Seriously, there’s something in the water at this school. I know that Stiles is “uniquely independent” or whatever, and it has been ranked number five in the list of top small public liberal arts colleges with tuition under ten thousand dollars a year in the United States. But still.
Sydney practically beamed with pleasure at being the center of attention. Again. “Well, usually your grad school application consists of your transcripts, letters of recommendation, personal statement, and CV.”
“Wait,” Ellen said as she hurried to scribble it all down. “What’s a CV? And what goes in your personal statement?”
It’s not like she’s going to write it now, for crying out loud. But of course, Sydney rushed to answer. “Your CV is like an academic résumé. And the personal statement is usually a recounting of your biggest research experience, a sob story about what you’ve gone through to get to grad school, or a combination of the two.”
I hate personal statements. I had to write one for Stiles, and it was exactly like Sydney said—basically, you were supposed to discuss a hugely impressive research opportunity you’ve had or weave some tear-jerking tale about your life. Considering the fact that my biggest research experience in high school was the year I spent learning everything I could about Olga Korbut (how cool is it to be the first woman ever to perform a backflip on the balance beam in competition?), that left only the sob story.
When I was seven, a bee stung me while I was swinging from the monkey bars, and I fell and broke my arm. When I was fifteen, I lost my position as homeroom representative in a struggle over my refusal to say the Pledge of Allegiance every morning. (So you know, it’s not that I’m against America—I simply have issues with blind nationalism being taught to young children.) And just last year, my favorite 0.7mm rolling gel pen was discontinued, and every pen I’ve tried since either bleeds through the page or fades away in thin, spidery script.
Somehow I didn’t think any of those things qualified as personal statement–worthy “obstacles.” And unless something happened to me in the next three years that was tragic (yet inspirational), I was pretty much screwed for my grad school application.
“Obviously, your CV is where you can list all your accomplishments,” Sydney continued. “So if I were you, I’d start writing them all down over the course of the next three years, so you make sure you don’t forget any.”
From the way Ellen’s pen moved furiously over her notebook, I was sure that she was already starting to list all of her accomplishments of the last two months. The sad part was, she probably had done more in that period of time than I’d done in all of high school.
In high school, I had made it almost an art not to involve myself in anything. I didn’t join National Honor Society, even though that meant I was one of only two people in the honors program not to wear a white scarf at graduation. (The other was Norm Erwin, who wore the same pair of jeans every day for four years, complete with ketchup stain, so clearly I was in good company.)
The accomplishments I’d listed on my application to Stiles: the sobresaliente award in Spanish (I have no clue how I earned this, since I used to speak in a deliberately funny accent so I wouldn’t have to try a real accent and risk embarrassing myself), eight years of violin (I played in first grade and then in eighth, so it’s kind of true), and president of the Scrabble club (sometimes friends would come over to my house to play, so it totally counts).
“Well, so far I have membership in psychology club,” Ellen said, glancing down at her list, aka the Kinsey-watching club. “And of course, there’s always mentoring.”
She shot me a deadly look, and I decided to fan the flames.
“That’s right,” I said. “I’ll probably put that down under ‘leadership’ on my CV. You know, since I single-handedly led the last session and all.”
“Single-handedly poisoned the youth of America, maybe,” Ellen said. “I can’t believe you even acknowledged that girl’s question, much less answered it. I would have just told her it was inappropriate and moved on.”
“That girl is Rebekah,” I said. “And it was a good question. She deserved an answer.”
Impatiently, Sydney gestured to the papers in her hand. “So you’re helping kids with their self-esteem and crap. Grad schools eat that up. But don’t forget about other stuff. Like, awards and honors. After three years, you better have something to put under there.”
I was assuming that being appointed first-chair violin didn’t count. I started to remind everyone that there was more than enough time to worry about all this stuff, but then I caught a glimpse of Ellen’s face. There was a little smirk playing around her lips, as though she sensed my discomfiture and was enjoying it.
“Well, I did enter the California Collegiate Writing Contest,” I blurted. It was totally true. I mean, all I’d done was recycle an old AP psych paper from high school, but it was something, right?
Sydney looked at me skeptically. “Was it for creative writing or research writing?”
“Research,” I said, rolling my eyes as if to say, what else?
“Awesome,” Joanna said. “What was your paper on?”
“Cognitive influences on bulimia.” Wow, that sounded impressive as hell. I was starting to feel pretty good about this whole contest thing. I’d entered as a lark, but maybe I had a shot at winning.
Up until then, Ellen had been watching this exchange with interest, but now she broke in, that small smirk turning into a full-fledged smile. “I thought that contest was only for upperclassmen.”
Why couldn’t I ever remember to read the fine print? You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson when I ended up costing my parents three hundred dollars in AOL bills because I failed to read the whole “service will automatically be billed, even if not used, until cancellation notice is received” bit.
