Cliffnotes: History Lesson
Journal Entry #8
Salutations, Journal!
My name is Clifford Clarkson. I am a senior year high school student attending a boarding school in hopes of putting my full focus on education. While I will take the best college I can get, my aim is to make it to the Ivy League. Everything is going well, including my grades, SAT scores, and extracurriculars. The only place where I am stuck is finding something to write for my college essay. This journal is meant to help with that.
[Welcome to Cliffnotes, a series of fiction shorts serving as a lighthearted prequel to my novella, IVY.
I made these just for fun, not as seriously edited, but short, sweet, and simple! Cliffnotes was the most popular series on my old blog, so I hope you enjoy it too! You can find the full chapter list here.]
Journal Entry 8: History Lesson
My roommates and I were headed out on a weekend vacation. While “the guys” chatted about sports, girls, and boardwalk trips, I planned for what I would need to do to finally get our group project finished.
“So? Arcade? Are we going to hit the arcade?”
“D-Do you think it’s really haunted?”
“Cliff is rich! He can probably buy us the prizes himself!”
I shouldered my way to the front of the pack. “Stop. We’re going to dinner at 9.” Always me keeping them on schedule. I pulled my packed satchel over my shoulder as it sagged from the weight of all four of our books. “Don’t forget, we need to study.”
We settled into the restaurant, in a small booth towards the back, which I had reserved for us. The smell of baking bread won me over, and I couldn’t help myself from gnawing at the tiny slices they provided.
With several appetizers under my budget, I began spreading out our work papers. "So, have you gotten the slideshow ready?" I asked.
My stare locked onto Sable. He had been to tutoring sessions with me the most.
Sable took out his phone, showing me a blank slide. "How do I like..."
Three hopeless eyes looked to me for answers on slide formatting. In the click of a button, the slides were themed and formatted, ready to be filled in. Score… I think.
"How... um, how did you do that?" Merch asked, as if I was magic.
I shrugged. "It's in the assignment. Use template C."
I was answered by three palms slapping against faces. We completed the slides in minutes with me coaching the group, but Merch had to use the restroom, and Sable had to abuse the vending machine, so me and Angelo were left alone for a break.
I awkwardly eyed my roommate. "Todd."
"Clifford Clarkson."
I noticed him fidgeting, shoving appetizers away from his food. He was secretly a clean freak, something only I was privy to. I passed him a spare napkin. He didn't look up.
"You seem angry," I remarked, half-jokingly.
"You're surprised, Monoxide?"
"Despite knowing you since ninth grade, you've never told me why, and I wish you would. I'm running out of detention slips."
Angelo folded his arms. I grabbed him by the strap of his leather jacket and forced him to look at me.
Before he choked, he turned to me. "Fine. It's... My mom."
I nodded, waiting.
"She's... strict. I don't know. Religious. I feel like I have to rebel, but, then... I don't hate Church. And anytime I say that, everyone... they say stop being Christian. If I say want to stay… Does that make me the bad guy?" He pulled down his demon-horned headphones, telling me, I think, he only wore them out of spite.
"What's stopping you from staying? You're an adult. It's not about what your mom, or ‘everyone,’ thinks," I said, partially supportive, mostly stern.
"It's... But the guys are all atheists! I guess I just feel like I have to defend them," he huffed.
"Why? You know I don't hold anything against someone if they were religious."
"I just-" he stopped himself from shouting, seeing we're in public, and finally gave me a real answer. "My grandmother passed this year. She was my last real friend. Now it's just me, and mom, dad doesn't care, and..."
My hand rested on his arm. I dropped my smirk, wholly sincere. Poor Angelo. "I'm so sorry."
"Thanks," he muttered. I knew it probably wasn't enough. Note to self - buy him a card on the way home.
"How's your father?" Angelo quickly changed the subject.
"Well," I shrugged, "He keeps asking me what I need help with at school, I keep getting stuck for an answer."
I noticed Merch on his way back, and put our conversation to a close. We should be leaving anyway.
The last thing I did was hand Angelo a book, something I’d been studying for my own college plans. If the Ivies didn’t work out, well, there was a nice Catholic college I was considering as a backup.
"A wise history professor once told me there's always more than two sides to every story. Here. The good and bad of Church history. Take a look."
