Principles of Love by Emily Franklin Page B

bag onto the lawn next to me and perches herself on top. “It’s the perfect situation, really.”
    “Home court advantage?” I say, not entirely sure what this means in this context, but my dad’s always using sports analogies to get his point across.
    “Yeah, kind of. Like, it’s just really typical, because in the end, the senior goes away and is free and there’s no real thought of being together past the graduation parties. Pretty much Vineyard Cove is the break-up point.”
    “Sounds superficial, but not totally bad,” I say. “And what is Vineyard Cove?”
    “Ah,” Cordelia raises her eyebrows. “A beach on the North Shore — it’s where many a final party, and a final fuck take place.”
    Got it. Note to self: would I go, given the chance? Sex on the beach, aside from being a cheesy bar drink, sounds — well, grainy. But I digress.
    With Cordelia, and of course now with Lila Lawrence — and Robinson — I haven’t really let my guard down. Maybe I’ve taken a couple of bricks off the top, but no crumbling. That is, except with my email pen pal, DrakeFan, who is a daily part of my life even though I am not and have no intentions of trying out for his band. Being completely natural around Hadley Hall campus comes in fits and starts — a joke slides out unedited or I just blather away about books and movies in Mr. Chaucer’s class, but there’s still my inner-feeling of being on the periphery of it all. And maybe this isn’t something that’s done to me — rather, I’ve been wondering lately if I do this to myself. Either as coping mechanism or safety measure. This is what I write tonight to DrakeFan. As usual DrakeFan writes back long enough afterwards to let me know he’s read my mail and digested it, but fast enough to reassure me that I didn’t bore him too badly.
    “Love,” Mr. Chaucer says when I go to collect my Buffy meets Powerful Women paper back from him today. “I’d like you to consider applying for the Hadley Hall English contest.” He explains how it’s an annual thing — with two prizes, one a series of books about how to find your writing voice and the top prize having an essay published in an-alumni magazine. I thank him and say that I’ll think about it, but I know I won’t. The whole thing sounds too blue-blazer bound and old boy networky to be for me. Probably the essay gets published in WASP Weekly or Old Money Magazine, read by no one but Hadley Hall trustees.
    Just when I need a pick-me-up I get news that I might have a life, a glimmer of hope in my small high school world. No, I didn’t win a date with Robinson Hall (or any other would-be glam Hollywoodesque boy)… but I rock. I rock and record and am now the official, local voice (at least for this one ad) of Pizza Plus, the chain of thin-crust in half the time pizza places around Boston. At WAJS, I stand with headphones on and sing the opening line.
    “Ohh…sausage,” I say, and it comes out kind of like a moan. Hard-core blushing on my behalf. Then I talk my way to extra cheese ( oh, it’s melting !) and special toppings ( roasted red peppers, just like in Tuscany !), but then I fuck up the part about double-size, half-time, golden brown and have to start over. After four takes, I get it, but go back and “sultrify” the talking part. During playback, I cringe, listening to my voice sound like I want to be naked with the dough. But the studio head pipes in on my headphones with, “Nice work, Love.” And gives me a nod. I feel for a second like I’m on my own reality show!
    Ohhhhh, cheese! I think to myself on the way out of the station. Yeah, that’s perfect. I could be the only woman to have her first serious sexual experience with a bread and mozzarella product. Charming. But since WAJS seems pleased with my work, and I’m going home with at least one commercial on my demo reel, I just don’t care about giving innuendo to carbs. If all goes well, next weekend I’ll come back for another