Her name’s Celeste, brown-haired, blue-eyed, the combination of which is rarely seen and rarer felt in a 17-year old girl. Her life could not be described typical; it is unusual when people fall between the exacting lines of stereotypes; many a man or woman blend the various genres until pre-conceptions fade and only a human remains.

As such, it’s with a singular and uniquely personal goal that Celeste sets out from her house. She walks along the sidewalk every which way; no rhyme nor reason control her steps; perhaps if the streets were more reminiscent of a Broadway musical she would be able to accompany her neighbors and classmates to unheard music. But the walk to school is uneventful, and she stops to stare at the tall, Romanian columns of her Founder’s Memorial High.

She sees the immaculate lawn, kept clean and trimmed by faithful janitors, sees the kind brick of the building and the pleasant portables—

at once the scenery begins to change, magnify; it’s as though time were multiplying and she were caught in the middle of a whirlpool.

—sees the lawn’s sharp green begin to fade to a duller, less-lusty shade, sees the brick

become covered with tags and signatures, and the portables practically failing to pieces due to wear and tear.

But she pays this no mind and continues to her first period, stopping now and then to catch this rumor or that bit of gossip—

quickly, her movements change, in the middle of the hallway, to a more business-like walk, as though she were hurrying to class.

—she says ‘hello’ or politely nods, the meaning of which is as expressly stated as any ‘hello’ in any language; and she continues on her way.

It is as this point that Celeste—

—stops and stares around in confusion. The feeling must be similar to when any mother in any grocery store reacts to the call, “Mother!”

A stencil for Pacific Sun walks next to her, and Celeste—

—continues to stop and stare, looking confused,

“My name is Jenny,” says Celeste.

“I know your name,” says Pac Sun, and Celeste—

“My name is Jenny,” she repeats, and Pac Sun begins to look a little closer at her friend

“Are you all right?” asks the girl,

and Celeste finally nods, indicating that the interrogation has ended.

* * * 

Celeste—

“Jenny,” she says, and the class looks up in surprise, wondering at the entrance of such a girl calling her name, no, another name, and she quickly takes her seat.

She pulls out her pens and pencils, even her erasers, for pen doesn’t erase (permanence like drying ink), and she sets her books on her desk, enjoying the idea that she looks polished and perfected; a school-girl ready and willing to tackle school at its own game—

her desk starts to slide in and out of focus, like a camera lens slowing pulling back and forth.

—her pens change to the cracked surface of the fake wood and enamel; her books blend with other students’ carvings until her English book disappears completely, and she stares down at her empty desk, it appears as though she forgot her materials again, and surely the teacher will call her out, scream her name, make her regret, and by example, the other kids in class, regret that they ever thought to not bring their materials to class.

“Celeste,” he calls, as she enters. “Do try to be a little quieter, will you not?”

“My name is Jenny,” she says, and adds, “You teach English?”

“I teach students, not subjects,” he replies and adds, “Go stand in the hallway. For ten minutes.” He motions toward the door and half the kids immediately leave.

Celeste—

“My name is Jenny!” And Celeste pounds her backpack onto the ground.

“I know your name,” says the teacher, and adds, “Do try to be here on time next time.”

“That’s redundant,” she mutters, but joins the kids leaving class, checking to make sure she has her counterfeit hallpass.

It’s as she’s leaving that a bleached-blonde girl appearing to be in her upper-twenties pulls her aside. Of course, Celeste’s—

“Jenny,” she says to her bleached-blonde friend, who blinks and shrugs.

“Whatever,” she say. “Anyway, guess who’s going to ask you to the dance . . .” It isn’t a question, Celeste isn’t supposed to guess—

“Jenny!” says Celeste, and her friend blinks.

“Umm, no. That’s weird. Why would you ask yourself?” She looks genuinely confused, and Celeste—

“Jenny,” she whispers, so that her friend doesn’t experience an aneurism.  

“I mean, you could ask yourself, but then, where would be the fun in that?” Bleached-blonde hair looks a little less confused, and a little worried now.

“I was joking. Of course I won’t ask myself. Anyway, what were you talking about?”

“Oh, yeah!” Blonde appears relieved, and says, “So, guess who’s going to ask you to the dance?”

“Probably not myself,” says Celeste.

