Nightlight: A Parody - By The Harvard Lampoon Inc. Staff Page 0,2

the administration office. “What can I do for you?” she asked, eyeing me through her spectacles, trying to judge me by my looks. As a deeply mysterious person, however, I defy such judgments. She was pale, like me, but in a large, obese way.

“You don’t recognize me—I’m new here,” I said strategically. The last thing the mayor needed right now was for the window-wiper’s daughter to be kidnapped. But sure enough, she kept looking at me. My fame had preceded me.

“And what can I do for you?” she repeated.

I knew that she probably only wanted to help me because I was the window-wiper’s daughter, the girl everyone had been talking about since my plane got in yesterday. And I knew what they must say about me: “Belle Goose: queen, warrior, chapter-book reader.” I cleverly decided to play into their preconception.

“Salut! Comment allez-vous s’il vous plait … Oh, I’m sorry. How embarrassing. I took French at my old high school in Phoenix—sometimes I just slip into it. Anyway, to put it in English, can you direct me to my next class?”

“Sure. Let’s take a look at your schedule …”

I pulled it from my bag and released it into her pallid, chubby fingers, one of which was squeezed through a diamond ring like a sausage through a slipknot. I smiled at her. She looked like she would make a grateful wife.

“It looks like your first class is English.”

“But I’ve already taken English. A few semesters of it, actually.”

“Don’t be smart with me, young lady.”

So, she knew I was smart. Flattered, I conceded.

“You know what?” I said. “I’ll go. What the heck, right?”

“Down the hall to your right,” she told me. “Room 201.”

“Thank you,” I said. It wasn’t even noon yet, and I’d already made a friend. Was I some kind of people-magnet? Granted, she was a middle-aged woman, but that made sense. My mom always told me I was mature for my age, especially because I enjoy the taste of coffee with hot chocolate and sugar and milk. I sauntered maturely over to Room 201, flung open the door and peered at the students with my chin out. The whole class could tell I was friends with older people.

The teacher scanned his attendance list. “And you must be … Belle Goose.”

All of this attention was getting a little embarrassing.

“Take a seat,” he said.

Unfortunately, the class was too basic to hold my interest: Ulysses, Gravity’s Rainbow, Oblivion, and Atlas Shrugged, supplemented with the various lenses of Derrida, Foucault, Freud, Dr. Phil, Dr. Dre, and Dr. Seuss. I groaned loudly as the teacher droned on, introducing everyone’s name. I’d have to ask my mom to send me some interesting literature, like those essays I wrote last year.

When the bell rang, the boy next to me predictably turned to me and started talking.

“Excuse me,” he said, hoping I would fall in love with him or something. “Your bag is in my way.”

I knew it. He was totally the “your-bag-is-in-my-way” type.

“My name is Belle,” I said. I wondered which was the more surprising part about me—my elbows, which are naturally pointy, or my demeanor, which is apathetic to popularity, even though I’ve read all the popularity handbooks so I could be popular if I tried.” You can walk me to my next class.”

“Um, sure,” he said, wanting me. He made small talk on the way about how he was abandoned as a child and will only rest easy once he is avenged. His name was Tom. I could tell people passing by were listening in, hoping that I would reveal the mystery of my past.

“So what’s Phoenix like?” he beseeched.

“It’s hot there. And sunny all the time.”

“Really? Wow.”

“You sound surprised. You must be surprised by how fair-skinned I am, coming from such a hot climate.”

“Hmm. I suppose you are pale.”

“Yeah—I’m half dead,” I joked, very humorously. He didn’t laugh. I should have known no one would get my sense of humor in Switchblade. It was like no one here had ever told a sarcasm before.

“Here’s your class,” he said when we reached the Trigonometry classroom. “Good luck!”

“Thanks. Maybe we’ll have another class together,” I said, giving him something to live for.

Trigonometry was all blah-blah formulas that we’d just save on our calculators anyway and Government was all blah-blah tomorrow we’re crossing the border to attack Canada. Nothing I hadn’t done at my old school.

One girl walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. She had brown bushy hair in a ponytail that was more like a