The Petition (Part 9)

Mr. Stubick's petition to have Rebecca and me ousted from morning announcements duty went nowhere. I'm not sure it ever even made it out of the classroom in which it originated. Mr. Akey, our one mutual ally, later confided to me: "I told him he had to stop this."

In any case, Rebecca and I continued our daily chirpings, and Mr. Stubick continued putting out "The Tower."

But as the early spring season progressed, I had other things on my mind. I was busy with rehearsals for the school musical, "The Boyfriend," in which I played the romantic lead. I had taken a part-time job at the nearby Short Hills Mall, in a tiny store called The Tie Table. There I peddled 100% silk, hand-made, authentic Italian, truly hideous ties. I still have some.

More than anything, I was consumed with the question of where I'd be going to college. November had brought a wait-list letter from Brown, my first choice, where I'd applied early admission. In the meantime, I had been accepted at Boston University and was still waiting to hear from Tufts, Northwestern and the University of Michigan.

When I look back now, it's almost laughable how little I knew about any of these schools when I applied to them. I imagine teenagers these days must sit at their computers for days on end, googling countless facts and figures and browsing blogs about the colleges that interest them.

But in 1989, my computer was little more than a glorified typewriter. I had a three-foot high stack of catalogues in my bedroom representing every school from Arizona State to Washington and Lee, and I had barely glanced at them beyond the pictures on their covers.

When it came time to choose where my five applications would go, I essentially picked from a hat: Boston was a cool city, so I figured I would apply to one school there I knew I could get into --B.U. -- and one that was a bit of a reach --Tufts. Northwestern had a first-rate journalism school, so that made sense given my particular skill set. And Michigan was a sentimental favorite, beloved by our family friends, the Reinhardts, as well as a slew of other former Summit High grads.

But Brown, with its quirky, brainy, everyone-is-gay-or-may-as-well-be, Ivy League status, was hands-down where I most wanted to be. It felt like where I belonged.

Plus, I liked the pictures in the catalogue.

Ah, Sweet Providence.

"The Boyfriend" opened to thunderous acclaim. Which is to say the parents, siblings and friends of all the players attended under duress and dutifully told us how great we were afterwards. Now it was time for the cast party which, as tradition dictated, would take place at the home of my grandmother, Granny Lipton. Granny lived -- and still lives -- a short half-block from the school, and she was much cherished by me and my fellow thespians for her support for the arts, her warmth and her cream-cheese brownies.

'Have another! You're too skinny!'

As I marched with a throng of castmates toward Granny's, we passed Mr. Akey and Mr. Stubick on the edge of the school parking lot.

"Congratulations!," said Mr. Akey. "Outstanding job."

Stubick said nothing; just smiled meekly.

Maybe it was the immediate afterglow of my stage theatrics, but for whatever reason, I suddenly felt magnanimous and decided to bury the hatchet.

"Listen," I said, "you should come with us to my Granny's for the after-party. It's right there on Montrose." I looked directly at Stubick. "Both of you should come."

Silence.

Then Mr. Akey finally said, "We'll stop by in a bit."

Twenty minutes later, as we wolfed down cream-cheese brownies, there was a knock at Granny's door.

It was Mr. Akey.

Alone.

"I tried," he said. "I begged him. But he said he just couldn't go."

The Awards of Excellence were announced the following week. I didn't win any. Not for English, not for Vocal Music, not for World Language, not for Drama.

I don't entirely recall now who won in each of those categories. English may have gone to John Dunning. If so, it was well deserved. John had been in Honors English classes with me every year, and I knew him to be an amazing writer (as well as incredibly sexy). Mike Bultman probably won vocal music. He was a musical virtuoso and all-Eastern soloist who certainly deserved the award more than I.

But to lose out on both Drama and World Language as well felt like a huge slap in the face. I excelled at Spanish, never earning less than an A in that subject my entire high school career. I had spent the previous summer in a six-week language immersion program in Salamanca, Spain with Phillips Academy, Andover, from which I returned with total fluency. I used to help explain complicated rules of grammar to the kids in my class who spoke Spanish at home. My Spanish teachers adored me.

And Drama... well, come on. I was the fucking Drama department. The only other worthy recipient for that award would have been Rebecca, and she didn't win either. Instead, the award went to a girl named Liz who had appeared in one musical junior year and built some sets for another.

So who won the World Language award? That would be Josh -- yes, that Josh -- he of the false crotch-grabbing accusations and ham-sandwich tampering; my nemesis, and a B+ student in Spanish at best.

In the winner's profile of Josh that later ran in the "The Tower," he said he practiced speaking Spanish with his housekeeper.

I remember approaching Ms. Papio, the Spanish teacher, after the awards were announced to ask how Josh could have beaten me. I remember her sad, cow-like eyes staring back at me as I interrogated her.

"I get higher grades in Spanish than Josh."

"Yes," she said.

"And I spent a summer studying in Spain."

"Yes," she said.

"And I'm fluent."

"Yes," she said.

"So you'd think I'd win the award over him."

"You'd think so," she said.

One month later, I finally heard from Brown.

I had been rejected.

Tomorrow: Epilogue & Life Lessons.

Homo out. ♥