“I know. I’ve seen it,” I said.
It was ugly, demeaning, and crass.
Crudely shot footage, stalkerish
camera angles,
set to music that made the whole thing seem . . .
addictive.
There were forty thousand views
and counting.
“Whatever it is
that makes you get up every morning
and walk down these halls with your head
held high,
defying the cowardice
of the anonymous creators
of that contemptible video—
that, Miranda,
is college admissions gold.”
Miranda sighed.
“I would give my firstborn child
to get into Stanford.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know what it felt like
to walk into school
on Monday morning
after the party.”
“You’re joking, right?
I pay a shrink a hundred and fifty dollars
an hour
to forget that night,
the day after,
the week after,
the month after.
And you want me to tell you
how I felt?
“I take Zoloft to stop feeling.”
I nodded.
I knew what it felt like
to be talked about,
to be the source of gossip
that infected
the conversations at school.
Miranda’s eyes darted
toward the door,
but no one was there.
“It hurt like hell,”
she said quietly.
“How do you feel
now?”
She shrugged. “About the video?
Or life in general?”
“Both,” I said.
“I want to say
I’m over it.
The video,
not life.
But I’m not. It . . .”
She straightened out her skirt.
“. . . changed me.
For a week
I was all that anyone talked about.
Then Meydenbauer moved on
to whatever new drama popped up
the next week.
“But for me?
I had to continue to live with the feeling
of everyone staring at me.
“For a month,
every time I saw
a guy staring at his phone
for more than two minutes,
I thought he was watching
my video, watching
me.
“I’m class president.
People stare at me
all the time.
“But this was different.”
The bell rang
Miranda glanced up to a spot
where there should have been a clock
but there wasn’t.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. This is perfect,”
I said.
She stood up,
slung a tote over her shoulder,
and disappeared
into the mass of students
who streamed through the hallway.
How many of us
had walked through these halls
and felt
exactly the same
as Miranda?
Austin Schroeder
Was upgraded
to captain of the soccer team.
He rode shotgun in Jordan’s SUV.
People started remembering
his name
after Ben left.
Austin Schroeder assumed a place
that Ben emptied.
His curls were tufted.
His smile was soft.
He said “Hi” in the halls.
But he never held the door open
for teachers and freshmen.
He never said
just the right thing
to make a crappy day
better.
Austin Schroeder filled
the empty space,
but he couldn’t fill
the void
of Ben.
In Spanish class,
he slid into the seat
next to me.
Señora Torres asked us
to converse with our neighbor.
Austin leaned across the aisle.
“¿Vas a escribir mi ensayo de la universidad?”
“¿Perdón?” I responded.
“Miranda’s Stanford essay,”
he whispered.
“Huh?”
“The smartest girl in school
is asking you
her college application essay,”
Austin hissed.
Part of me hesitated,
part of me wanted
to say no,
but instead
I nodded slowly.
Señora Torres walked
up and down the aisles.
“¿Cuánto cuesta?” Austin asked.
“Trescientos dólares,” I said.
“¡Ay Dios mío!”
Austin clutched his chest
like he was an actor
in his own telenovela.
Señora Torres smiled,
charmed by our charade,
then continued walking.
Austin dug into his jacket.
He pulled out a wad of cash
and whispered,
“This should be enough.”
“Clase, clase,”
Señora Torres called out
from the front of the room.
“Sí, sí,”
we repeated in unison.
I sighed
and took the money.
“Where are you applying?”
I asked.
Why I write #1
College admissions officers wanted
a comeback story.
They wanted
to cry at the end of an essay.
They wanted
to read about the joy
a student felt
when their life was on
the precipice of change.
They wanted
the underdog,
the scrappy football team
to take down the seasoned champs.
But most of all,
they wanted
to feel.
Most essays paraded
saccharine stories about
good guys or good girls
with stellar GPAs
and leadership potential.
They were cloying,
they were tedious,
they were stale.
It took brains
to be successful,
but it also took grit
and guts.
Colleges understood this.
I understood this.
When I write
essays, I write
about the emotionally raw
moments,
the lowest points,
the authentic experiences
that change and shape us.
I am more than
writing college essays.
I am telling stories
that we are too afraid to tell,
because to tell them
is to relive them,
and sometimes it hurts
too much.
Donut Day
Laurel LeBrea painted a banner
in sparkly blue and gold
glitter upon glitter upon glitter,
like it was the only logical medium
to express the essence of her creation:
HAPPY DONOR DAY!
Meydenbauer High was a public school,
taxpayer funded, everyone in for free.
Yet our principal envision
ed us all
as an elite private school
where boosters became donors
and AP exams were compulsory.
Football, however,
was no joke.
We were good.
State champions good.
And the donors loved us for it.
Ashok groaned.
“I would give
my left arm
for that sign to read HAPPY DONUT DAY
and for a massive pile of donuts
to permanently live
right here.”
He made a square with his arms.
“Cake donuts, jelly-filled, Boston cream,
chocolate, chocolate sprinkles,
rainbow sprinkles,
maple bars, bear claws, apple fritters . . .”
“Okay! Donuts over donors.
Best thing ever,” I said.
“Yep. My left arm,
is totally worth sacrificing.”
“I’ll start gnawing
on your arm
if you don’t stop talking
about donuts.”
I knocked him with my shoulder.
He nudged me back.
We laughed.
Someone cleared their throat.
Our laughter quelled.
A crowd of donors
Stood before us
and stared
like we were an exhibit.
“To our left is Nic Chen,”
our principal said.
“Nic interned last summer
at a biomedical research lab,
where she was on the brink
of curing cancer.”
“Cancer,”
our principal said again,
with reverence.
