of ashtray/trashcans, picnic tables, pockmarked benches and scraggly, unmowed patches of grass. The Quad was the physical hub of the high school, visible via window from the caf, the main lobby, the math wing, and the music hall. I guess âQuadâ originally derived from âquadrangle,â though over the years the two words had lost all association. âQuadâ had taken on an identity all its own, connoting all kinds of ominous, mysterious, and possibly illegal things.
The Quadâs distinguishing characteristic was this: it was the only place in school where kids were allowed to smoke. As a result, the four-walled space was filled with crushed cigarettes, tie-dyes, tattoos, and miles of denim brewed together in a haze of gray. If theyâd only had beer out there, it would have passed for a keg party. There was even a speaker system (from back in the day when the Quad was for general socializing, not just smoking) that played music audible only from outside. When the door to the Quad opened, the entire caf caught a scary, trippy snatch of Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd or one of the other bands the Quad would pick apart for their yearbook quotes.
The kids who hung out there were officially called the Quadders: revered, and slightly feared. The Quadders were cool, but not the cheerleading, class-officiating, paint-your-face-blue-at-football-games kind of cool. They were truly cool, the kind of cool that defied school spirit. It wasnât that they actively protested things like Pajama Day and Backward Day and all the other self-conscious âdaysâ designed to psych us up for Homecoming Weekend. They never scoffed outright at the Christmas Dance or the soft pretzel drive. Quadders seemed genuinely oblivious to these things, gliding through the hallways sleek as panthers (as opposed to Panthers, which covered the rest of us). They walked with poise, cigarettes behind their ears. They never tripped. They hardly ate. They rarely carried backpacks. They always cut gym.
I didnât know many Quadders in specific. None, actually. A handful of them always appeared in the final pages of the yearbook under âOther Graduating Seniors,â as if even the fact of graduation had escaped their notice. But I knew, for sure, Z would be out there. From the safety of our table, I scanned the Quad and found him: one foot on a bench, one foot on the ground, hair in ponytail, cigarette in hand, girlfriend-free, andâGod help meâactually drumming on his thigh with his left hand. He was probably mentally composing as he stood there. In that moment, the phrase âdancing to the beat of my own drummerâ reached new heights of symbolism as I stared at the boy who I knew was, without a doubt, my soulmate.
Of course, even something as staggering as discovering someone was your soulmate wasnât enough to drive me out into the Quad to meet the guy, not in plain view of anybody in the caf, lobby, math wing or music hall, not to mention every Other Graduating Senior. The entire social structure of York High would probably have gone haywire, jocks dating geeks, brains cutting classes, prom queens playing softball, Led Zeppelin disappearing in a pop of static and airwaves in distress. I was in love, not insane.
Â
If my one-critical-person-forming-your-image theory is correct, then probably I should credit Z Tedesco not only with my black-and-tie-dye wardrobe, but my entire career as a college English major. Probably heâs the reason I became word obsessed in the first place, the reason I know âferretâ is a transitive verb, the reason I write catchy headlines for a living, the reason Iâm always mentally editing spelling and grammar mistakes on bill-boards, storefronts, and Chinese menus, and probably, ultimately, the reason Iâm writing a book. I trace all of this back to the fact that Z was on the staff of the school literary magazine: Transformations.
I discovered this by
The Quadâs distinguishing characteristic was this: it was the only place in school where kids were allowed to smoke. As a result, the four-walled space was filled with crushed cigarettes, tie-dyes, tattoos, and miles of denim brewed together in a haze of gray. If theyâd only had beer out there, it would have passed for a keg party. There was even a speaker system (from back in the day when the Quad was for general socializing, not just smoking) that played music audible only from outside. When the door to the Quad opened, the entire caf caught a scary, trippy snatch of Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd or one of the other bands the Quad would pick apart for their yearbook quotes.
The kids who hung out there were officially called the Quadders: revered, and slightly feared. The Quadders were cool, but not the cheerleading, class-officiating, paint-your-face-blue-at-football-games kind of cool. They were truly cool, the kind of cool that defied school spirit. It wasnât that they actively protested things like Pajama Day and Backward Day and all the other self-conscious âdaysâ designed to psych us up for Homecoming Weekend. They never scoffed outright at the Christmas Dance or the soft pretzel drive. Quadders seemed genuinely oblivious to these things, gliding through the hallways sleek as panthers (as opposed to Panthers, which covered the rest of us). They walked with poise, cigarettes behind their ears. They never tripped. They hardly ate. They rarely carried backpacks. They always cut gym.
I didnât know many Quadders in specific. None, actually. A handful of them always appeared in the final pages of the yearbook under âOther Graduating Seniors,â as if even the fact of graduation had escaped their notice. But I knew, for sure, Z would be out there. From the safety of our table, I scanned the Quad and found him: one foot on a bench, one foot on the ground, hair in ponytail, cigarette in hand, girlfriend-free, andâGod help meâactually drumming on his thigh with his left hand. He was probably mentally composing as he stood there. In that moment, the phrase âdancing to the beat of my own drummerâ reached new heights of symbolism as I stared at the boy who I knew was, without a doubt, my soulmate.
Of course, even something as staggering as discovering someone was your soulmate wasnât enough to drive me out into the Quad to meet the guy, not in plain view of anybody in the caf, lobby, math wing or music hall, not to mention every Other Graduating Senior. The entire social structure of York High would probably have gone haywire, jocks dating geeks, brains cutting classes, prom queens playing softball, Led Zeppelin disappearing in a pop of static and airwaves in distress. I was in love, not insane.
Â
If my one-critical-person-forming-your-image theory is correct, then probably I should credit Z Tedesco not only with my black-and-tie-dye wardrobe, but my entire career as a college English major. Probably heâs the reason I became word obsessed in the first place, the reason I know âferretâ is a transitive verb, the reason I write catchy headlines for a living, the reason Iâm always mentally editing spelling and grammar mistakes on bill-boards, storefronts, and Chinese menus, and probably, ultimately, the reason Iâm writing a book. I trace all of this back to the fact that Z was on the staff of the school literary magazine: Transformations.
I discovered this by
Similar Books
