5
What’s Wrong with All-Boys Schools, Pt. 2

The uniform. It’s got to go.

Not only are we locked away from girls from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. every day, but we have to wear uniforms that make us look like a bunch of rich nerds. And I don’t mean we have a simple dress code. I mean the same, exact uniform, every day of the week, every week of the year: navy-blue tie with red-and-gold crest design; light-blue oxford shirt; gray pants (these can be slacks or corduroys—wahoo, a huge difference!); navy blazer; black shoes (oxfords or penny loafers—you make the call!); and dress socks, also black (black socks—hot!). If I’m feeling really crazy, I wear black athletic socks, but if wearing socks that are one millimeter thicker than dress socks makes me feel like some kind of rebel, I’m in serious trouble.

And believe me, no girl who goes to a regular school is ever going to look at a kid in a St. Chris’s uniform and say to herself, That’s the one I want—him, the one with the gold-buttoned blue blazer and the black penny loafers! Public-school girls think we’re either dorks or wealthy snobs, and believe me, I’m not rich at all. I’m on a scholarship, and my mom can still barely pay the tuition for me and my sister, Dolly, who’s a sophomore at St. Cat’s High School.

I keep telling my mom that Dolly and I would be happy to go to public school. We could all split the money, I say, and hang out on the beach in Puerto Rico for a whole year. Or buy a vintage Mustang. Or go to Foxwoods Casino and gamble on a rapper’s budget. Or buy a boat and sail to Puerto Rico.

There are a million things we could do with that money. I wish we could just spend it; it would be awesome!

Last September, the week before school started, my mom took me shopping for school clothes, ultimately buying me three pairs of pants and four shirts. Like every year since kindergarten, I was supposed to make it until summer vacation wearing the same three versions of my uniform every day. But how do you do that without totally destroying your clothes before June? It’s a major challenge.

Mom took me to H&M, which is slightly cooler than the Gap, at least. The store had blue oxford-type shirts that fit me perfectly, loads of black dress socks—supercheap—and the gray cords that I thought would be a cool change from the trousers (my mom’s word, not mine) I always wore.

The best thing about H&M is that the girls who work at the cash register are almost always really pretty. And that day was no different. We stood in one long line, waiting to be called by one of the three register girls, and they were all supercute and well dressed. One was white, one was black, and one was Asian. This is why New York City is awesome: it’s like an international convention for hot girls!

They were all way too old for me, but it was still exciting that I was about to talk to one of them. And I figured it was like practice for talking to girls my age. Why not take advantage of an opportunity, right?

So, we finally got to the front of the line, and it was like a game of roulette, trying to figure out which cute girl was going to call us up. Finally, the white girl said, “Next!” and we walked up to the register. She was a tall brunette, probably twenty-two or so, with giant blue eyes and bangs cut at a sharp diagonal. I wish my mom could have let me buy the stuff on my own, but she was the one with the debit card, so there we were, mother and son, side by side.

“You must go to Catholic school,” the brunette said as she scanned the tags.

“Kind of,” I said. “It’s Episcopal.”

“Really? You’re talking to an Episcopal schoolgirl,” she said. “I mean, I was. You know, when I was younger.”

“Really?” I asked. “So there’s life after Episcopal school? It gets better?”

“It does indeed,” she said, laughing. I could tell she thought I was funny.

I blushed even more, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t believe I was able to carry on a conversation with a girl this cute. And even make her laugh.

But before I could think of anything more to say, the girl was putting the last pair of cords into the shopping bag, and my mom said, “Now, don’t lose these, honey.”

This time, I blushed purple. I mean, don’t lose a pair of pants?! I’m in seventh grade, and she thinks I’m going to lose a pair of pants? I haven’t lost an article of clothing since I was eight. To have my mom talk to me, in public, like I was still in second grade? Humiliating.

The girl gave me a pitying smile as we left the register, but I couldn’t even wave good-bye. So much for “practice.”

Here’s another thing: I need, I desperately need, practice. Even on weekends, those amazing forty-eight-hour stretches away from St. Chris’s, I’m still at a disadvantage when it comes to girls. Why?

Because I’ve barely ever even hung out with any. Except my mom and Dolly, and they don’t count.

Girls I’m not related to, real girls, have told me I’m pretty good-looking (actually, just one girl, who lives across the street from my aunt Liz in Denver, Colorado. But one is better than none, right?). I have brown wavy hair, blue-green eyes, and no zits. I’m five feet seven inches tall, which is pretty good for seventh grade.

But Rocky is right. I don’t know how to talk to girls. In general, I consider myself a pretty good conversationalist. I might not be as well-versed in current events as some people, but I know a lot about music, baseball, and cars, and I can tell a good joke. My mom and my sister don’t care about cars, and they don’t even know the rules of baseball, although they both love music, and they laugh at more than 50 percent of my jokes. But do real girls like music? And would they find me funny? There’s only one way to see: I’ve got to find a girl to talk to.

And after eight years in boys-only purgatory, I think I might have finally found one.