanking steps, until I lost them in the overbearing shouting of cell phone conversations revolving around which of their vacation homes on which continent they offer for time-share next. My eyes darted from sign to sign until I recognized my name, strangely written in elegant script. Pushing past designer luggage with designer puppies in tow, I waved to what I assumed by his hat to be the driver.
“…Miss…Gray?” He would have sounded more courteous, if he wasn’t so confused. My oversized hoodie, faded jeans, and torn sneakers definitely caught him off guard.
This scene played out numerous times: meeting my escort, the doorman, the elevator operator, and the baggage boy. Each looked from me to the previous greeter, seeking for any hint to tell of a joke, hoping I was just a random orphan they flew in for shits and giggles, because they have nothing better to occupy their time, not the god-daughter of their master and lady.
My earlier sentiment about rubbing elbows was completely off-base. It would be damn-near impossible to accident brush any part of anyone in this mansion ever, this impossibility closely followed by being found walking around stark naked. Simply put, this mansion was massively-massive. In fact, my godmother did not know until the next morning that I had arrived the preceding afternoon. Enraged, she demanded an explanation for such insolence (she used those words exactly), seeing as it was clearly the fault of the people who could not find the tiny woman, not of the woman who was expecting a guest. Her dark eyes shifted quickly beneath her wrinkled skin, and her oddly pearly white teeth peeked out from underneath a heavily-made-up face. I knew her name was Felicia, yet she introduced herself as if I was the daughter of a business associate: overexcited with a lot of hand gestures and touching. Hastily, she called for her husband and son, who took a minimum of twenty minutes to navigate to our location. Henry, my godfather, was in his late forties like his wife, although years of stressful business had hardened his features into a permanent ‘thinker’ expression. Thomas, their son, was a reasonably handsome man but the idea of his wealth made him an automatic ten. He had an excitable disposition, but his character was burdened down with the naivety one only receives from a large sum of constantly available funds. At a first glance, it would seem like they were the kind of people I would not be confront too often. But first impressions are always wrong.
Within one day, everything I knew had been flipped on its head. After tossing and turning for hours in my king-sized bed in my czar-sized guest room, my cell phone alarm rang telling me to get ready for the worst experience of my life: rich people high school. I jumped in the shower for five minutes, before throwing on the best fitting and least worn clothes I had for my first day in Hell, and crossed my room to the engraved mahogany door. Hyperventilating from the long trek, I quickly caught my breath from a surprise gasp. The knob turned itself, and I soon stood eye to wrinkly eye with an unfamiliar butler. He was as shocked as I was; for me it was because I wasn’t expecting to ever be this close to anyone in this house, and him because I imagine he thought I was a homeless child who snuck in by mistake.
“Oh Miss Gray, I was coming by to wake you for school, but I see you have already prepared yourself...” The elderly butler explained, his voice trailing off as he looked me up and down.
“…its 6:15…wouldn’t I be late if I just started getting ready now? Or is the school that close by foot?”
He answered my question with a blank stare, I assumed that he didn’t speak much English, and thanked him as I passed to go down the stairs. After running through art filled hallways, and carpet lined sunroom, I made my way to the kitchen, where I was told to meet Thomas. A plump gray-haired maid occupied the kitchen, dashing from one side to the other, preparing a multitude of dishes looking reading to be photographed for a cook book. Apparently, this was everyone’s breakfast. And by everyone I mean Felicia, Henry, Thomas, and me. Around seven-ish, Thomas finally strolled in, paying no attention to the delicacies decorating the marble and onyx breakfast table; the same reactions with for Felicia and Henry. At seven-thirty I questioned our departure for school, stating that we would probably have to run to even get a tardy. I received the same blank stared but this time it was accompanied by Felicia’s answer of “it only takes five minutes by limo”. Strangely, this did not bring on a discussion of how long it would actually take, but of which vehicle Thomas wanted to ride in today- the Mercedes Benz, the Jaguar, or the BMW.
