Klaire Sawyer's Totally True Account of Highschool

“Tate Anderson.”

I turn my head in the direction of the name, listening in as if I were actually Tate. Or, you know, at least a friend of Tate. Or an acquaintance. Or even on his radar at all. But I’m not, not any of those things. Least of all actually the man in question. Because that would mean that I’m a man, a 6-foot something, water polo playing, sexy man that’s way out of anyone’s league.

I’m not a man. Though my boobs could pass as a boy’s, (a fat boy’s, I am not that flat.), I’m pretty sure not having a penis means something. Unless I’m one of those hermaphrodites, like a guy who has a vagina. But then I’m pretty sure I’d also have a penis, or my parent’s would have said something. Or I would just know. I mean, don’t hermaphrodites know that they’re hermaphrodites?

Anyways, back to Tate. Because anything, even hermaphrodites, makes me think of that God- Man. See, Tate is someone where even an imaginative kiss just doesn’t cut it. And this brings me back to why I can’t be a hermaphrodite because then I’d be having lots and I mean lots of wet dreams. Which is really gross to think about. How embarrassing would it be, having to change the sheets, like every night and trying to explain to your mom that you are not nympho or satyriasis or whatever it’s called? I can’t even imagine.

I wonder, does Tate have wet dreams? He must, right? Cause he’s a man, or guy or whatever and they all do. Unless that’s some weird rumor, except I think in 5th grade health class we learned about wet dreams around the same time as periods. And girls having periods is not a rumor. Unless all this time, the bleeding from my vagina has been some weird medical condition that means I’m dying. In which case I need to go to the hospital, like now.

So assuming that I don’t have some strange, bizzoro medical disease and that wet dreams are not rumors, Tate does have them. I wonder whom he has them about? I guess, it could be me. I mean the conversations we’ve had have been so staggering in their importance. Like last year, in 10th grade English he asked if he could borrow a pencil. And I said, wait for it, sure.. And then just last month, in Computer tech one of the computers didn’t have a keyboard. And I, like a madwoman, began frantically searching for one because my OCD would not let me sit next to a keyboard less computer. I mean, really it didn’t have a keyboard. So Tate said he had an extra one if it really bugged me. And it made me feel five. I declined the damn keyboard.

Now, actually thinking about it, I don’t stand a chance. Not like I ever thought I actually did have one, a chance I mean, but now it’s like I can’t even fantasize about it. Even in my wildest dreams, and trust me they get pretty wild, Tate doesn’t even want to have sex with me. God, life is so depressing and unfair. I bet its like Melinda Snow, or Anna Grob or Laney Kassav. Sigh, the fucking pretty girls.

“Klaire?”

Sometimes I wish I had blonde hair, I mean life would be easier cause I could pretend that I’m dumb all the time. Dumb girls are all sluts, but at least they get guys like Tate.

“Klaire, hellooo? Did you hear what I said?”

“Klaire!”

“Hold on” I say like I’d been paying attention all along. They look at me expectantly, so I giggle a little and continue with a, “Yeah.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Jocy’s face looks surprised, which is never a good sign. She stares at me like I’ve grown a third eye and decided to run for student council on the platform of normalcy. And, for all I know, that’s what I just agreed too. Oh, well. Too late to back out now.

“Yeah, um, totally.”

Kat covers her mouth with three fingers, politely covering the laughter erupting between her teeth. So Joce surprised and Kat on the floor with giggles. Excellent.

“We were kidding, you know? I didn’t know it’d force you into a confession.”

“Well, it just seemed like the right time to admit it.”

Now they both looked at me like that third eye grew a twin sister. What to do? What to say?

“Um, yeah. It’s been eating away at me for sometime now. I felt guilty keeping it to myself.”

Now I have triplet eyes on my forehead plus a mole with three longs hairs growing from it. Obviously that was not how I should’ve responded. Maybe I should just admit to not paying attention? Maybe this is all some ruse, and they’re just trying to make me feel bad about sort of lying. Although I don’t really count this as lying. Telling everyone I got asked to homecoming, even if I pretended it was the weirdest guy in the grade, that’s lying. This isn’t.

“Klaire,” Kat whispered, trying to keep our conversation half-private, “I just can’t believe it.”

“Yeah…” Oh no. Did I just admit to liking someone? Did I just admit to liking Tate? Hot damn, this is not good.

“So what… What does it feel like?” Joce got this strange look on her face, like she was embarrassed or ashamed or something. She looked around quickly, making sure the nameless freshman, juniors, seniors and other sophomores weren’t listening. This was kind of pointless of her to do, because in all honestly if someone wanted to eavesdrop on an interesting conversation, it wouldn’t be ours.

