Prep School Satire Piece

Chapter One: Mad World

“All around me are familiar faces, worn-out places, worn-out faces…I went to school and I was very nervous, no one knew me, no one knew me. Hello teacher tell me what’s my lesson, look right through me, look right through me ” –Mad World, Gary Jules

Pippa squirmed uncomfortably in her lacy, white Lily Pulitzer frock that constrained her like a strait jacket. It was hellishly hot—too hot to wear clothing, let alone a full graduation gown. Centennial courtyard was a Monet of pastels, a satire scene of parents in snooty suits and ostentatious Chanel dresses, exchanging yacht club stories while students of all ages were milling about, taking pictures and having tearful last moments with the seniors. Pippa cast her eyes towards the murky brick walls of ‘The Rock,’ that lay half hidden, cradled beneath a copse of maple trees that gleamed a radiant lime green in the late May sun. She would have given anything to be in her room that lay within that rusty red building, her refuge from the hectic hysteria that was the typical preppy hustle and bustle of Taft. As she envisioned herself nestled snugly in her plush bed—only made so thanks to a dozen layers of mattress pads and Anthropologie comforters— with her three fans blasting torrents of crisp air in her face, she remembered with a pang that most of her belongings had already been packed and sealed away in an mélange of odd shaped boxes and over stuffed suitcases.

Pippa’s father chided her to stop fidgeting. Her mother in turn, chastised her father for making a fuss. Pippa glared at both at them so ferociously that the baby seated in the adjacent row began to bawl loudly. It was first time in years that the three of them had come together as a family and already she could feel that old tension bubbling to the surface, threatening to boil into a full fledged violent fury.  Four years abroad had not completely diminished her inexplicable feelings of loathing and disgust towards the staunch elderly man and his knock-off horn-ribbed Raybans. She honestly hadn’t even expected him to show up for her graduation, but she supposed someone was going to have to move all her junk out of her dorm. An unbidden tinge of embarrassment permeated her everytime her estranged father stepped foot on campus. Everything about him, from his bulging gut, to the metal cane that he waved around obnoxiously, to the fake American accent he affected when he spoke to her teachers or other parents, irked her, resulting in snappy remarks and acerbic responses that were Pippa’s trademark.  She felt the judging eyes of her peers and even some adults, trained on him, like a sniper readying his rifle for a shot. He looked so out of place compared to the other fathers, who were all trim and boyish and still appeared to have the majority of their hair, which is why she had forbidden him to ever visit her. The last time he’d been at Taft was at the International Orientation at the beginning of her freshman year. Her Mum on the other hand, was not quite so dreadfully awkward. Sure, she looked rather odd in her floral tunic and sunshine yellow leggings, but she was pleasant for the most part and, having gone to an American boarding school herself, she knew how to act in front of that kind of crowd. People had even started to take her spacey demeanor and partial deafness as part of her foreign charm.

After what seemed like a millennia, the senior class dean rose to the podium. Pippa’s hand began to itch towards her ipod that she had surreptitiously tucked into her bra. Her friend in front turned around and shot her a look, the same look that they shared every morning meeting since sophomore year. The look that said “Oh my Lord, Jesus, Mother of Waiyaki, get me out of here.” The names of strangers whizzed by in a dull drone. Occasionally one of her friends was called and she cheered and applauded with the rest of the crowd, though still perfectly seated in her chair. She wasn’t being disrespectful, no; it was hot, she was lazy, and her friends knew her well enough by now to not expect her to partake in any remotely physical activity when it was this hot out. By the time it reached the ‘J’ names, she was ready to fight somebody. Forget waiting for the parade, the second that diploma was in her hands she was high-tailing her tennis toned butt out of there.

“Pippa Florence Paver Santhraopong.”

Pippa stood up obligingly to a round of scattered applause and a handful of faintly audible murmurs. By now, she was far used to her ridiculously long and hard to pronounce last name stirring up a storm of taciturn ridicule, and deafened her ears to the covert, hushed laughter. With the dignified air of princess, she strode past the files of her blue-and-red clad class towards the front. Keshanda flashed her a toothy grin, and motioned the obscure hand gesture that they had dubbed their gang sign late one Saturday night. She caught the glance of her other friend, Hye Soo, who looked proud for once, astounded that she, Pippa, had actually managed to graduate. Skimming through the aisles, she acknowledged Nicki, who was doing a little victory dance, and Shinea, who gave her a thumbs-up. She walked right past Maria too, but kept moving without a second glance. 

