Freshman Year Read Online Free Page A

together, we could continue to earn the highest grades in class while helping each other fend off cheaters and other classmates who found our genius irritating. In junior high, we displayed our A+ grades proudly on our bedroom walls and celebrated every honor roll and student-of-the-month certificate. In fact, mine are still taped to my closet doors around the edges of my Beatles posters.
    â€œFirst of all,” Kate says, pointing her brownie spoon at each of us, “from this point forward, the Geek Pack is null and void.”
    Sarah stops blowing on her nails and nods her head in agreement because that’s what she always does. Kate could say, “From this point forward, Sarah will cluck whenever we eat pizza,” and every time we sat down for a slice at Mama’s Pizza, Sarah would start clucking away. Marisol hesitates, runs the straightener down her hair to think on it, and then agrees that it’s time to end our little haven of intellectual security. I’m usually the most argumentative one, but I feel too tired and shocked, so I write, Rule #1: The Geek Pack is dead . And just like that, when I feel like I’ll need it most, it’s gone.
    â€œRule number two,” Kate says, as she eats another spoonful of batter, “we can enroll in honors classes, but we should not sit in the front row or raise our hands to answer questions.”
    â€œWhy not?” Sarah asks.
    Kate glares at Sarah with great exasperation. “Because hand raising is for dorks.”
    Marisol looks pensive and finally says, “What if we have to go to el baño ?”
    Kate looks at me.
    â€œThe bathroom,” I translate.
    â€œObviously, you can raise your hand for that, Mari.”
    Then Sarah asks, “What if the teacher is asking something like, ‘Who wants to get out of class early?’”
    â€œNext rule,” Kate continues. “Rule number three—no dating loser freshmen boys. No exceptions. Rule number four—no asking about extra credit assignments. Rule number five—no helping teachers grade papers. Rule number six—absolutely no displaying of report cards.” After this one she looks over at me and then looks at my closet door.
    â€œWhatever. I’ll take them down tomorrow.” I wonder if I’m the only one who already misses the old us.
    When Kate finishes her rules, my whole page is full. Most of them are as stupid as Rule #14, which states that pink shall only be worn on Tuesdays. The only one I do like is Rule #20: We will eat lunch together every day. This makes the loss of Geek Pack feel a little less tragic. Like there might still be a chance for a reunion tour senior year.
    By around three o’clock, the brownie batter has settled uncomfortably in our stomachs, the Mountain Dew wears off, and we decide we’re all too sick and tired to stay up any longer. We pinky-swear in the new rules with our never-to-be-used-again song: “We link our pinks and swear to keep this promise ’til we sink.”
    While Marisol and Sarah, still connected by Sarah’s earphones, sleep on an air mattress on the floor, I lie next to Kate in my bed, holding tight to the edge of consciousness and to the side of my mattress. I have to stay awake because if I let myself fall asleep, I might slowly slip into the middle and our bodies might touch. I don’t think of Kate in that way and never have, but if I accidentally snuggle up to her in my sleep and she finds out about my crush on the Hot Dog on a Stick Chick and she freaks out and we are never friends again…well, I’m pretty sure I’ll die.
    So I’m awake, watching the minutes tick by on my bedside Beatles clock that sings “Here Comes the Sun” when the alarm goes off. I want to pass my time thinking about the person I haven’t once stopped thinking about since I saw her in the mall, but considering my current sleeping situation, that’s not such a good