I stepped outside to get some fresh air after being suffocated by all the ostentatious smog created in that one tiled prison. I was sick to my stomach, not only because I was not used to the high quality of the breakfast spread, but because the things these people took for granted literally disgusted me.
Going to a hoity-toity high school was not all that different from a regular high school when you got down to the basics. The student and their conversation were pretty normal, but their subjects were slightly altered. Instead of “My parent are gone this weekend, who wants to have a killer party?” it was “My parents are going to Thailand for a month, who wants to live at my house?” It wasn’t “Your parents won’t lend you the car? That sucks”, but “Your parents won’t lend you the yacht? That sucks”. The torturous week flew by about as fast as lead weight blown across a desert by an asthmatic grandmother.
I reached my inner-peace on the plane; not because I meditated, because it was either block out the other passengers’ voices, or repeatedly slam my forehead against the tray table. After another grueling four-hour flight back to Camden, I stepped off the plane, calmly walked to my house, and softly opened the door. As I shuffled down the creaky hallway, passed through the doorframe into a room the size of the walk-in closet at my god parents house, and I placed on my bag on what Henry would most likely call a pillow. After examining the peeling wallpaper, the rusty faucet, and broken window pane, I dropped to my knees. God, it’s great to be home.
AP English
May 18, 2010
‘City of Angels’ Creative Writing
The Uninterested Pauper
Everyone loves having that one rich relative who sends hundred dollar checks for birthdays, graduations, and insignificant shortcomings. Although you hate the fact that they flaunt their wealth, that is quickly defused by “Look! Free money for learning how to drive!” It so weird-too- that you only go to one party they have each year, with no gifts, but just a twelve-pack and your church clothes. So after all that, being given a week in their house would be a blessing from the most generous God. But for me, I was a little less loud-mouth hymn, and a little more “I have better things to do”.
But that didn’t matter because there I was, against my will on a four-hour plane ride from Camden, New Jersey to Beverly Hills, California. I remained quiet, feeling the appropriate course for someone of my stature should be barely seen, and never heard. I silenced my astounded reaction as I watched uppity businessmen get snippety with their flight attendant because their water wasn’t bottled using the water Bernadette drank from the bank. Here I was, eating peanuts from a baggie I brought with me (I thought you had to pay for the ones they gave you) and this guy was complaining his t-bone was too well-done. And these were the kind of people I was going to be bumping elbows with for the next week.
I knew I didn’t belong as soon as I got off the plane. As I turned to thank the hostess, the woman behind me walked right into me, not paying attention die to the pressing conversation of which of her tennis courts she would play on taking place beneath her manicured finger nails.
“Fuck!” I shouted.
Her alligator pumps tore the blister on my heel from my oversized hand-me-down shoes. She reeled back as if I had insulted how the fire red top she dawned complemented her overly bronzed face. Furious whispers from the snooty rubbernecking crowd chased me down the clanking steps, until I lost them in the overbearing shouting of cell phone conversations revolving around which of their vacation homes on which continent they offer for time-share next. My eyes darted from sign to sign until I recognized my name, strangely written in elegant script. Pushing past designer luggage with designer puppies in tow, I waved to what I assumed by his hat to be the driver.
“…Miss…Gray?” He would have sounded more courteous, if he wasn’t so confused. My oversized hoodie, faded jeans, and torn sneakers definitely caught him off guard.
This scene played out numerous times: meeting my escort, the doorman, the elevator operator, and the baggage boy. Each looked from me to the previous greeter, seeking for any hint to tell of a joke, hoping I was just a random orphan they flew in for shits and giggles, because they have nothing better to occupy their time, not the god-daughter of their master and lady.
