Surviving High School

otherwise quiet neighborhood. The car sat low on its axles and had a blazing phoenix detailed on the hood. The windows shook with each drumbeat and bass note blasting from the stereo.
    “Not bad, eh?” asked Kimi. “I got Phil to drive us!”
    A sudden feeling of panic filled Emily’s chest. Was she really riding with Phil to Ben’s party? And in this car?
    “Uh, is something wrong?” Kimi put a hand on Emily’s shoulder.
    “Just—uh—I thought maybe your dad was driving us orsomething,” said Emily. “Or—maybe we could walk. Or ride our bikes?”
    “Em—Ben’s place is, like, ten miles from here. And I’m not getting a ride to my first high school party from my parents.”
    “Kimi, you know I don’t like driving with—”
    “I know. I know. But please, Em, just this once. Suck it up and get in. For me—and for yourself. For Ben Kale. Take a breath, get in, and close your eyes. In ten minutes, we’ll be there.”
    Kimi opened the rear door and slid into the backseat. She gestured for Emily to come in.
    Room for one more , thought Emily, recalling a ghost story about an elevator crash. She felt her breathing accelerate and wondered if she’d be the first teenager of all time to pass out before a party.
    Just ten minutes and then you’re at Ben’s house. Just ten minutes. Just ten minutes.
    She slid into the back of the car.
    “Nice of you to join us,” came Phil’s voice from the front seat. Emily looked up to see him at the wheel next to his buddy Marcus Jones, who had been elected the hottest guy in school according to several anonymous polls in the girls’ locker room. Marcus was six foot four, with dark skin, green eyes, and thick black hair. He was also rumored to be Denzel Washington’s nephew. Emily blushed as she realized she recognized him from an underwear ad in the Sunday paper.
    But as Phil turned the key in the ignition and the engineroared to life, all thoughts of hot boys fled Emily’s brain and sheer instinctual terror took over. She gripped the handle above her head, her knuckles white.
    Phil turned back to look at her and smiled.
    “Don’t stress,” he said. “I’ll get you there safe.” Emily willed her hand to let go, but it was no use. Phil shook his head and laughed. “Have it your way, but I’m telling you, with your arm like that, you kind of look like a dress on a clothes hanger.”
    He hit the gas pedal, sending the car rocketing forward. Emily examined the door, wondering what the car’s side-impact crash-test rating was and whether it had air bags.
    Nine more minutes. Nine more minutes.
    The car’s bass continued to blare, and Emily wished she could shut her ears like she did her eyes.
    “I love this song!” shouted Phil as they sped down the road. The scenery flew by at what seemed like light speed as he merged onto the freeway, and Emily looked over his shoulder to check the speedometer.
    Phil was doing sixty-five. Exactly.
    Breathe , she thought. It’s okay. Seven minutes.
    “I love this song, too!” she shouted, trying to pretend that everything was fine, and Phil cranked the bass even louder.
    Kimi frowned and pulled her cell out of her pocket. She scrolled down her contacts list to Phil’s name and opened the “additional information” section. The list of pros and cons popped up, and Kimi added “possible future hearing loss” to the cons column.
    “It’s nice to meet you!” Marcus shouted back, turning his head to look at her. “I hear you went to the Olympics!”
    Uh-oh. It sounded like some rumors had started to take on a life of their own.
    “Maybe in 2016!” she shouted, checking the clock.
    Five minutes.
    “Right on!” Marcus shouted. “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”
    “U.S.A.!” shouted Kimi.
    “You’re a funny chick!” shouted Marcus. “When I saw you walking to the car, I thought you looked like a figure skater or something. And then Phil reminded me of that Olympics thing. Now it makes total sense.”
    Three minutes. Three… Wait. What did he mean “figure skater”?
    “So—you, uh, like my outfit?” asked Emily.
    “Definitely!” shouted Marcus. “It’s hilarious!”
    “Hilarious”? This wasn’t good.
    Emily had seen houses like Ben Kale’s before—megamansions owned by her dad’s friends from his Olympic days, paid for with money from endorsements for shoes or breakfast cereals. She just hadn’t expected the party to be at a place like this.
    “I’m definitely getting a house like this when I move