I Give You Nothing
By Gabriel Cassidy
But you’ve got a habit of carrying the stone
Look around and ask someone if you are alive
You’re a sidewalk cipher speaking prionic jive
So I give you me, I give you nothing!
– Bad Religion, “Give you Nothing”
AN OVERWHELMING AMOUNT OF SUPPORT WAS SHOWERED UPON HER. She was used to this, but this time it was different. She did not feel as though the admiration was deserved. Sure, she thought, the two people I’m competing against are complete hacks. One of the boys, the pale one with freckles, blatantly ripped off the poem he read during his speech from Dylan Thomas, passing it off as his ‘original piece of personal contentment.’ Yet, something still didn’t feel quite right.
Was it the joint she smoked before the event? No. It couldn’t have been. This was not the first time she had attended one of these circle jerk fests while stoned and, of this she could distinctly remember, every time she had, there had never been this sweeping feeling of incompleteness. Since the age of five, she had been enshrouded in a cave of plaques, medals, scholarships, first prize athletic awards, etc. Not only was she on track to be the first person in her family to go to college, she was well on her way to being able to attend any college she damn well pleased.
She was America’s wet dream, white, blonde, and beautiful. Of course, these physical characteristics were used against her, primarily by those who had not achieved a fraction of what she had earned. Her accomplishments were never, according to these people, the fruits of her natural intellect and hard labor. Rather, they were the inevitable conclusion derived from the size of her breasts/ass/stomach, as well as a particularly nasty rumor that had been circulating since sophomore year concerning an alleged handjob she had given to Mr. Howley—the English teacher who organized these events—behind the bleachers in the old gymnasium.
No one in life wants to see you succeed, she often reflected, at least not really.
She was seated directly between her two opponents. To her left, the pale plagiarizing freckled kid. To her right, a sophomore who had transferred that year from Arkansas. They were each here to receive some bullshit honorable mention award. This was basically a much more patronizing way of saying “You tried your best and it wasn’t nearly good enough. Here’s a plaque to commemorate your ineptitude.” Jesus fucking Christ, she pondered, where was all of this spitefulnes coming from?
Just last year, when she had been in an eerily similar setting, she did not have these thoughts. Passively, she had sat and smiled while the various faculty members salivated over her innumerable accomplishments. When it had been her turn to deliver the obligatory speech, she approached the podium without any remorse, gleefully opening with a joke that the audience laughed at hysterically, despite the fact that it wasn't even remotely funny. Afterwards, she had approached her two opponents, shook their hands, and congratulated them on their ‘wonderful’ speeches, and wished them nothing but success in the future. There had been nothing superficial about this. She meant every word she said then, but now, everything appeared to have changed.
The awards mean nothing, she asserted to herself, my opponents are–and have always been–laughable, and I appear to be caught in a hamster wheel, receiving award after award for my ‘outstanding contributions,’ and for what? Who am I winning these for?
Sitting behind him was a boy by the name of Dylan who had, if her sources were to be believed, started the rumor about her giving the handjob.
She paused for a moment to scan the audience. She noticed her parents in the third row smiling in an exaggerated clown-like fashion. No siblings, she was an only child. Her gaze drifted over to the right, landing upon a boy who had been pathetically pursuing her since freshman year. Her glance distended even farther and reached an old friend group.
Overachievers in their own right, they had graduated the year prior and were visiting from those schools in New Haven, Hanover, Ithaca, etc. On the exact opposite side of the room, she caught sight of Mr. Howley. Locking eyes, Howley smiled and extended an enthusiastic thumbs-up, of which she reciprocated. Sitting behind him was a boy by the name of Dylan who had, if her sources were to be believed, started the rumor about her giving the handjob. Thus, it was par for course that, behind Howley’s back, he began to make a crude masturbatory gesture with his hand, followed by an overemphasized facial expression of sexual climax.
She became dizzy. It was as if her entire life was being broadcasted to her in this one room. Her parents whom had given her life, the friends whom she had grown up with (and whom also offered an ominous glimpse into her future of quiet misery), teachers and coaches who had discovered and fostered her talent, ugly male suitors she was constantly forced to politely decline, perverted gossipers, ankle-biting jealous critics, etc. These extrinsic forces had always been an integral part of her life. They crafted her in their image. Thus, they will forever be a part of her.
The realization of this produced a form of paralysis. She could not move, nor could she speak. Her mind was a void. This momentary lapse of cognition and physical ability extended past the applause for the final guest speaker, as well as three separate invites from her principal for her to approach the podium and deliver the acceptance speech. Midway through the fourth desperate plea she stood and walked catatonically to the podium. The principal handed her the award and smiled a used car salesman smile.
Her mind awoke. So many thoughts were now racing through it. How exactly to approach this? She took one last surrey of the room and sighed internally. She coughed, smiled, and began to speak.
“Well Mom and Dad... it looks like we're going to need to build an extension to my trophy case.”
The audience laughed hysterically.