The donors looked at me,
awestruck.
In reality,
my internship had consisted of
copying and pasting numbers
into an Excel file
and reformatting researchers’ CVs.
I was nowhere close
to curing cancer.
I had to pass AP Bio first.
“And behind Nic Chen,”
our principal said.
Ashok stepped forward,
but our principal continued,
“Is the Meydenbauer trophy case,
complete with
three consecutive
state championship trophies,
led by star quarterback
Bryant Barnett.”
With embarrassing enthusiasm,
the crowd whooped and hollered.
They scooted closer
to get a better view,
but Ashok and I
were in the way,
and we awkwardly
did not move.
So the donors turned
their attention
to Ashok,
eager to hear his tale
of greatness,
in hopes of gaining entrance
to the trophy case.
Our principal furrowed her brow,
as if searching
for something, anything
to say about the guy
wearing rave-green sneakers.
“Ashok,” he said, pointing to himself.
“Future AIDS vaccine,
and future husband
of a supermodel, yo!”
A few donors chuckled,
and the alum
famous for marrying a Real Housewife
nodded in solidarity.
Our principal’s perma-smile
downshifted a gear,
and Ashok and I quickly found an exit
as the crowd inched closer
to the trophy case.
Guys like Bryant
It was like this every fall.
The town of Meydenbauer would obsess
over a guy like Bryant Barnett,
who could rush two hundred and thirty yards,
pass three hundred and eight,
and score a couple of touchdowns.
We’d watch, huddled under fleece blankets,
sneaking swigs of schnapps,
texting our post-game plans,
throwing down money for a keg.
We’d watch guys like Bryant
on the football field, victorious,
from our mostly white
privilege in the stands.
When Bryant Barnett plays football
He gazes into the stands
between every quarter.
And you know she’s there
somewhere,
his girlfriend,
the one he adores,
and loves.
I wonder what it feels like
to be looked for,
to be seen,
to be found.
I wonder what it feels like
to wait
not for the next play,
the next touchdown,
but for the moment
when someone
who loves you
stares into the stands
and sees you
as you are,
authentic and unfiltered.
A rainbow-sprinkled donut
Sat on top of my desk
at the start of seventh period.
Ashok had powdered sugar
dusted across his chin.
He licked his fingers.
“Got you one,”
he said.
No one had done anything
this nice for me
in a long time,
since Ben.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,”
Ashok continued.
“This is a bribe.”
I took a bite of the donut.
I still thought
it was pretty darn nice.
“What do you want?”
I asked through a mouthful
of frosted covered awesomeness.
“Study buddies.
You and me, Chen.
AP Bio.
We’ve got some
Jedi mind-meld going on.
I can feel it.
We should use our powers
for good
grades.
“And I need myself
some good grades.”
A smile formed
around the corners of my mouth.
I took another bite and said,
“As long as you bring
the study snacks.”
Study buddies
Ashok and I
sat at the dining room table,
beneath the Chihuly sculpture
that functioned
as a light fixture
and hung precariously
from the ceiling.
Muted light shone
through floor-to-ceiling windows
that looked out onto the lake.
It was a luxurious way
to study AP Biology.
Hungry
It roared.
It gnashed its teeth.
It whined like a baby.
It whimpered like a puppy.
And when it grumbled
at a tone where Ashok stopped
studying and looked up,
I finally said,
“I’m hungry.”
“There’s a bag of food
in your fridge
that my mom sent over,”
he said, and went back to his textbook.
Brain food
The microwave roared to a halt
and beeped persistently.
I opened a container
of what looked like chana masala,
or at least something with chickpeas.
Steam that smelled of coriander
and other unidentifiable spices escaped
in one small puff.
I balanced
the containers of Indian food
on a stack of
pla
tes, napkins, and utensils
and carried them back
to our study space.
“Ashok, if you can continue to supply
your mother’s cooking,
you may be my new favorite
study buddy.”
Ashok dug into a pile of rice and curry.
“Word.”
The Krebs cycle
“I don’t understand,”
Ashok said.
“The Krebs cycle,” I said.
The page in front of me
was filled with a giant circle
and squiggles,
and arrows.
“I know the Krebs cycle,”
Ashok said.
“What is it? Because
I don’t think
I’ve ever seen
this page before.”
Why didn’t anyone tell me
how difficult
senior year would be?
How difficult it was to
sit in AP class after AP class,
swallowing facts
by the handful
until you just wanted to vomit
up your entire education.
“It’s the process
through which we humans
like other aerobic organisms
generate energy.”
I stared at a diagram
of carbon chains.
“It’s what allows us
to do anything.
Run a marathon.
Read a book.
Sit here and study,”
Ashok said.
I wanted to do
anything
and everything.
I wanted to ace
AP Bio.
Yet I stared at the page
that continued to make
no sense.
“You got this, girl.
Just watch this YouTube video,”
Ashok said.
I cued up the video
with relief
that today
I wouldn’t be
defeated.
Three hundred dollars
“Girl, I don’t understand,”
Ashok said again.
“What?”
He pointed out the window.
“You live in this sick house
on the lake with a dock
and a Jet Ski
and a speedboat
and a mechanical lift thingy that keeps
the Jet Ski and the speedboat
out of the water.
Damn that’s awesome.
“Yet you charge three hundred dollars
to write college essays
for a bunch of spoiled-ass rich kids.
“You don’t even need the money.”
“I know,” I said.
“Then why the hell do you charge
three hundred bucks?”
“Because I can.
Because it’s market value.”
“In what market?”
I shrugged.
“We live in Meydenbauer, Ashok.”
A modest yacht lumbered
past our dock.