The morning sun casts warm rays across the room, and I awake, eager to start the day which will turn into a wonderful night with Ryan. I throw off the sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I cross the room, head out to a quiet kitchen, and prop myself up on a bar stool. Grabbing a notepad and pen, I top a sheet with “To-Do List” and feel like Caitlyn Rivers. She is a notorious list maker, and we all make fun of her for making lists for everything.
Well, we don’t make fun of her anymore. We learned our lesson two years ago: At a slumber party when Caitlyn wasn’t there, Courtney got this not-so-bright idea to create a notebook called My Book of Lists. We pretended it was written by Caitlyn and passed it around, creating lists like “My Favorite Sexual Positions,” “An A-Z List of Adorable Things about Brandon Edwards,” and “My Friends (In Order of Ranking).”
Courtney accidently took the notebook to school, and since our lockers are like communal property, Caitlyn found it, returned it open to “My Friends (in Order of Ranking),” and had crossed out all of our names.
Caitlyn gave us the silent treatment for about a week, but her mother, the guidance counselor, had plenty to say to us. Mrs. Rivers called all of us into her office and gave us a 30-minute lecture.
“Is it nice to make fun of people in a wheelchair?” she began.
We shook our heads.
“Would you make fun of a friend who had depression?”
Again, we shook our heads.
“But you see no problem in making fun of someone who suffers from a serious clinical condition.” That was when we learned all about OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and also when we vowed not to make fun of Caitlyn anymore. There are, of course, times when we break those vows—especially when Caitlyn is suffering from a serious social condition called snobbery.
My thoughts return to my list and all the things that I need to get done before my date with Ryan. I jot down new dress, new shoes, make-up, nails, whiten my teeth, and protein treatment for hair. Even though I don’t have any cash, I have a Visa card from my grandmother in my wallet. She sent it to me to buy new school clothes, but maybe I can get everything on sale and still have enough for some essentials.
I head back to the bedroom, throw on a Vanderbilt T-shirt and shorts, grab my purse, and sans shower, I head toward the front door. But first I stop at Courtney’s door. I knock, wait, and then try it again. No answer. I open the door slightly and speak to the lump in the middle of the massive king-size bed.
“Court?”
An unrecognizable murmur is her reply.
“I’m going out shopping.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll be back later.”
“Wha—?”
“Just go back to sleep.”
“’Kay.”
Obviously, Courtney is suffering from a hangover, meaning I will fill her in on last night’s events later. Won’t she be surprised when I tell her?