At Face Value by Emily Franklin Read Free Book Online Page A

joust. You wouldn’t want to get to graduation and regret not being an active part of the class, right?”
    “Maybe. Next reason?” I prop myself up on a pile of cushions and will myself not to reach for last year’s yearbook, in which a frozen-in-time Eddie Roxanninoff waits smiling and shirtless. On my desk, also frozen in time, is my still-blank college essay: “My Greatest Flaw and How It Helps Me.” I’m beginning to think I need a new topic.
    “Next reason: everyone makes asses out of themselves, and you always appreciate that.”
    “That, Leyla, is true. I do enjoy laughing both at myself and at others.” Last year, I happened by the spring Rose Gala (held outside the school near the track) and for a second thought about joining in, despite the fact that I was wearing sweatpants and a tank top and everyone else was clad in dresses and suits. Just when I thought about nosing in—verb intentionally used—I was confronted by Darla Dinkins. One thing led to another, and after a drunk Darla asked if I could “smell the roses all the way from town,” I let loose on her grades, which reek. Truth be told, I could’ve let her go with just that—she was sloppy and tipsy—but once I got going I didn’t stop. I told her how everyone saw her—just a face in the crowd who will be voted Least Likely To Be Remembered. Then I left.
    “There’s no other reason, is there?” I ask, thinking back to that night, how I walked back alone to a dark house. Why do that again?
    “And …” Leyla lets out a big breath, which she does when she’s thinking hard. When she first joined the Word, I actually used to count how many long breaths it took her to get through one article pitch—her record was fourteen. She’s much better now, but still lapses now and again. “Point two and a half, which—fine, you’ll probably tell me it makes four points, but anyway—”
    “Leyla, it’s getting late. You’ll have to persuade me with this last thing. I’d so much rather kick back with a movie and pizza on Friday than watch Josh and the jocks poke each other with sharp sticks. Wait—on second thought, that sounds okay …”
    “Cyrie … don’t make me go alone.” Her voice is small and quiet.
    “You’ll hardly be alone. You have Wendy Von Schmedler, Jill, Leslie, all those guys. You know, your other friends …”
    Leyla’s voice gets softer. “You’re my friend.”
    Outside, the moon illuminates my street and makes it seem bigger than it really is, at least from up here. “I know, I know—I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just …”
    “No, you don’t have to explain. I get it. But I’m not really with Wendy and those guys when I’m with them, if you get what I mean. It’s not … real.” She coughs and takes a breath.
    “I just have visions of standing there by myself while Wendy and Jill lure you back to the dark side.”
    “No. No. It won’t be like that.” Leyla gets back to her point, her voice higher with excitement. “But listen, you always say we need supporting facts for our stories, right? And for op-ed pieces? Well, you like plays and studying literature from other eras … and Any Time Now is your favorite place, so you could imply from that—”
    “Infer. You infer from something.” I fiddle with my curtains; they’re made of sheer navy silk and appliquéd with stars. On the floor are oversized cushions, some square, some circular, in contrasting fabrics. I made most of them last year during a fit of pre-exam jitters and vacation boredom-slash-inspiration after watching one too many home décor shows. I pick up a silvery bolster cushion and tuck it behind my neck as I lean against one of the curved walls. The biggest problem with a room shaped like mine is that there’s no real place to lean comfortably; I would normally cozy up in a corner, but that is mathematically impossible.
    “Whatever. Couldn’t you infer, from that, that you are a person who kind of likes dressing up, or