normatives — chapter 1

Chapter 1 – diametric opposition

High school dances are overrated.

I’m standing on the sidelines, wearing a crimson strapless dress that my mom picked out for me from Nordstrom Rack. It’s not satin, I hate satin, but I have no idea what it’s made of. All I know is that the material is comforting me, as I’m gripping it tightly in my fists, waiting for someone to ask me to dance.

My shoes aren’t comfortable. They’re 3 inches high and put pressure on my feet. I picked them because they were suede (this I know for sure) and looked chic, but I didn’t pick them for comfort.

My light brown hair is tousled in waves and all over my face. I try to brush them out of my face, but my palms are sweaty and stick to the strands of my hair as I push them away.

All in all, I feel miserable.

Not him though.

My best friend of 10 years and counting, Matt Redman, is having the time of his life on the dance floor. Boy’s got moves. I’m trying not to be jealous as he’s dancing skin-to-skin with the pretty blonde who’s all over him.

I take a sip of my soda. Sprite, my favorite soda. It tastes cleaner than other sodas and has a lemony taste to it, which I like.

Matt’s favorite soda is Pepsi. He was hopping mad when they discontinued Pepsi Twist. We both like citrus flavored drinks, and I’ve tried to convince him many times that Sprite was better than Pepsi. He wouldn’t give in and I’ve given up on trying to convert him.

To each his own, he said, lifting up his can of Pepsi.

I’m still trying to figure out how Matt Redman and I are even friends. I mean, our personalities are completely different. He’s boisterous and social and popular. Everyone likes him, everyone wants to be him. And he’s so loud and extroverted, unlike me. He can be quiet sometimes when we’re alone studying together, but he’s a complete addict to external stimulation.

I made that point to him one time, and he just grinned and said, “You nerd.”

I’m a huge nerd. Matt says I don’t fit the stereotype of an introverted nerd. Just because I don’t wear glasses (contacts are way more convenient) and don’t carry a gigantic backpack around school doesn’t mean I’m not a nerd. I read everything, anything from sci fi to self help to science textbooks.

And I am quiet. Way quieter than Matt. People can barely hear me sometimes when I talk. I hate projecting myself, whenever I do, I sound like a shrieking banshee. I also hate repeating myself, which I have to do all the time.

“Either hire a speech coach or get used to it.”

Brutal.

I’d rather be in the library or in my room than here at this stupid crowded gymnasium with hordes of horny and hungry high school students. There are way too many people, the music is too loud and not to my taste, and I’d rather be doing my own thing instead of having to adhere to misguided social standards.

It was Matt’s idea for us to come. He brings me along to his wild crazy shenanigans all the time, trying to get me to extrovert and get me out of my self imposed isolated cocoon.

Excuse me, but I feel safer in my cocoon.

I’m not feeling safe right now. Some boys are checking me out from across the floor, and some girls are sucking face with each other.

Gross.

I’m not THAT homophobic, but I am Christian, way more Christian that you lesbians.

Matt dared me to have lesbian sex at least once in high school. I’m not doing it.

“What would I gain?” I glared at him.

“I don’t know, giving into your sexually repressed desires?”

Matt’s the most promiscuous Christian I know. I think he’s had sex with all of the pretty girls in school. He repents afterwards, but that doesn’t mean God likes him better than He likes me.

In fact, I know God likes me better.

I’ve never had sex. And I don’t plan to before marriage.

I go to church every Sunday, I attend Mass, I take Communion, I read the Bible day and night, I listen to worship music, I praise God through my art and writing and music. I obey the Ten Commandments,

Matt goes to church too, we go together. But he’s more of a risk-taker than I am, and he has a love for new experiences. Tending to lean towards adventure and danger, he dances on the edge between the sinners and the saints.

And, as I’m watching him make out with his dance partner on the dance floor, I wonder.

Is this friendship something I want to keep?

Or do I let go of him, once and for all?

-

Easier said than done.

Matt is in every one of my AP classes. Every, single. One.

We’re the only sophomores in my AP Calculus class. The rest are juniors and seniors. Matt’s amazing at math, he and I are part of our school’s math team, and he’s won some math competitions. We went to states several times and carried our high school team to first place.

For a self-proclaimed not-a-nerd, Matt’s pretty intelligent. 

Matt has these niche areas in academia that he’s really good at. Like he’s amazing at math and physics, but he sucks at biology and art. I’m way more well-rounded than he is at school, but he makes it up for being captain of almost every varsity sports team. Swimming, baseball, hockey, basketball, and tennis.

I don’t get how he has the time to play so many sports. But he says he’s going to quit tennis soon.

“Why, because I can beat you 6-0?”

“Just because your serve is too fast. And no, I just don’t have the time for it in my schedule.”

Excuses. I’ve been taking tennis lessons since I was six years old, but that’s the only sport I’m good at. Just like Matt has his niche, I have mine too.

I have a good group of girl friends at school. We’re not besties the way Matt and I have been since that day in kindergarten when we started fighting over the last lego. But they’re my best girl friends, and every girl needs sisters to carry her through the battle royale of high school.

Adele, Cassie, and Rachel. I’ve known them since sixth grade when we were assigned laboratory partners in science class. We took turns dissecting the frog, wrinkling our noses at the formaldehyde soaked specimen and complaining about the quality of our incisions. We spent all of two hours bonding with each other and haven’t stopped talking since.