Pippa stumbled onto the platform, almost barreling into the headmaster, Mr. Mac, as she reached forward to shake his hand.  She was trembling slightly and the knot that had developed in the pit of her stomach on her trek up twisted itself even tighter as the gold emblazoned diploma was placed into her palm. This was it. An unfamiliar lump of emotion swelled in her chest, a furious clash of relief and melancholy. It had only taken her five years, but she he was finally done with High School.

‘I can’t wait to be done with high school,’ Pippa groaned inwardly as she blinked blearily at the wire frame of the bed above, having just been woken up to the blaring cacophony of Miley Cyrus’ “Can’t Be Tamed” that had been set as her roommate’s alarm. Why on earth had so chosen to repeat 9^th Grade and prolong her suffering? And why did her roommate have such an ungodly taste in music? She had to admit though; it was a slight improvement from the clamorous drilling and beeping sounds blasting from the construction site that had woken her up consecutively for the previous three days, but only by a microscopic amount.

A grouchy Pippa rolled out of her dwarf-sized bed, her back aching like an old lady’s from being jabbed at by the skeletal wire frame of her mattress that protruded like a series of tumors, and narrowly avoided collided with her roommate’s chair that stood literally a foot from the bed. Pippa grumbled, still not used to the miniscule scale of the room. She had shown up a few days prior, as was required of all international students, with her three enormous leather suitcases and numerous plastic bags overflowing with “little extras” that she’d picked up during her stay in New York, her Louis Vuitton trunk in tow and her Chanel purse on her arm. As her parents battled with the baggage, Pippa surveyed the two almost identical brick buildings that faced where the car was parked in ‘Mac circle.’ The one closest to them was her dorm, Mac House. She half-chuckled, half-grimaced at the sight of the sprawling gritty construction site that neighbored her future dwellings, separated by a rusty chain link fence that snaked around the corner of the main building. It was just like home! She tried to sneak her way into Mac with as little humiliation and commotion as possible, but with her petite Asian mother gabbling away in Cantonese and her burly Australian father poking at everything with his metal cane, as though he’d never seen such sights Down Under, topped off with their rather rotund driver struggling to carry the plenitude of bags, it was impossible to be inconspicuous. She cringed internally, sensing the curious stares of the few students present in the dorm, peeking their heads out of their rooms at the racket. So much for making a good first impression. 

Pippa had come from a prestigious, private British International school in Singapore, where one’s reputation was everything. With her father being on the board of the Australian embassy, naturally he wanted only the best education for his only child, which is why he’d sent her to Garden International School, where she rubbed shoulders with the progeny of prime ministers, CEO’s, ambassadors, prominent lawyers and even royalty, on a daily basis. They were the elite: a concentration of richest, most spoilt kids the country, who had the world in the palm of their hands. The majority of them were decently bright, but even so, what did intelligence did matter when your trust fund would pretty much cover you until you were old enough to receive pension? There was no such thing as financial aid at GIS.  If you passed one of them at the mall, you could tell who they were instantly. Maybe it was in the distinct way they dressed: head to toe in the latest designer outfits. Maybe it was in the way they talked: phlegmatic and self-assured, not caring who they offended. Or maybe it was the aura of cocksure dominance that emanated from them, dead certain that they were absolutely untouchable. Pippa had attended GIS since preschool and in a way it was like her second dysfunctional family. Despite the school’s large population, everyone knew each other, and though there was constant warfare amongst the students, deep down everyone looked out for each other. Even the teachers were in on it too; they were best friends with the parents but ultimately turned a blind eye to people breaking the rules: un-tucking their uniforms, hiking up their skirts so that they were only barely decent, and bringing alcohol to class in opaque water bottles. Of course, the underlying idea was that they could not do anything. These kids had enough money and power to bribe out a whole police station. GIS’ system was as corrupt and scandal-ridden as the Singaporean government. However, this freedom and authority that was bestowed upon those fortunate enough to be GIS students came with a steep price.  The pressure to be perfect was so harsh that eating disorders, substance abuse and depression were quite the norm. The fact that almost everyone came from a broken family like Pippa’s didn’t help either. GIS was poison; it every infected every particle of your being and corroded your soul until there was nothing left but a ruthless, empty shell that would fight tooth and claw to get to the top. Though it pained Pippa to leave the place that she had called home for pretty much all her life, she knew she had to escape before she ended up in the hospital again, or worse.

