ONE DAY LAST FALL, we came into first period and our health teacher said, “We have a very important guest here this morning, a representative of our local television station who has asked to have a few words with you.” Just when I’m ready to space out, up she steps. That woke me up, let me tell you. I mean, this wasn’t any Kim Basinger we’re talking about, but she was definitely an improvement on Mrs. Finlaysson.
She was wearing this little skirt with suspenders, and these lace-up boots, and the tiniest feet. Lacy stockings. Her hair in a ponytail. “I know you’ll want to give Mrs. Maretto your attention, students,” says Mrs. F. Like there was ever any doubt.
Then she tells us about this video she’s making for the cable station. “Adults are always sounding off to kids,” she says. “This is your chance to tell them what’s on your mind.” It wasn’t so very many years ago she was in high school herself, she says. Even if she did seem like an old married lady. Which of course she didn’t.
The show was going to be called “Teens Speak Out.” She’d be spending time at the school for the next couple months, interviewing kids. She wanted to really get to know a group of us, hear our thoughts on drugs, sex, rock music, peer pressure. You could just see all the guys, especially, rolling their eyes when she said that. Like they were really going to sit down in front of a TV camera and tell their deep feelings about sex.
She knew it too. “Listen,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about your anonymity. We have this special device I use on the sound equipment that scrambles your voice. You can have your back to the camera. We can even speak in private, off camera, and I’ll just report on some of what you tell me. Think of this as your opportunity to let the older generation understand what makes you tick.”
By this time it wasn’t just the guys that were making faces, it was just about everyone. There’s this little wave of snickering going on, people shooting each other looks or giving the person in front of them little kicks under the desk. One real popular guy, Vic, that plays center on the varsity basketball team, raised his hand and asked her, real innocent like, whether they’d need permission slips from their parents before talking to her. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. You got the impression she was the type person that could never tell when someone was pulling her leg.
When she said, “OK. Now I’d like to take the names of the people who would like to talk with me, so we can set up a time to get together,” nobody raised their hand. She had this clipboard with her name on the front in gold letters, and she just stood there, with her pen uncapped, waiting to write down names, only there weren’t any. You could see her looking around the room, trying to make eye contact with someone. One guy burped real loud. One of the girls took out her cheering sweater that she was sewing a letter on and started stitching.
“You know, I used to be a cheerleader myself,” Suzanne says. “Back in the dark ages.” Then she kind of laughs, only nobody else does.
Mrs. Finlaysson called on a couple of people at this point, the usual good-citizen types teachers always count on to cooperate at moments like this. No luck.
“It’s too bad,” she said. “Mrs. Maretto has taken time out of her busy day and everything.” Chick’s still standing there, holding the clipboard. She was looking so young. It almost looked like she was going to cry.
That’s when old Lydia raised her hand. I figure Mrs. Finlaysson was so used to her never saying anything she didn’t even get what she was doing. “Yes, Lydia,” she said. “Can I help you with something?”
“I just wanted to sign up,” she said. “To be in the TV show.”
“Well, that’s more like it,” said Mrs. Finlaysson. “I’m glad to see someone with a little school spirit. Someone not afraid of speaking her own mind.”
Lydia wasn’t exactly a trendsetter, of course—her with that frizzy orange hair of hers, and those crossed eyes that you never knew where to look when you were talking to her. She was the only one in the whole class that gave her name. You knew right then this project was Dork City. Later, when we heard that Russell Hines signed up Jimmy Emmet, for a prank, I almost felt sorry for this reporter chick. And then Russell got roped in himself. I guess that was it, just the three of them. Not exactly your representative sampling of all-American teenagers.