My earlier sentiment about rubbing elbows was completely off-base. It would be damn-near impossible to accident brush any part of anyone in this mansion ever, this impossibility closely followed by being found walking around stark naked. Simply put, this mansion was massively-massive. In fact, my godmother did not know until the next morning that I had arrived the preceding afternoon. Enraged, she demanded an explanation for such insolence (she used those words exactly), seeing as it was clearly the fault of the people who could not find the tiny woman, not of the woman who was expecting a guest. Her dark eyes shifted quickly beneath her wrinkled skin, and her oddly pearly white teeth peeked out from underneath a heavily-made-up face. I knew her name was Felicia, yet she introduced herself as if I was the daughter of a business associate: overexcited with a lot of hand gestures and touching. Hastily, she called for her husband and son, who took a minimum of twenty minutes to navigate to our location. Henry, my godfather, was in his late forties like his wife, although years of stressful business had hardened his features into a permanent ‘thinker’ expression. Thomas, their son, was a reasonably handsome man but the idea of his wealth made him an automatic ten. He had an excitable disposition, but his character was burdened down with the naivety one only receives from a large sum of constantly available funds. At a first glance, it would seem like they were the kind of people I would not be confront too often. But first impressions are always wrong.
Within one day, everything I knew had been flipped on its head. After tossing and turning for hours in my king-sized bed in my czar-sized guest room, my cell phone alarm rang telling me to get ready for the worst experience of my life: rich people high school. I jumped in the shower for five minutes, before throwing on the best fitting and least worn clothes I had for my first day in Hell, and crossed my room to the engraved mahogany door. Hyperventilating from the long trek, I quickly caught my breath from a surprise gasp. The knob turned itself, and I soon stood eye to wrinkly eye with an unfamiliar butler. He was as shocked as I was; for me it was because I wasn’t expecting to ever be this close to anyone in this house, and him because I imagine he thought I was a homeless child who snuck in by mistake.
“Oh Miss Gray, I was coming by to wake you for school, but I see you have already prepared yourself...” The elderly butler explained, his voice trailing off as he looked me up and down.
“…its 6:15…wouldn’t I be late if I just started getting ready now? Or is the school that close by foot?”
He answered my question with a blank stare, I assumed that he didn’t speak much English, and thanked him as I passed to go down the stairs. After running through art filled hallways, and carpet lined sunroom, I made my way to the kitchen, where I was told to meet Thomas. A plump gray-haired maid occupied the kitchen, dashing from one side to the other, preparing a multitude of dishes looking reading to be photographed for a cook book. Apparently, this was everyone’s breakfast. And by everyone I mean Felicia, Henry, Thomas, and me. Around seven-ish, Thomas finally strolled in, paying no attention to the delicacies decorating the marble and onyx breakfast table; the same reactions with for Felicia and Henry. At seven-thirty I questioned our departure for school, stating that we would probably have to run to even get a tardy. I received the same blank stared but this time it was accompanied by Felicia’s answer of “it only takes five minutes by limo”. Strangely, this did not bring on a discussion of how long it would actually take, but of which vehicle Thomas wanted to ride in today- the Mercedes Benz, the Jaguar, or the BMW.
I stepped outside to get some fresh air after being suffocated by all the ostentatious smog created in that one tiled prison. I was sick to my stomach, not only because I was not used to the high quality of the breakfast spread, but because the things these people took for granted literally disgusted me.
Going to a hoity-toity high school was not all that different from a regular high school when you got down to the basics. The student and their conversation were pretty normal, but their subjects were slightly altered. Instead of “My parent are gone this weekend, who wants to have a killer party?” it was “My parents are going to Thailand for a month, who wants to live at my house?” It wasn’t “Your parents won’t lend you the car? That sucks”, but “Your parents won’t lend you the yacht? That sucks”. The torturous week flew by about as fast as lead weight blown across a desert by an asthmatic grandmother.
I reached my inner-peace on the plane; not because I meditated, because it was either block out the other passengers’ voices, or repeatedly slam my forehead against the tray table. After another grueling four-hour flight back to Camden, I stepped off the plane, calmly walked to my house, and softly opened the door. As I shuffled down the creaky hallway, passed through the doorframe into a room the size of the walk-in closet at my god parents house, and I placed on my bag on what Henry would most likely call a pillow. After examining the peeling wallpaper, the rusty faucet, and broken window pane, I dropped to my knees. God, it’s great to be home.
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