Kind of Sort of Fine - Softcover

Hall, Spencer

 
9781534482999: Kind of Sort of Fine
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1534482997 ISBN 13: 9781534482999
Verlag: Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

Senior year changes everything for two teens in this poignant, funny coming-of-age story that looks at what happens when the image everyone has of us no longer matches who we really are.

Senior year of high school is full of changes.

For Hayley Mills, these changes aren’t exactly welcome. All she wants is for everyone to forget about her very public breakdown and remember her as the overachiever she once was—and who she’s determined to be again. But it’s difficult to be seen as a go-getter when she’s forced into TV Production class with all the slackers like Lewis Holbrook.

For Lewis, though, this is going to be his year. After a summer spent binging 80s movies, he’s ready to upgrade from the role of self-described fat, funny sidekick to leading man of his own life—including getting the girl. The only thing standing in his way is, well, himself.

When the two are partnered up in class, neither is particularly thrilled. But then they start making mini documentaries about their classmates’ hidden talents, and suddenly Hayley is getting attention for something other than her breakdown, and Lewis isn’t just a background character anymore. It seems like they’re both finally getting what they want—except what happens when who you’ve become isn’t who you really are?

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Spencer Hall graduated from the University of the Cumberlands in Kentucky in with a BS in English. He moved to Chicago to study improv, but soon realized when it came to being funny, he was better at writing things down than making them up on the spot. When he’s not writing, he can be found running by the lake, occasionally performing stand-up comedy at poorly attended open mic nights, and researching how to become a professional mini-golf player. Kind of Sort of Fine is his first novel.

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Chapter One: Hayley ONE HAYLEY
If you’re going to have an emotional breakdown and stop your car in the middle of a busy intersection, let me suggest the main entrance of Groveland High School. It’s wide, there’s plenty of sunlight, and it’s also Arby’s-adjacent just in case you want to grab some curly fries after the police show up and pull you from your vehicle. You’ll want to remember to dress appropriately, because several of your classmates will be filming the entire ordeal on their phones. Maybe wear something simple like jeans and a T-shirt but also have on a Batman Halloween mask, as if to say, “Sure, I’m crazy, but I’m the fun kind of crazy!” Or maybe wear a long flowing gown and wet your hair like Ophelia à la Hamlet, act four. That’s Shakespearean crazy, arguably the classiest form of crazy. If you’re hoping to use this moment to make some kind of statement, I suggest investing in a bullhorn or at least a poster board with large, legible writing. Because despite your other numerous accomplishments, this is what you’ll be remembered for during your time in high school.

Sadly, it’s too late for me to take my own advice. But even if I could go back in time and make these adjustments, I doubt it would keep me from ending up here—the school conference room with my parents and me on one side of the table and Principal Wexler and Mr. Keith on the other. Meetings like this are never good. Your school administration will never call you in two days before the start of your senior year to tell you how well you’re doing and how thrilled they are to have you as a member of the student body. No, meetings like this start with “We’re all here because we want what’s best for Hayley, and we want to set her up for a successful school year.” It sounds like they’re doing me a favor, but the tension in the room and the forced smiles make it clear this is no happy occasion. People who are already doing well in life don’t need a little committee to “figure out what we can do to get you to really thrive this year.” In this case, “really thrive” means “please don’t lose your mind again.”

“You’ve certainly accomplished a lot during your three years here, Hayley,” Principal Wexler says, looking down at what appears to be my transcript. Wexler is an intimidating figure. He has the broad chest of a retired football player, and he wears his green Groveland polo like a mob boss wears a finely tailored Italian suit. My ears start buzzing as he speaks, knowing already we’re headed nowhere good. It’s like our wasp mascot has escaped the stitching on his shirt and is now circling me, vigilantly watching for the best opportunity to sting. Wexler lifts his thick black reading glasses to his face to look over my file. “Your grades are impeccable. You’re active in multiple clubs, and I understand you’re quite the asset on our tennis team.”

These are the words I always imagined coming from an admissions officer at a reputable college with a distinguished premed program. They should be paired with a handshake congratulating me on admission and a good scholarship offer and then followed by a trip to the campus bookstore where I triumphantly hand over too much money for an overpriced sweatshirt with UNC or Cornell or maybe Northwestern stitched across the chest. Oh this? It’s my Cornell sweatshirt. Yeah, I’m going to Cornell. No big deal. Bill Nye, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and Toni Morrison went there too, but whatever. It’s chill.

This is not that conversation at all. The only thing that’s about to follow these words now is a “but.”

“However,” Principal Wexler continues (“however” is just a fancier “but”), “we are concerned that you’ve inadvertently overpacked your schedule. We’d like you to scale things back a bit this year.”

And there’s the sting.

A nervousness tugs at my gut, pulling my stomach down like I’m at the front of a roller coaster peering over the edge of the first big drop, which makes sense because this conversation is only going straight down from here.

I didn’t overpack my schedule. I selected my classes the same way I’ve been doing since my freshman year, carefully choosing the courses that will look best on my transcript and building an unblemished record that will land me a spot at a prestigious college, where I’ll earn a diploma that can be matted and framed and hung with pride like Mom’s and Dad’s in the den. I’m on Groveland’s Accelerated Track, which means I take advanced science and math courses every year, but these days being smart isn’t enough to land a spot at a reputable college. Schools want well-rounded students; you can’t just have a singular interest. So during the summer after ninth grade, I begged my parents to let me go to tennis camp because what admissions officer doesn’t love a student athlete with a murderous backswing who also has a knack for writing killer term papers? I wore myself out learning the game. My best friend, Lucy, got tired of playing with me. Exhausted, she would just lie down on the court, and I would practice driving shots into the corner of the service boxes until the park’s stadium lights would cut off at midnight.

I want to handle this conversation in a calm, mature way, but when I ask, “What exactly does ‘scale things back’ mean?” there’s clearly an edge of annoyance in my voice. But how can I not be annoyed? I’ve been making all the best choices for three years, and now, just before what should be the culmination of my high school career, they’re changing the rules of the game.

Mom shifts in her seat beside me, unbuttoning her blazer and releasing a small sigh. It’s so humiliating that she and Dad are both getting a front-row view of what is gearing up to be one of the most unpleasant discussions of my life. I’ve been sandwiched between them for multiple parent-teacher conferences, conversations where all I had to do was sit there and smile as my teachers piled on the compliments. Mom would smile, and Dad would scratch the back of my neck in a way that was somehow embarrassing and wonderful at the same time. Now I don’t know what’s going to happen; we’re in uncharted territory.

“Extracurriculars are important,” Mr. Keith jumps in, “but these activities should be enjoyable. They should energize you. If they’re draining or becoming a burden, you should step back and reevaluate.” I bite hard into my lower lip to keep from lashing out as my irritation spreads, building like static over my skin.

Mr. Keith is my school-assigned guidance counselor, and he’s basically what happens when a hippie decides they’d also like a 401(k). Keith is his first name, but he insists we call him Mr. Keith because it’s just so cool and youthful, isn’t it? He’s always wearing sport coats over T-shirts emblazoned with cheesy graphics and only stops wearing his Birkenstock sandals when the temperature drops below twenty degrees. He’d probably make a great counselor at my little brother’s middle school, or even here if I was interested in majoring in hacky-sackology or pan flute studies, but I’m not. I want a serious guidance counselor, not Bob Marley meets Bob Ross.

“We must...

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Verlag
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Erscheinungsdatum
2022
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1534482997
ISBN 13 
9781534482999
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
288
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Simon and Schuster Netherlands BV
info@simonandschuster.nl

Herculesplein 96
Utrecht
3584 AA
Niederlande

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