Humanity has always been driven by its great, unanswered questions. What is the meaning of life? What happens after death? Why is Pali’s Wi-Fi so bad?
But on Monday, when Pali’s lights went out, I realized that for far too long, we have been in the dark–metaphorically–about a far more important mystery. What does ASB stand for?
I began asking around.
Ambassadors insisted that it stood for Annoying Student Board. Jewish Student Union said that it stood for Ashkenazi Sephardic Benai-mitzvah. A terrified freshman swore it was Apocalypse Starts at Bake sale.
Most students believed that ASB stands for Associated Student Body. Associated with what? Or rather…who are the associates? I began to suspect that this organization was far more sinister than I had thought.
Why do they collect so much money in so many fundraisers? Why does nobody know where that money goes?
Is the Leadership Show a front?
Why are they always wearing matching black polos? Are those gang colors?
When I finally got an interview with a member of ASB, it was clear that even they did not know what they stood for. I tried a different angle: “What does AP stand for?” They brightened. “Apple Pay?”
I lit a cigarette. Campus security told me to put it out, so I switched to a mechanical pencil. The case was colder than the air conditioning in the basement.
That’s when I found a note in my locker: meet me under the bleachers after school. The paper smelled faintly of chlorine. Around here, that means only one thing: Dewey.
When I arrived, Dewey wasn’t the peppy dolphin I’d seen at football games. His eyes glistened like two black olives floating in a martini. He blew bubbles through his blowhole like smoke rings.
“You’ve-e-e been asking too many questions,” Dewey said menacingly, as his mascot cronies circled me–the Brentwood Eagle, a toothpick in his beak, and the Venice Gondolier, rolling up his striped sleeves. “Ice-e-e her!” Dewey commanded. The Brentwood Eagle and Venice Gondolier held my arms behind my back, while Dewey beat me blue and white.
Then, out of the shadows, stepped The Principal herself.
“I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse,” she drawled in a Southern accent.
We came to an agreement, and I walked away, collar up, mechanical pencil still in my pocket. Nobody will ever know what ASB stands for. Or what they stand for. But if you see bubbles rising from the bottom of the Village Green Fountain, you’ll know they found out someone asked again.
