by Jordan Berardi

The Quirk: I like writing those papers you hate

She goes to Sion. I go to St. Teresa’s. She’s five feet, seven inches tall. I’m four feet, eleven and a half inches tall. She has two dogs. I have one dog. She has blondish brown curly hair. I have straight brown hair. She’s on Sion’s yearbook staff. I’m on St. Teresa’s newspaper staff. She takes French. I took Latin. The likelihood of me and this girl being friends is slim to none, right? Wrong. Our personalities are nearly identical. I think we could finish each others sentences, but before we’d have time the other would start on a different topic. She writes. I write. She’s my best friend. Her name is Ali Campbell. Mine is Jordan Berardi…(I just wanted to keep up the pattern. Insert winky face here. Physically unable to do so because if I did, it would run into the closing of the parenthesis and things would get sketchy.)

This week’s blog should have probably been the first. Writing is the basis of almost everything in my life. I’m that weird kid that gets excited when she gets an essay assignment. I still pretend to (OH MY GOSH KID ROCK IS PLAYING ON MY PANDORA….NO. OH MY GOSH, ABSOLUTELY NOT. I’M GOING TO TAKE A LAP. I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS.) be upset when I get a paper assignment, but instead I’m sketching an outline, thinking of quotes I’m going to use, thinking of the best possible introduction possible, but most of all, I’m thinking about adding the final product to my “Papahhhh’s Baby” folder in my room. And as a side note, it does have four h’s.

This is where Ali comes in. She was probably the first person to ever read something somewhat decent of mine. Wait, besides my sixth grade English teacher when she read my research paper on fashion. That was an absolute joke. It’s so horrible, and yes I still have a copy in my memory box. Ali and I have a way, I guess you could say (I’m a poet and I definitely knew it). All through grade school we talked about writing and hopefully one day being published.

To prove my seriousness about writing…I will tell you a secret. I wrote a freaking book. I don’t even think my family knows that. Granted, it’s probably terrible. I haven’t read it in a year or two. Ali read it, ask her. Actually don’t, she’ll make me sound better than I am because she’s polite or something. Whatever. It’s not published or anything. It’s in a measly binder that has a picture of a venus fly trap on the front to scare away potential snoopers. Because I guess at one point I was terrified of them. I’m trying to act nonchalant about it…I was afraid to the point of shaking. One day this kid brought one in to fourth grade and I swear I urinated my pants. How can a PLANT eat a FLY? It’s ridiculous. What if I was dying in the rainforest and a HUGE venus fly trap thought I was a fly, because I can fly and I’m small and fast and everything, and just ATE me. That’s horrifying.

Anyway, she’s been the biggest “go write” advocate. I am searching through my memory box for old papers I wrote in grade school and I just found each report card I ever received from second grade forward. But the major jackpot? A stack of 27 notes Ali and I passed during seventh and eighth grade. I’ll show you one. This is the only one that makes sense to even me…all the others are talking about jr. banana splits…?…????!!!!!

Alfalfa (Jor Jor),

Well, I am sitting in math, staring at this dumb pointless worksheet (one side is extra credit.) I sit in the back now by myself, yay. Is the science test hard? I’m totally failing vocab, it’s impossible, I tell you, IMPOSSIBLE! Anyways, I’m going to be a neon pink fairy for Halloween. I just found my favorite clip in my backpack. It’s blue. Oh, well, gotta jet. HAHAHAHA! Adios amigos.”

Einstein (Ali)

See, I like to write. There’s people that like the English aspect of life, and there’s the people that like science and math. And as that previous letter exemplifies, we both hate math. Seriously, I mean I’d like it if I could do it. I’m so bad at math it’s almost comical…until I look at my grade and then it’s not quite as comical. Like at all. Seriously, not funny after that. Except I love Ms. Sirridge, so that softens the blow.

I guess the proof is in the pudding. Just joking. I don’t even understand that phrase. What does it mean? I don’t know. I don’t understand. What is life, anyway? Anyway, what I was trying to say was the proof of my English/writing obsession lies in the fact that I take two English classes. Well three, really. AP English (hi Mrs. Dolan…I love you), contemporary literature (I don’t think Mrs. Hirner reads this, but hello anyway. I’m the only junior in my class. Still intimidated daily), and newspaper. Not to get cheesy, but I think those three classes get me through the day. Especially newspaper.

I love newspaper. I really love newspaper. When a new issue of the paper gets delivered, if you touch it, your hands get a little black. The feeling that follows is similar to what a really really demented serial killer feels. That happiness to see it on your hands? I feel it. It’s weird, but I don’t wash it off until I start getting the ink all over my face and people start judging me.

But don’t ask me to write your papers. I like writing, I never said I was good at it. And plus, it’d be too tempting to accept your payments and I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. But I’ll edit them. Oh, I like editing. A lot. Too much. Seriously, I’ll edit your papers.

Ali and I are talking about how adorable we are. “We both laugh so easily. So when our laugh attacks are combined it’s THE worst. I’m pretty sure everyone wants to kill us. We could have seen an orange lady bug and thought it was the funniest thing in the world but really we are just immature and both have the sense of humor seen in a 4-year-old.” I really need to sleep…it’s way too late. Ali’s telling me to sleep. I’m not listening. She’s too much of a mom. She keeps me grounded. Ugh, Ali.

She doesn’t know I’m writing this part in here, but it’s Tuesday morning now, this is the last edit I’ll make to this, but I had a dream about us last night. It’s kind of a funny story. To leave it short and sweet: I was a watermelon. An entire watermelon. My body was a watermelon. What? Anyway, Ali smashed me in a computer game even though I was alive. Like I wasn’t just a character on a screen, I was real. But somehow she smashed me via remote control. Woke up sweating, crying, bawling actually, with watermelon spewed all across my room. Was it really  a dream? You tell me.

Their Quirk: Frequent Waldo Delinquents (jk, I just liked the way it rhymed.)

Sara Meurer is my boo. I always test my sarcasm with her, but I instantly feel bad because she never dishes it back, she’s always just nice, so I feel mean. Anyway hi. Here’s their message.

Sara: Janie [Thompson] and I will literally go to Waldo [Pizza] for our period 9 frees and walk over to the bar and order root beers. We are obsessed with them. And we sometimes get our usual pizza. One time we actually left school during lunch (with permission) and ordered Waldo’s to go. We are absolutely obsessed with the Lost Trail root beer.

Janie: Every time we get it I have to read the Lost Trail story on the side of the bottle with a lil’ country twang. OR we rush to Sonic for happy hour (1/2 priced drinks every day from 2-4) and get slushies. So good though.

Sara: BUT BASICALLY WE JUST LOVE ST.LOUIS STYLE PIZZA WITH MUSHROOM AND HAMBURGER FROM WALDO.

Janie: Sara supports my obnoxious rapping in the car.

—NOTE FROM ME, JORDAN: What does that have to do with anything????? Honestly, why did I agree to put you guys in this? #regret. Joke. ILY don’t be upset. Back to the conversation.

Sara: Janie is literally the spitting image of Nicki Minaj. That’s not a joke.

—NOTE FROM ME, JORDAN, AGAIN: It’s probably a joke.