Unfriended, page 19
Toward the back, the guys from the Popular Table sat in a clump. Clay was grinning like it was his birthday. I guess he was psyched for the show. Maybe because Brooke was in it. Or maybe he was just happy to not be in math class. On the edge of that group, Jack held up a small lollipop. I knew what flavor it would be.
“But there’s more than one side to the story,” I said, smiling at Jack. “There usually is.”
I peeked behind me. Lulu was bouncing around. Natasha was fidgeting in her dress while Evangeline clutched the script, muttering the words I’d written. Brooke smiled and gave me a thumbs-up sign.
“The play is called Benediction,” I said. “Because, well, his name. Benedict. But also Benediction because that’s what Benedict Arnold wanted most, in the end, a bene-diction, which means ‘good say.’ To be spoken well of. Not riches. Not power, not love, not even to win the war. Just to have people say good stuff about him. Basically, he wanted to be popular. That’s all. We didn’t invent wanting to be popular, turns out. Hahaha.”
Nobody was laughing. I gripped the microphone stand. “So I guess this play is not just a slice of history—it is history, don’t worry Ms. Canuto, with a bibliography at the end!—But it’s also a story about somebody who got so tangled up in wanting people to think he was good that he forgot to actually be good.”
I swallowed hard. Maybe I was saying too much. Not seeming light and easy. Oh, well. I pretty much already fully blew that. “Anyway,” I blundered on, “here it is. I hope you like it. Or, whoops, that makes me sound as messed up as Benedict. So, no. Not I hope you like it, even though, honestly? I can’t help it. I do hope you like it. Especially you, Ms. Canuto! Well, actually, all of you, really. But more important, I hope it’s good. Good in itself. What you guys think about it is ultimately not my business so I’m trying to . . . Ugh. Whatever. Here goes. Thank you.”
I went and sat down in the middle of the front row of kids on the cold gym floor. My friends stepped forward for the start of the play. And then it was happening, ready or probably not.
Rachel Vail, Unfriended