One thing I don’t have in common with them though is their mutual like for Matt.

“Matt’s the hottest guy in our grade.”

“Can’t believe he’s dating that blonde with a fake tan.”

“Skank.”

The four of us made a pact that none of us would date Matt. Or, if one of us did, then the other three would have to too.”

Illogical, but works like magic.

Anyway, back to calc.

Matt’s sitting behind me, deep in conversation with the pretty redhead sitting next to him who’s nodding her ditzy head to every one of his sentences. New flavor of the week, Matt? I inwardly wince and then I turn my attention back to drawing parabolas.

Derivative. In so many ways.

Mr. Colgan is droning on about the fundamental theory of derivatives. I’m probably the only person in the room paying attention to his lecture. Everyone else is texting, sleeping, or eating. Not in that order.

Before long, Matt slips a note over my shoulder.

“Martinelli’s after school?” It read.

Martinelli’s is the top pizza restaurant within a ten mile radius around our school. We’re located in Manhattan and there’s a ton of good food in the area, but none can beat Martinelli’s. Their margarita pizza is to die for. The owner’s really Italian and also makes the best lasagna and stromboli I’ve ever had in my life.

Not for long though. I’m planning on traveling to Italy the summer after I graduate high school with my girl friends and Matt and his gang. To celebrate the end of high school and the beginning of a new chapter in our lives.

Only two more years. Then we’re out of pubescence and into the adult world.

I have no idea what I’m going to be in terms of career and work. Maybe something in medicine or research, because I’m good at studying. I thought about a dance career for all of thirty seconds but it doesn’t pay much and not to mention, I have a complicated relationship with dance.

But that’s not something I want to talk about right now.

But anyway, back to Martinelli’s. I turn around and give a nod to Matt and he grins. And, surprisingly, he goes back to taking notes on the lecture on integrals.

Matt’s favorite subject is math. He’s on the mathlete team and has been since seventh grade when he discovered that being good at math can get you a trophy. Not that he doesn’t already have enough trophies from his swimming tournaments and robotics competitions and coding competitions and etcetera, you get the gist. Matt’s a super competitive type A person and loves to manifest his prowess through garnering symbols of his competence.

Hence, the trophies.

I don’t doubt that would play a huge role in who gets to go to the most prestigious universities in three years. But for now, I’d rather lie low and focus on a few niche areas of interest of mine that aren’t as competitive.

Zoning out from the lecture, I turn my attention to my notebook and start doodling on the edges of the graph paper. What starts off as an eye gradually becomes an elaborate architectural design of a domed palace. I love looking at photographs of buildings and drawing them is a favorite pastime of mine.

I’m hoping to major in architecture in college. Maybe design a skyscraper or two.

Matt is probably going into finance. His dad’s in finance and his grandfather did banking. It’s kind of a family legacy for him.

My mom’s a surgeon. It’s also kind of a legacy for my family to be in medicine as my mom’s parents were both surgeons and so were theirs. But I resist. I refuse to cut open people for a living.

Also, I have a phobia of blood. Not something that would be an asset to my career option of being a surgeon.

There’s still time though. Maybe God will someday cure my phobia.

For now though, architecture and art are my passion.

Not medicine.

The bell rings and I look up. Shuffling my books and putting them into my backpack, I head out of the classroom. Matt catches up to me and grabs my arm.

“Where did you go after the dance on Saturday? Didn’t see you head out.”

I inwardly groan. I really did not want to talk about the dance. I almost got puked on by this guy who had his sweaty hands on my waist. Whoever put jungle juice in the fruit punch bowls has his priorities wrong.

“Just went home. Celine and her boyfriend drove me back.”

Celine’s my other best friend. We’ve known each other since fourth grade. We stood next to each other in chorus and chatted about books, art, and music. She’s one of my favorite people in my life and can always be counted on.

Something I look for in a person is reliability. Being a Christian also means staying steadfast and rooted in the faith.

Though God is the only one who never changes. Always enduring, while the grass and flowers wither.

“That sucks. Me and the gang stayed up until sunrise, drinking and playing video games.”

I inwardly winced. I’ve never drank before and don’t plan to anytime soon. Matt, however, loves his drinks. In eighth grade, we went on a trip to Europe with my family and shared a hotel room together, and we raided the pantry and found alcohol and snacks. I binged on the snacks while he mixed drinks together. He had a hangover the next morning and couldn’t get out of bed to sightsee.

It’s one of the memories I cherish. When my family wasn’t broken, before my mother, before everything changed.

“Too bad I missed it. Hope you guys had fun though.”

“We did. Unlike little Miss Perfect, we don’t have to work hard to play hard, we just play hard.”

I laughed. I used to be offended by that silly nickname, but now it has grown on me. I can be pretty perfectionistic at times.

“Meet you at the lockers after school?”

“Sure. See you then.”

He gives a peace sign and walks away. Smiling, I head toward my locker to grab my textbook for the next class, AP Bio.

Matt has this sort of buoyance about him, an air of lightness that leaves me feeling comfortable and comforted. He had a light about him, an unreserved, contagious light that chased away my shadows.

If anything, we were diametric opposites. Yin and yang, light and dark, sun and moon, dawn and dusk.

I wouldn’t trade him for the world.