As she turned the key into her new room and her new life, Pippa’s spirits lifted optimistically. The door swung open. She stood stock-still in the doorway, nearly dropping her pink Chanel purse as she blinked owlishly at the sight that lay before her. This wasn’t a room; this was a freaking closet. The space, if you could call it that, extended about six feet from the door before hooking around a small nook, where stood a small bureau, which partially blocked the frame of a minute closet. A desk was tucked away in the corner, and a pair of bunk beds lay hidden behind the open door, opposite a second set of identical furniture, which formed a narrow pathway that barely allowed access to the room. 

‘Are you freaking kidding me?’ Pippa deadpanned mentally. Did they know who she was? She felt the urge to storm over to the Duty Office and demand an explanation for this atrocity, but she inhaled deeply and supplanted it. This was the time for the new Pippa, the better Pippa, the Pippa that did not talk about people behind their backs, the Pippa that did not cheat on her boyfriends, the Pippa that was grounded, mature, and polite and did not throw temper tantrums.

‘You wanted this,’ she told herself. ‘You wanted a fresh start. Suck it up.’ 

So she did. She settled in and somehow managed to stuff all her clothes into the compact bureau and the single nanoscale closet that she supposed she was going to have to share with her roommate. She bid her parents a stony adieu, only displaying a sliver of gratitude when they handed her a nice, crisp $100 bill. She went out to the international orientation and tried to make friends with other foreign kids, and ended up sticking with the other Asians exclusively, because they who she figured she’d fit in with best, seeing as she was half-Thai and lived in Singapore. She ended up getting rejected by the other Asians, who found her a little weird with her odd mix of British, Thai and Singaporean culture. Pippa would have been utterly disheartened that she could not even affiliate with people who were presumably like her, had she not met a couple of interesting characters that saved the day from being a complete failure. There was Chuck, a short stocky boy from Hong Kong, who she sat next to at lunch and had carried her student file around for her.  Then there was Ryan, who was impossibly tall for someone from Asia and cracked dirty jokes that made Pippa split her sides with laughter. Finally there was Tomo, the not-quite-as-freakishly-tall Japanese kid who was already beginning to develop a harem of freshmen girls around him.

The next day, her roommate arrived. Pippa had talked to her over the summer and she seemed pleasant enough, but getting to know someone over Facebook could be very deceptive. People could put up all kinds of pretenses over the Internet, but as Pippa soon came to find out, Anna-Marie kept those facades intact even in real life. Pippa was coming back from the gym when she noticed that her door was ajar. Piles of floral duffel bags littered the room and hallway. Wheeling around, Pippa found herself face to face with her new roommate.

“Hi!” Anna-Marie greeted enthusiastically as she shuffled past Pippa to unload even more bags into the already overflowing room.

“Hi…” Pippa waved awkwardly, caught off guard. Darn, she’d expected to have so much more time to herself. “You must be Anna- Marie. I’m Pippa. Erm…Do you have like a nickname or something? Like Anna?” Anna-Marie was pretty long to enunciate every single time. “

“No,” her roommate said, casting her a supercilious glance. “It’s Anna-Marie.” 

And that was the last time she and Anna-Marie really spoke. Over the next few days, Pippa realized that Annie-Marie was the epitome of the snooty American teenager stereotype: she was an unabashed social climber and was as blonde and vapid as they came.

The said blonde roommate had already left the room, decked out in attire that screamed “Desperate! Desperate! Look at me, I’m desperate,” ready to dash off to breakfast and become everyone’s fake best friend. It was the first day of classes, and Pippa figured that it was best that she wasn’t late-from what she saw from the Taft Handbook, the teacher’s here didn’t seem to be too lenient. Pippa recited her schedule for the day as she systematically applied her make-up: Chinese in main building, Physics in Wu, and to top it off English back in main building. She slipped on a black long-sleeved sweater dress and her customary headband to hold back her shaggy mane of dark brown locks. That was preppy enough right? She pulled on a pair of black leggings for good measure and one of her numerous Roxy hoodies. It was getting chilly out. She inspected herself in the tiny mirror that perched on the back of the door and smiled. She looked good.

