Free Of All the Stupid Things by Alexandra Diaz Page A

then wonder whether he really could be a phony.
“He is. He gives us all this advice on how to get into universities and stuff, but look at him. He’s in his twenties and has never been to college. I bet he never applied to Yale or Oxford, or wherever he claims he’s going.”
“Harvard. And of course he did! He’s just saving his money. He works so hard, you should see him.” Okay, I admit I’ve never seen him work, but that’s because Le Bon Fromage is a really expensive restaurant and they don’t let kids in without their parents. But he works hard for the Honor Society. It can’t be easy setting up and organizing all that information for our biweekly meetings.
David tidies up the table, putting away the supplies we don’t need and throwing away the trash. “If he works as hard as he says he does, he could make it work at Harvard. They have scholarships, you know. Hasn’t he spent hours telling us about all sorts of grants, loans, and internships you can apply for? So why hasn’t he done the same? I mean, he claims he’s smart enough. I say he’s chickenshit. Afraid that he won’t get in and then what? Have to admit to everyone that he couldn’t hack it.”
I don’t know what to say about David’s comments. And I certainly don’t want to think about it, which of course only makes me think about it. No, it can’t be true. David is putting him down because he doesn’t like him. But I don’t know why David doesn’t like him. Everyone likes Nash. Or at least they should. “Are you saying this to be mean?” I ask.
David looks like I’ve insulted him. “No, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
Part of me wants to point out all the things that are wrong with his theory. After all, Nash has almost perfect SAT scores, the acceptances to the best schools, but the minimum wage he earns and the high cost of living make college a distant dream. But I’ve never actually seen the results, the letters, or his wages. I know what he has said and what Google has told me. I can only go by the fact that the school hired him as the advisor to the Honor Society, so surely they must have checked his credentials. “David, I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Fine. Who knows, I could be wrong.”
“You are,” I confirm. I’m tempted to call Nash and ask him if he’s a phony. I don’t believe David, not at all, but I want to hear it from Nash. But I won’t call Nash, at least not today. I don’t want to seem desperate. Because I’m not. Desperate.

Whitney Blaire
     
I FEEL LIKE SHIT. IT’S 11:15 ON A FREAKING SATURDAY morning. For what feels like the last hour, my darling mother has been nagging me through the intercom to come downstairs. Why doesn’t she just let me sleep? What’s her problem? I’m not at her beck and call. I have my own life, even if that just means sleeping. She doesn’t control me.
I roll over but then I hear Father say my name through the intercom.
Swear, grumble, sigh. I get up and shuffle down to the kitchen.
Mother’s fussing over something. She likes to pretend she does useful things around the house when really it’s Carmen that takes care of everything. Mother has a hard time figuring out the dishwasher. I have no idea how she completed a PhD.
“Oh, darling, there you are. I’ve been calling you forever. I had to get your father to try. Didn’t you hear me?”
I shake my head. “Were you outside my door?”
“Of course not, silly, I used the intercom. That’s why we got it.”
I shrug. “I didn’t hear a thing. The system must be broken.”
Mother sighs. “Again? They promised me it was the best but it’s been nothing but faulty. I’m glad I paid for that five-year guarantee.”
I don’t say anything as I head to the espresso machine. I wonder if David or maybe even Pink can dismantle the intercom completely. They’re supposed to be smart; it shouldn’t be too hard for them.
Father walks in then. He glares at me over the old-man glasses perched on the end