Page 26 of Icing on the Cake

After a moment’s hesitation, I type:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: October 2, 2015

Subject: This is Gerard

Dear Ice Queen,

First off, I have to say I’m flattered. When I woke up this morning, I never imagined my butt would be the subject of a viral blog post, but here we are.

I’ll admit, at first, I was freaked out by all the attention. I’m used to people staring at me, but usually, it’s because of my sick hockey skills or my dashing good looks, not because of my backside. But then I realized if I’ve got it, flaunt it, right?

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you.

Thank you for the entertaining blog post that has me simultaneously laughing and blushing.

As a token of my appreciation, I’ve attached something for you. Consider it a behind-the-scenes (pun intended) peek at the booty that has launched a thousand rockets.

Keep doing you, Ice Queen. And keep talking about the finer things in life…like me!

Sincerely,

Gerard Gunnarson and his Giant Peach

I attach one of the other butt selfies to the email and hit the “send” button.

There. The Ice Queen has been thanked, and the world has been graced with another glorious image of my backside. My work here is done.

6

ELLIOT

Two years earlier

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

I shake my head at the bus driver as I step off the bus for my campus tour. Of all the colleges I’ve been to, Berkeley Shore University takes the goddamn cake. The world is painted in a lush shade of green, and the cheerful melodies of birds fill the air. The peaceful stillness here is a far cry from the constant hustle and bustle of Boston.

Walking through the gated entrance, I realize that this isn’t just a place to get a degree; it’s a chapter waiting to be written.

I fall in line behind the other passengers disembarking from the bus and make my way toward the center of the campus. As I approach, I’m taken aback by the large crowd of students already milling about. There must be at least fifty of them chatting excitedly and introducing themselves with overeager handshakes.

My stomach twists into knots as I imagine having to make small talk with these strangers. I’ve never been good at idle chatter, frankly, because I’ve never understood it. Why do we have to pretend to give a shit about each other’s hometowns and intended majors?

I hang back from the group, hands shoved deep in my pockets, and do my best to make myself as invisible as possible. Maybe if I’m lucky, no one will notice me, and I can blend into the background.

Fat chance of that.My caramel skin and glasses mark me as an outsider amongst the sea of preppy white faces.

The tour guide, a peppy blonde girl with a megawatt smile, launches into a spiel about the history of BSU. I tune out her chirpy voice and instead scope out my potential peers from the safety of the sidelines.

There’s the typical collection of jocks and cheerleaders bonding—and by that, I mean flirting. A few artsy types with colorful hair and quirky fashion sense. And, of course, the overachievers who are undoubtedly gunning for valedictorian hanging on the tour guide’s every word.

I don’t fit into any of those neat little boxes. I don’t have an athletic bone in my body nor the ability to flirt. My clothes are plain and boring. I’m smart, but I don’t care about being at the top of the class.

I’m nothing more than a grumpy scholarship kid with a chip on his shoulder and a burning desire to prove himself. The only thing I care about is graduating with a degree. I’ll be damned if I become another statistic of a Latino kid from the wrong side of the tracks failing at life.

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