Private School

My parents are not rich. I say this because people sometimes think
that everyone who goes to private school is rich, but that isn’t true
with us. Dad’s a teacher and Mom’s a social worker, which means
they don’t have those kinds of jobs where people make gazillions of
dollars. We used to have a car, but we sold it when Jamie started
kindergarten at Beecher Prep. We don’t live in a big townhouse or in
one of those doorman buildings along the park. We live on the top
floor of a five-story walk-up we rent from an old lady named Doña
Petra all the way on the “other” side of Broadway. That’s “code” for
the section of North River Heights where people don’t want to park
their cars. Me and Jamie share a room. I overhear my parents talk
about things like “Can we do without an air conditioner one more
year?” or “Maybe I can work two jobs this summer.”
So today at recess I was hanging out with Julian and Henry and
Miles. Julian, who everyone knows is rich, was like, “I hate that I
have to go back to Paris this Christmas. It’s so boring!”
“Dude, but it’s, like, Paris,” I said like an idiot.
“Believe me, it’s so boring,” he said. “My grandmother lives in this
house in the middle of nowhere. It’s like an hour away from Paris in
this tiny, tiny, tiny village. I swear to God, nothing happens there! I
mean, it’s like, oh wow, there’s another fly on the wall! Look, there’s
a new dog sleeping on the sidewalk. Yippee.”
I laughed. Sometimes Julian could be very funny.
“Though my parents are talking about throwing a big party this
year instead of going to Paris. I hope so. What are you doing over
break?” said Julian.
“Just hanging out,” I said.
“You’re so lucky,” he said.