Chapter Thirty-Nine
Let’s go tell everyone how fucked up we are, I guess.
I think we might have to phrase it better than that, but yeah!
On meeting handout
“We’re up next,” he whispers.
Our principal is droning on about the college’s new attendance policy and how it’s going to impact us. Like I said, terminally boring. Beside me, Hayes is tapping his toe repeatedly against the ground. He can’t pace, so this is the next best thing.
Twice a year, at the end of each semester, our entire high school has a giant evening assembly.
Every student has to attend with at least one parent or guardian, even if you’re eighteen.
They’re boring gatherings that everyone hates, but the consequences are dire if you skip them.
Imagine not being able to graduate because your mom skipped one meeting.
They’ve so graciously allowed Hayes and I five minutes to speak, and my heart is somewhere just below my throat. We’re waiting to the side of the curtain.
Esha, Piper, and Luke sit in the front row, their parents with them.
My whole family is here; even my brothers have managed to stay quiet and still so far.
Dad waves at me when I look their way. Gage shoots me an indiscreet middle finger.
It’s so wild how three people can be raised by the same parents and turn out so fundamentally different.
“Shit.” I hear Hayes mumble under his breath. His toe stops tapping, and I look around, trying to see what made him freeze.
Oh. His parents. I’d heard the door open, but I was too distracted thinking about genetics and obscene gestures.
I’ve seen his parents before, in passing.
One is always here at these meetings, because they have to be.
Never both. I’ve never actually met them, and I’ve never seen them both in the same room.
Hayes has turned to stone beside me.
“Hayes, look at me,” I tell him. My hand’s on his chest, over that Endeavour hoodie he stole back from me.
His eyes don’t move. He watches as his parents find a seat.
All the while, the principal keeps talking.
His monotone voice is discussing the recent issue of kids running across the highway. (I thought we were past that!?)
Hayes is still not looking at me. I tilt his chin so he has to.
“Listen, I know they freak you out. They freak me out, too, honestly. But they don’t matter right now. They’re just another set of parents sitting out there, waiting to hear us talk about this fucking awesome idea that’s going to change this school forever.”
He chuckles just the slightest bit, like he didn’t mean to. I’m not even sure what I’m saying anymore, but I think it’s working.
“You’re going to wow this entire room with your research proficiency, and then you can go home and talk about statistical methods or something. They’ll realize you don’t belong in medical school, you belong in a lab.”
His chin dips, and it traps my hand between his neck and his chest. His whole demeanor softens, and suddenly it feels like I can breathe again. I hear the principal wrapping up his announcements.
He starts to introduce us, and we walk out on stage.
I realize I’d been so focused on Hayes’s worries that I hadn’t had a chance to despair over my own.
Hayes will be talking about the research, as he should.
But I’m talking about the personal, vulnerable stuff.
The real reason we’re doing all of this.
As we step toward the podium, I feel the weight of all that.
I rest my hands on the scratched-up wood, still clutching my notecards with all of the strength in my fingers.
“Thanks, Principal Hinshaw. I’m Nova Carter, this year’s Beta Club president.” There’s a one-man cheer I’m pretty sure came from my father. After I’ve introduced myself, I let Hayes do the same.
“I’m Hayes Collins, the vice president. I’m important, but not as important as this genius beside me.
” He’s so much more naturally charming than me.
Even this bored, half-asleep crowd is wrapped around his finger immediately.
I used to hate him for that, for what I finally understand is not arrogance, but his natural, engaging personality.
Now, I love him for it.
We’re standing arguably too close together behind the podium, but if anyone says anything, we can claim we’re just sharing the microphone.
Finally, I take a deep breath, and I begin my speech in earnest.
“Most of us in this room know that going to this school is taking on a challenge. It’s built that way. But there are so few of us that understand what it means to live in this environment for so long. The pressure, the lost sleep, the distance you feel from those you grew up with.”
I look around again, and people are starting to wake up.
Everyone I recognize: my friends, those I pass in the hallways every day, the new freshmen who aren’t so new anymore.
They’re all looking at me like I’m about to spill our huge, collective secret.
Like they’re begging me not to tell the world that they’re a giant mess. But we all are, and I am.
“Our goal in leading the Beta Club this year is to focus on student mental health. I can personally admit that I’ve struggled beyond belief over the past four years, and those students we spoke to about our goals felt the same way.”
“We surveyed over ninety percent of the current student population, homeroom by homeroom. The survey was completely anonymous, and no participants were told what the results would be used for, so the data is unprejudiced.” This is more methodology than the average person needs to know, but I can tell Hayes is showing off a little for his parents.
He’s earned it. “In that survey, which we co-authored, we asked our fellow students to rate their overall mental health, to rate their personal support systems, and also to rate the resources available to them for help. Lastly, we asked students to sum up, in one sentence, how their mental health has been impacted by school.”
Hayes hits a button on his remote, and the blank projector screen behind us moves to a startling collage of all those sentences. I stand facing forward, but I have a few of them memorized.
I feel like I’m drowning lol.
Why are we even here.
Is MAYBE getting into an Ivy worth this kind of misery???
I do six hours of homework every night and I’m literally dying.
I wasn’t built for this pressure cooker. That last one’s mine.
Everyone is wide awake now, and we stand in silence as I watch people read. It’s a moment of collective darkness. A moment when all our pain comes out into the light.
“Over eighty percent of the students surveyed rated their mental health below a five on a one-to-ten scale. Nearly the same amount rated their support systems below a six. Over ninety percent felt that the resources available to them fell below a three.”
He lets them sit with that for a minute.
That’s the thing about Hayes: He knows the power of silence.
So many people in the crowd are still staring at the screen rather than us.
I see so many parents trying to pick out their student’s words, like they wish it were handwritten so they’d recognize the script.
“Our goal is to change that. To improve resources and the student experience.” Hayes leaves the floor to me.
“We’ve come up with a multifaceted plan, and everyone has a copy in the packet you received at sign-in.
We’d like you to read over it and let us know your thoughts.
What we can improve, how we can better help students cope with their stress.
We’d also like you to make your student’s mental health a priority at home, whatever that looks like for them. ”
I watch as people scramble for their manila folders, pulling out copies of my plan. I hear pages start to flip, and the delicate silence gives way to thoughtful, murmured conversation.
“Back to you, Principal Hinshaw.” Hayes steps back from the podium, pulling me with him. We retreat behind the curtain.
I look at his face, because I want to know how he thought we did. I’m in this weird mental space where everything sounds like an indistinct roar, and I don’t remember a single word I said. It’s possible I was reciting the verbs we had to memorize for my Spanish test.
He doesn’t say anything, but he winks.