Pippa trudged on the gravel path that side-winded from her dorm to the main building and past the row of bricks emblazoned with the names of graduates. She wondered absently what the school would do once they ran out of pavement to lay the bricks into. The smell of eggs wafted into the dining hall foyer, calling out to her empty stomach, which grumbled longingly in response. She was always hungry in the mornings. But as she entered the servery, she found the breakfast selection to be rather disappointing. The eggs were rubbery, the potatoes and bacon were swimming in oil, she couldn’t find the Greek yoghurt and they were despairingly out of granola. Settling for the fake eggs, and a cup of hot tea, she entered the cavernous dining hall and joined the queue of students waiting to sign in to breakfast: a rule Pippa thought was quite absurd. Why did the school care if ate in the morning? As long as she made it on time to her first class, did it really matter? She felt like she was in prison, where a tracking device cataloged her every move and grades were dished out for anyone who stepped out of line. A girl in a polo and corduroys came up behind her and said hi, and Pippa vaguely remembered that they were in the same grade, and had become Facebook friends over the summer. Pippa approached the faculty table and neatly crossed her name out from the slip of paper that documented the names of all the underclassmen.  ‘Prison log,’ Pippa noted.

Just as she picked up her plate, she was stopped in her tracks by Ms. Paige, the physics teacher that Pippa had decided was completely crazy upon meeting her when she first visited Taft.  “Dear, that’s too short for school. Go change.”

Pippa looked down, perplexed. Her fingertips hung well above the hem of the dress’ wooly black fabric, which also completely covered her behind. Moreover, her tights modestly hid every inch of skin that the dress didn’t. Her outfit was so demure it made a nun look scandalous in comparison. Ms. Paige was completely off her rocker. “Pardon?”

“It needs to be two inches below your fingertips hun. Please go change into something more appropriate.”

Pippa glanced around at the other teacher’s sitting at the table, waiting for someone to assure Ms. Paige that she was completely bonkers, but all of them were suddenly struck with an odd fascination for their breakfast as they were all staring intently into their cups of coffee and gazing at their food like it was a gift from God. Ms. Paige continued to watch her like a hawk about to devour a mouse.

Having grown up in highly pretentious social circles, Pippa was someone who put a lot of value in appearance and felt a default disdain for those who looked less than modelesque. Ms. Paige was, to say the least, very round. Everything about her was round, from her round sunshine cheeks to the bowl of hair around her round head, to her round body, to her little round feet. Pippa thought scathingly, “Oh you wish you could wear a dress this short.”

The girl behind Pippa –Kimmy? Karla? –moved forward to sign in, and Ms. Paige stopped her too. “Those are leggings, doll. Go change.” 

Karla gave her a look. “Um, no these are corduroys. Look,” she pointed to the minute ribbings on the fabric and it’s obvious pockets. 

“They’re too tight hun. I won’t give you grades this time, but you better go change. Now. Both of you.”  Pippa and Karla exchanged a dumbfounded look, before simultaneously storming off.  Pippa had walked about two feet before she heard Ms. Paige’s falsely sugared voice call her back.

“ No hoods. Take it off doll, and put on a nice cardigan. That’s a good girl.”

They weren’t allowed to wear hoodies either? Pippa lips curled into the placid smile that she’d learnt to paint on, but on the inside, she was flipping out, screaming profanities in the four languages she knew. She hadn’t brought a single cardigan with her. She’d always viewed cardigans as something old people wore, inessential articles of clothing that were only maybe worn by younger generations in warmer weather.  Looking around, Pippa was shocked as she realized that the majority of people were, in fact, wearing cashmere cardigans in a spectrum of soft hues. 

“Yes Ms. Paige,” Pippa answered cloyingly, with enough honey in her tone to induce Diabetes.

Her eyes blazing, Pippa threw out her plate of food –it looked inedible anyway –and marched towards heavy door of the dining hall foyer, cursing loudly as she was smacked in the face with a cold gust of crisp autumn air. She hurried down the stone steps, still berating Ms. Paige under her breath. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder –the coast was clear – Pippa tucked her hood in, pulled her dress down, and walked defiantly on the brick path straight to her Chinese class. 

“They will not force us, they will stop degrading us, they will not control us, we will be victorious” – Uprising, Muse