“No . . . why would . . never mind. Peter Mitchell! I’m so jealous! Oh my god, I would just kill to have him go with me!” Blondie looks a little dangerous.

“Yeah, well, until he actually asks me, why don’t you just keep your eye-daggers pointed at someone else.” Celeste walks away.

“Jenny!” screams Celeste, as she’s walking away from Blondie, who just blinks as Pac Sun walks over to her.

“What’s going on with Celeste?” asks Pac Sun. “And is it true that Petey’s going to ask her to the dance?”

“If she doesn’t ask herself first,” says Blondie.

“I don’t get it,” Pac Sun says.

 * * * 

For many kids, it’s the real world and reality when one must get a job, move out of the house, etc. And for these kids, real life doesn’t begin until after college, when the real world crashes through the protective, educational barrier created by a competitive school-system and they find themselves thrust into a world far uglier and more cruel than they thought possible.

But after all, perspective changes with position.

And for the kids who work during high school, who hammer away at forty-fifty hours a week on top of school duties, that low Physics grade or struggling Government class begin to step back in importance, until the over-consuming need for money threatens to matter more than x+y=15-f(3+8). In fact, many of these working kids do not know the dates of the Swedish-French period of the Hundred Years’ War. It is often for this reason their parents make them quit their jobs.

But for Celeste, working’s necessary. School feels foreign to her, alien, as though the halls were the bridge of the Enterprise or the dungeon of a Camelot. But at work, as a cook at the local fast-food eatery called The PitStop, she calls the shots, as long as it concerns her kitchen, anyway.

Celeste—

“Jenny.”

—arrives at work a minute too late; perhaps her manager, a tough S.O.B. named Carl, will write her up and force the lesson home.

“You’re late,” says Carl, his stern eyes piercing Celeste—

“Jenny.”

—with the intensity and accuracy of a thousand, plastic-tipped orange bullets that come with the cheap, dollar guns that break the day after you buy them.

“I know your name,” says Carl, quite certain that the yellow-orange nametag screaming

“Celeste—”'

”Jenny.”

—would stifle the confusion.

“Anyway, Celeste,"—

”Jenny.”

“I know your name,” he repeats, as though the nametag’s letters were rearranging.

“Yes?” asks Celeste, her brown—

”Strawberry-blonde”

—hair swishing back and forth with the intensity of a broken wiper blade.

“I do not swish my hair,” she says.

“That’s why we have hairnets,” Carl says.

 * * * 

It’s when she’s working, making burgers and dropping fries into the golden bath of thousand-degree grease capable of stripping the skin of a human more quickly than piranha, that the phone rings.

“Phone’s for you,” Carl says, waiting until the timer beeps before pulling it out.

“Don’t pull things out of my fryer early,” says Celeste—

"Jenny.”

—in a mocking tone.

“Anyway, maybe they’ll call back.”

“If they can call back,” says Celeste—

“Jenny,” and Carl realizes that she is still more normal than most of the workers.

* * * 

“Someone called for you,” says her mother, as she arrives home.

“Who was it?” asks Celeste—

”Jenny.”

“No . . . you can’t call yourself, dear.” Her mother’s tone fits the image of a woman talking kindly to a rabid dog—while looking for a stick.

“Never mind. Who was it?”

“A boy named Peter or something like that. Anyway, he left a number which you could call him back at. If you want to, he said. He sounded nervous.” Her mother chuckles softly to herself in that loving way mothers do, before walking back to the kitchen.

“I’ll call him,” says Celeste—

”My name is Jenny!” shouts Celeste, and her mother makes a mental note to review teenager psychology books.

“Is Peter there?” asks Celeste—

”Jenny!”

“Okay, okay,” says the voice at the other end, “I’ll tell him who’s calling.”

“Hello?” asks Peter, in a voice that screams, “I’m cool. I’m not nervous at all, oh my god, I hope I smell good.” Rarely are teenage boys coherent on the phone. If they aren’t asleep, at which point they speak with the same alphabets as Neanderthals. But not the same pronunciation.

“What’s up,” he asks. It’s not a question.

“Good. You called?” Celeste—

stiffens her shoulders and bites her tongue.

“So I was wondering if you wanted to go to this big dance thing, I mean, you don’t have to . . . please?” Fairly smooth for his age and relative inexperience.

“I’d love to,” Jenny says.