Page 26 of The Academy
“Nobody willreadbook reviews,” Ravenna says. “It’s too much like school. I think the reason everyone thinks our newspaper is trash—as you can see, normal people aren’t exactly clamoring to join—is because the past editors wanted to make it too serious. But I’m in charge now, and I don’t want theNew York Times.I want theNew York Post.” She glares at Grady. “Please tell me you know the difference between theTimesand thePost.”
Grady nods. “ThePosthasPage Six.”
“You just got your name on the masthead,” Ravenna says. She eyeballs Levi. “Why should I keep you around?”
“Because I’m a computer genius?”
“Molto bene!”Ravenna says. She turns her attention back to Charley. “You live on the first floor of South, right?” She’s only asking to be polite; she knows the answer is yes, this chick took Cinnamon Peters’s spot in the Class of 2027. She lives in Cinnamon’s room.
“I do.”
“I was thinking about a deep dive into the difference between how Tiffin really is and the way Tiffin is portrayed in social media by… certain influencers.”
“Certain influencers?” Charley says. “You mean Davi?”
Of course Ravenna means Davi. There have been rumblings, especially from the sixth-form girls whom Ravenna is friends with, that maybe Davi is getting a little too Insta-fabulous for her own good. Olivia H-T claims Davi took credit for Tiffin being ranked number two, which is not only shameless but absurd. The rankings aren’t determined by teenage girls.
On the one hand, it’s unthinkable to do a hatchet job on DaviBanerjee—she’s the queen—but on the other hand, even Marie Antoinette was beheaded.
There’s no reason the’Bred Bulletincan’t have aPage Six,Ravenna thinks. Maybe they’ll call itPage 114for the number of years Tiffin has been in existence. Corny? Ravenna loves the idea of publishing a gossip page. It will have to be scandalous, even salacious, for people to read it. There might be some blowback on her as editor in chief—but,Ravenna thinks with a sigh,that’s the life of a journalist.
She pulls out the chair next to her and invites Charley to sit. “Welcome to theBulletin,” she says.
Dinner at Tiffin starts at six, but attendance isn’t mandatory. (Rumor has it other schools hold something called Seated Dinner once a week with thefaculty. Oh hell no,we think.) In years past, we would DoorDash from either Antonio’s or Moon Palace—but since Chef arrived, we not only go to meals, we get there early. There’s always a line, and not just on Burger Night and Pizza Friday. A typical midweek dinner might be braised short ribs over cheddar mashed potatoes or caprese paninis made with the last of the heirloom tomatoes that Chef planted out behind the Paddock.
The Paddock is (practically) egalitarian—we can sit anywhere regardless of class, except for the sixth-form table, which is closest to the food. (Though the sixth-formers are so weird and annoying this year that no one wants to sit with them anyway.) There’s one other table of distinction: the Booth. It has leather banquette seats and is tucked into one of the salvaged horse stalls from the original Tiffin farm. Tonight it’s where Taylor Wilson sits with her boyfriend, Hakeem.
When Taylor leaves the Booth to toast some of Chef’s homemade focaccia, which she’ll spread with peanut butter and hot pepper jelly(she’s trying to become a vegetarian, which is challenging because she doesn’t like vegetables except for celery, and she also loves red meat), Hakeem notices that she’s left her phone on the table, unlocked and unguarded. This is highly unusual: Taylor treats her phone like it contains state secrets. The other unusual circumstance is that Dub isn’t with them; he stayed late after practice to talk to Coach Bosworth about the upcoming game against Northmeadow.
Hakeem peers around the walls of the Booth. All the other kids are eating, talking, laughing, and Taylor is on the other side of the room, dropping focaccia into the toaster. He edges Taylor’s phone closer and peers at the screen. It’s open to Snapchat, and Hakeem can’t help himself. He checks her best friends list.
What the hell?he thinks. He snatches up her phone and scoots to the inside of the Booth so that he’s out of her line of vision. He stares at the screen, willing it to make sense. He and Taylor snap all the time, probably 114 times a day. But…Dubis her number one? Hakeem obviously knows they snap, he expects them to, they’re friends, but for Dub to be hernumber onemeans they’re snapping nonstop. What makes this even more fucked up is that Taylor and Dub have three out of five classes together. They’re together all damn day; why do they need to be sending each other snaps? Maybe they’re bored in class, Hakeem can see that, but even so, this isnotokay.
Taylor approaches with a plate in each hand. She sets one plate down in front of Hakeem and one in front of her place. She seems to have ditched her peanut butter toast in favor of lasagna, Caesar salad, and garlic bread.
“I got the veggie lasagna, but yours is meat, and I want to taste it.”
It’s sweet that she brought him dinner, and she knows he doesn’t like it when his food is touching so she left respectful alleys between his lasagna, salad, and bread. The lasagna is melty and fragrant, and Hakeem loves Chef’s frosted garlic bread.
But instead of digging in, Hakeem scoots out of the Booth.
“Where are you going?” Taylor asks. “There’s no more bread; I got the last of it.”
Hakeem shakes his head at her.
“Okay, fine, I won’t have a bite of yours,” Taylor says. Hakeem is always busting her for being a “fake” vegetarian. She knows he’s right. She’s not boycotting meat for moral reasons—well, maybe she is, a little bit—it’s mostly because she wants to eat healthier. Although who is she kidding, she eats so much focaccia that after only three weeks back at school, her jeans are tight.
“I’m going to the gym,” Hakeem says.
“What?” Taylor says. “Why? Did Coach text you?” She’s happy that Hakeem and Dub won some games, but she isn’t going to like it if they get all football-is-life on her.
Hakeem stares at her. He wants to ask about Snapchat, but who is he kidding? She isn’t going to tell him the truth. Besides, he doesn’t feel like making a scene here in the Paddock with the whole school watching. He’ll go to the gym and bench-press his anger away. But he can’t risk running into Dub because what he wants to do right now is wrench Dub’s throwing arm behind his back until it snaps off.
Hakeem exhales. This kind of anger is foreign to him.
“Actually, I’m going to my room. Good night.”
“Goodnight?” Taylor says. “It’s a quarter after six! Are we not going to the Sink? Are we notstudyingtogether?” With the new school year, Taylor, Hakeem, and Dub have vowed to be more studious—fifth-form grades are the most important for college.
