torte—he names the members of the Model UN from Hell for me and details their backgrounds. Of course, I’ve already sat through classes with the coke-snorting vixen Plum and Little Miss Texas Harper. There’s also a half-Indian, half-Croatian girl named Tallulah, who has bedroom eyes and puffy lips. And Agniezska, a hot little Russian ballerina who once dated the prince of Liechtenstein or something.
“Harper’s their secretary general. The one making all the calls,” he explains, sticking his finger into cupcake icing, tasting it, and putting the cupcake back. “Model UN. From Hell.”
“Okay, I get the Model UN thing. But why are they from Hell? Because they’re mean as snakes?”
Leaning against the wall, he boldly points around the room. “See this place? See how everyone’s split up like they hate each other? One person per table?”
Yes, I’ve noticed. Everyone scowling. Everyone with their nose in a book or working on a paper.
“And see how you and me are the only pair here, and the Model UN from Hell, they’re the only, what’s the word…?”
“Quartet?”
“Foursome.”
“Okay, foursome ,”I say and lift a crème brulee, cracking the top of it. “Do you have a point?”
“Everyone here hates each other for one reason only.”
Casually, we begin strolling toward the Model UN from Hell and away, snacking absently and trying to hide that we’re talking about them, watching them.
“Because their parents had to sign over their trust funds to get ’em in?” I laugh, but Pilot just grimaces. “I know, I know. Because they’re competing for the Big V.”
“Precisely. Because they’ve let themselves get sucked into this competition that makes each and every other kid here their enemy. That girl and those boys down there? They’re going to go through high school never talking to each other, except to fight. Never making any friends. Hating everyone. You saw the fight in art class.”
“So?” I ask as we pause near the stream. “A lot of kids hate everyone else.”
“Because they’re hormonal. Not because their parents pressure them to become valedictorian.”
I shrug. “But it’s a good pressure, right? Because being valedictorian here will get us into top colleges.”
“Look who’s been drinking the Kool-Aid!” He shakes his head.
“Fine,” I concede. “Now back to the Model UN from Hell. Why from Hell?”
We both turn and watch them. Their matching red bras busting out of their cleavage. Their sex-kitten hair. Every day, they replace their standard-issue boots with whatever ultra-expensive, ultra-hooker shoes they have; today, it’s Manolo Blahnik spiky boots.
“This, little orphan Annie, is exactly what makes them hellish, so listen up.” He lowers his voice. I inch closer, so close his lips nearly touch my ear. “Their PT topics are all the same.”
“Really?” We aren’t supposed to know each others’ topics, so this is juicy. Pilot’s probably privy to a world of stuff I would never be just because he’s openly not competing. Kids must tell him all sorts of stuff. “What’s their topic?”
“Guess.” If he didn’t look serious, I wouldn’t play along.
“To be…skanky cows?”
“Close,” he says, half-smirking. “They will succeed in life by using their desirability.”
“As in, ‘they are desire’?” He nods. I scratch my head; it wasn’t long ago that Teddy was suggesting I declare the very same PT. “Well, that’s, like, not progressive. But I wouldn’t call it hellish.”
“No, their PT’s not the point. That they have the same PT—that’s the point.”
I try to work through what he’s telling me and wonder if I might not need an oversized magnifying glass like some cartoon sleuth. And then it hits me.
“So they’re each other’s biggest competition.”
A slow smile creeps across his face. “Bingo.”
“Which means they’re competing with each other. But pretending to be friends. The only way Harper wins
“Harper’s their secretary general. The one making all the calls,” he explains, sticking his finger into cupcake icing, tasting it, and putting the cupcake back. “Model UN. From Hell.”
“Okay, I get the Model UN thing. But why are they from Hell? Because they’re mean as snakes?”
Leaning against the wall, he boldly points around the room. “See this place? See how everyone’s split up like they hate each other? One person per table?”
Yes, I’ve noticed. Everyone scowling. Everyone with their nose in a book or working on a paper.
“And see how you and me are the only pair here, and the Model UN from Hell, they’re the only, what’s the word…?”
“Quartet?”
“Foursome.”
“Okay, foursome ,”I say and lift a crème brulee, cracking the top of it. “Do you have a point?”
“Everyone here hates each other for one reason only.”
Casually, we begin strolling toward the Model UN from Hell and away, snacking absently and trying to hide that we’re talking about them, watching them.
“Because their parents had to sign over their trust funds to get ’em in?” I laugh, but Pilot just grimaces. “I know, I know. Because they’re competing for the Big V.”
“Precisely. Because they’ve let themselves get sucked into this competition that makes each and every other kid here their enemy. That girl and those boys down there? They’re going to go through high school never talking to each other, except to fight. Never making any friends. Hating everyone. You saw the fight in art class.”
“So?” I ask as we pause near the stream. “A lot of kids hate everyone else.”
“Because they’re hormonal. Not because their parents pressure them to become valedictorian.”
I shrug. “But it’s a good pressure, right? Because being valedictorian here will get us into top colleges.”
“Look who’s been drinking the Kool-Aid!” He shakes his head.
“Fine,” I concede. “Now back to the Model UN from Hell. Why from Hell?”
We both turn and watch them. Their matching red bras busting out of their cleavage. Their sex-kitten hair. Every day, they replace their standard-issue boots with whatever ultra-expensive, ultra-hooker shoes they have; today, it’s Manolo Blahnik spiky boots.
“This, little orphan Annie, is exactly what makes them hellish, so listen up.” He lowers his voice. I inch closer, so close his lips nearly touch my ear. “Their PT topics are all the same.”
“Really?” We aren’t supposed to know each others’ topics, so this is juicy. Pilot’s probably privy to a world of stuff I would never be just because he’s openly not competing. Kids must tell him all sorts of stuff. “What’s their topic?”
“Guess.” If he didn’t look serious, I wouldn’t play along.
“To be…skanky cows?”
“Close,” he says, half-smirking. “They will succeed in life by using their desirability.”
“As in, ‘they are desire’?” He nods. I scratch my head; it wasn’t long ago that Teddy was suggesting I declare the very same PT. “Well, that’s, like, not progressive. But I wouldn’t call it hellish.”
“No, their PT’s not the point. That they have the same PT—that’s the point.”
I try to work through what he’s telling me and wonder if I might not need an oversized magnifying glass like some cartoon sleuth. And then it hits me.
“So they’re each other’s biggest competition.”
A slow smile creeps across his face. “Bingo.”
“Which means they’re competing with each other. But pretending to be friends. The only way Harper wins
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