My Beautiful Failure by Janet Ruth Young Read Free Book Online Page B

I talked only to the inner person, so Jenney’s looks didn’t matter.
    In high school everyone says how cool it is to be different or unusual, but most of your friendships are based on being alike, and the people who are most like everyone else seem to get the most friends. You can pick them out on sight, Generic High School Kid, because they’realways either laughing or on the phone or both, and the fact that they’re never left with their own thoughts makes everyone want to be their friend.
    I was never that guy, and if Jenney had ever been that girl, she wasn’t anymore.

24.
beacon
    M y school is famous, or at least freakish, for having the only regulation football field in the United States that’s below sea level. A deep canal was cut along the outer edge of the field, so we students get used to looking up from an English essay and seeing a sail appearing to coast through the grass, or a group of tourists lining the rail of a whale-watch boat and looking into the classroom with their binoculars. The clock tower above the administration building is a landmark for sailors and appears on many navigational charts, and all our sports teams are called Schooners.
    The Monday after my first talk with Jenney, I locked my bike in front of the main doors and kept my eyes straight ahead as I passed the trophy cases. Just as Jenney’s looks were none of my business, her last name and year of graduation were not my business either. Signs leading from the cases to the athletic department exhorted SUCCESS DOESN’T COME TO YOU—YOU GO TO IT and BE LIKE APOSTAGE STAMP: STICK TO ONE THING UNTIL YOU GET THERE.
    In history of music, Mr. Gabler assigned us a five-page paper on the instrument of our choice. “That’s five pages, five sources,” he said. “The sources can be any type you want—blogs, TV shows, documentaries, YouTube videos, recordings—as long as you document them properly. For our next class I want you to give me your choice of instrument and your five sources.”
    Gordy walked to lunch with me after class. “How was it?” he asked.
    “Kind of a letdown,” I said. I looked at him for commiseration. “Nobody was actually suicidal.”
    “That’s good, though, isn’t it?” He stopped walking and watched my face. I could see he wanted to strike the correct tone but was confused.
    “No, you’re right. I’m glad no one was considering offing himself. But you know my neighbor who became an EMT? How he was all, like, puffed up when he got a medic certificate and came home in that uniform? I expected to feel like that. To get an adrenaline rush from saving lives.”
    Gordon stopped at his locker for his insulated lunch bag, and I wondered what was in it. A crowd of students came toward us. Andy walked behind a girl and imitated the sway of her butt, in an effort to make Mitchell laugh.
    “Do me a favor, okay?” I asked Gordy, turning my back on the oncoming crowd.
    “What’s that?”
    “Let’s not tell the other guys what I just told you. I couldn’t stand to have them rag on me again.”

25.
changing course
    D ad ripped off his necktie as soon as he parked the car. Then he came inside and changed into his painting clothes.
    “Nothing,” he said as he cut through the house toward his studio. “Not one word.”
    “What’s wrong?” Linda asked, following him into the kitchen. She wore a geriatric golf shirt and skirt. Jodie trailed behind, a purple plastic barrette hanging on a lank piece of hair in front of her eyes. As she trotted along, she swatted it back against the freckles on her cheek.
    “I want my paintings to be seen, but no one’s giving me encouragement. I wrote to the Institute of Contemporary Art, the Peabody Essex, the Cape Ann, the galleries in the South End and on Newbury Street, and the Rocky Neck artist-in-residence program. I even e-mailed some of my old classmates who have gallery connections. No one invited me to submit work. Sure, I can fill out applications and send