“Wait, what does what feel like?” Were we off the three-eyed, boy crushing, student president candidate conversation? Or was she asking what it feels like to be a pathetic high school girl in love with someone who will never notice her? Oh god, I can’t believe I might’ve admitted liking Tate. Are they going to disown me as friends?

“You know,” her voice became so hushed I strained to hear her words, “Masturbating.”

What!? Wait, seriously, Masturbating? What the hell does that have to do with anything? Oh…

This is like ten times better than them finding out my love for Tate. Okay, not ten times. More like 50 million times. Is it weird to be relived that they think I do myself?

“Um, well, honestly it feels like sex,” I lie, though I’m sure it probably does feel like sex. I don’t know really, but if that’s what it’s supposed to simulate than it must.

“Right.” They both nod like I actually gave them useful information.

“Do you do it a lot?”

“Um, you know. Depends on your definition of a lot.”

A bit of useful information: With a lie that might be brought up again, be vague. No specifics.

They give each other a look, like they just landed in the middle of a scandal. Like what I’m pretending to do is so bad. I suddenly become defensive of my lie.

“Guys, masturbation is totally normal. I bet more than thirty percent of the girls at this school do it.”

“Shh, not so loud.”

I’m temped to scream, ‘I masturbate’ at the top of my lungs. Show them what loud actually is.

“Well all I’m saying is don’t knock it before you try it.”

With that I storm off, though it’s more the thought of the possible detention that makes me move as fast as I do. If I’m late to French one more time, I’ll have to mop the floors of the bathroom. Do you know what people do in the bathroom?

God, I hate high school.

*
“Depuis combien de temps est-ce que tu nages?”

“Euh, je ne parle pas francais.” My teacher rolls her eyes as the class erupts in fake laughter. Okay, I really don’t get what’s funny; I’m being 100 percent honest here. I really don’t speak French. Okay, well I don’t speak French well. And I would tell her that, except I don’t speak the language well enough to know how to say that. So really it’s all moot point and I should be at home sleeping right now.

“Klaire, depuis combien de temps est-ce que tu nages?”

What is funny is the way she thinks repeating the same damn question will be helpful. I really have no idea what you are saying. You know this and are purposely embarrassing me now.

“Je ne sais pas.”

“Klaire!”

“Madame, I swear I would answer the question if I could. I really don’t know what you’re saying!”

“It was in your homework, you should’ve studied it la nuit dernière.”

La nuit what? Why does she do this to me?

“Depuis combien… de temps...est-ce que… tu… nages?”

Ah, the ‘ol repeat in a really irritating, annoyingly slow accent. I wonder; does this ever actually work?

“Euh… Oui.”

She glares daggers at me. Crap, I thought this was going to be an easy A class. Ha, Easy A was a good movie. Pretty funny.

“Klaire, this is not a yes or no question.”

I hear Reid Bowman, the super annoying, he who thinks he’s the best man on the face of the planet, loud gum chewer, baby face freshman, whisper something. He whispers it again, trying to be discrete, though he could probably yell it in one of those mega phone things and the teacher still wouldn’t notice. Yeah, she’s one of those types. Reid mumbles it again.

“Je nage depuis cinq ans,” I say, like I had come up with that answer all on my own.

She smiles at me, not even looking at the A- class douche sitting behind me. Thank god she’s as smart as a Popsicle. I wonder if she was a slut in high school…

“Vraiment?”

Shit, another question? “Oui?”

Her face lights up and I let out a barley audible sigh of relief. I think I would’ve found a gun and shot myself if oui was the wrong answer. With one more beaming smile in my direction, she moves on to the next student, leaving me to sit and stare at the clock that seems to be moving backwards. Only 25 more minutes to go. Whoo.

Two minutes later, Madame what’s her face, is still talking to the beloved water-polo player who seems to be smarter than myself. Fucking water polo. 23 minutes.

I turn to the kid next to me, in attempt to start a conversation. I still don’t really know his name, even though I’ve been sitting in this sit, mere inches from his own desk, for like 5 weeks. I try to avoid talking in this class because A. it’s first hour and B. my social skills are totally lacking. Most of my friends I either met in like, 3rd grade when I knew how to start a conversation, or I’ve met through the friends I made in 3rd grade. Generally people annoy me, so even though I have other ‘friends’ I mostly just stick to Jocy and Kat.

Still I don’t think I can survive this class today unless I speak to one person, I like hearing the sound of my voice when I’m not stumbling over French. I lean over to see what he’s writing, without trying to look like a stalker freak. Great, chemistry. I have that class!

“Isn’t that homework so hard? It took me forever.”

He doesn’t look up and I’m tempted to poke him, but that’d be super weird. You can’t just poke someone without being friends.

“That chemistry homework is impossible, don’t you think?”

He finally looks at me, confused. Honestly, which word in that sentence was confusing?

“Chemistry? Aren’t you a freshman?”

God damn, 20 more minutes.