Oddly, it was Jenny who spoke up. “Actually, it’s not,” she said softly. “There’s an underclassmen division, too.”
“Oh.” Ellen was deflated, but only for a second. “Well, I’ll probably just wait to enter it next year. You know, when I’ve actually done something at this school to write a research paper, instead of just rehashing some immature high school crap.”
She was totally on to me.
Just when my anxiety was starting to go from a limited symptom attack to a full-fledged panic attack, Joanna glanced at her watch and stood up. “Sorry, dudes,” she said. “But I really have to go. I have a yoga class over on campus at six, and I have some stuff to do before then. But thanks, this has been really helpful.”
I wondered if she meant that. It seemed to me that all this had been was an excuse for a lot of underhanded competition and bitchiness. We hadn’t even cracked open our Intro Psych textbooks. Well, those who actually owned the textbook hadn’t, anyway.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she said, flicking her white blond hair carelessly over one shoulder. “Some of my surfer friends are throwing a totally wicked party at the beach this weekend. It’s kind of a Halloween bonfire thing, but without any stupid costumes or anything like that. You guys should all make it out if you can.”
Sydney shrugged. “As long as there’s alcohol and boys, I’m there.”
Ellen wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t think I can afford to take any time away from my schoolwork,” she said. Jenny muttered something about being in the same boat. I can’t think of two people less in the same boat. Even if they were both on the Titanic, Ellen would have commandeered the first lifeboat while Jenny went down with the ship.
“Leigh?” Joanna turned to me. “Of course, you’re welcome to bring Andrew.”
“And Nathan,” Sydney put in, but I ignored her.
“Sure, I might come,” I said, gathering up my things in case Sydney had any ideas about continuing the meeting. “I’ll have to see what Andrew’s plans are for this weekend, but I’m free.”
“Radical,” Joanna said. “Well, I’ll see you there!”
By this point, everyone had started
to get ready to leave, and Sir Wug raised her head, annoyed at the disruption. I said my quick good-byes and tried to make it to the door before Ellen had a chance to catch up with me, but it was no use. I was attempting my trick on the car door, juggling the folder in my hands, when all of my papers slid out and scattered across the parking lot.
I knelt down to pick them up, and before I knew it, Ellen was at my side. She didn’t help me collect them, but instead just stood there, her own file folder clutched defensively across her chest.
“Good luck on the contest,” she said. “You’ll really need it.” And then she spun on her heel, stalking off in her ugly square-toed shoes. Was it only a week ago that I feared Sydney as the worse of two evils, judging Ellen to be the less devious one?
Now I wondered if perhaps I had misdiagnosed the situation. Because if ultracompetitive psych-major monster was its own separate DSM-IV category, then Ellen was a much more serious case than Sydney.
I scooped up the last of the papers and dropped them on my green vinyl seat, sighing as I started the engine. I still was apparently the only person at Stiles who didn’t have her entire future mapped out, and now I also had that stupid contest to worry about. I felt like I was all-in in a poker game, waiting for Ellen to call my bluff.
But would I have a winning hand?
HAWTHORNE EFFECT: The tendency of people to behave differently if they know they are being observed
FOR someone who lives less than ten miles away from some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, I don’t go to the beach that much. When I was a kid we took a trip to the beach, and I just remember being annoyed by the smell of sunscreen, the squawk of seagulls, and the way that the sand would cling to my wet feet. Then, of course, if I tried to wash them off in the ocean, they would just get wetter and the sand would cling more. Talk about a no-win situation.
Ami, Andrew, Nathan and I all decided to carpool together to the party, and since I was in one of my “support Gretchen” moods, I insisted we take the Gremlin. Ami called shotgun, much to Andrew’s annoyance. I couldn’t really blame him for being annoyed, since Ami’s barely 5’2” and would be a whole lot more comfortable in my tiny backseat than Andrew. But you can’t argue with the rules of shotgun.
“Aw, crap,” I muttered, noticing the two yellow slips under my windshield wipers. Now I had another thirty dollar fine to pay. And they were threatening to tow.
“Why don’t you just buy a decal?” Andrew asked. “It’s what they’re meant for, after all.”
Andrew made it sound so easy. “To-may-toe, To- mah-toe,” I said, letting him slide in behind my seat before climbing in myself. The Gremlin’s front seat is a bench seat that must have been adjustable at one point, but isn’t any longer. So I have no choice but to drive as though I’m some sort of gangster—leaning way back, one hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel and the other on the open window. I probably look pretty cool until people pull up next to me and realize I’m blaring Cutting Crew on the eighties station.
“Have you heard back about that contest yet?” Ami asked as I turned onto the main thoroughfare to the beach.
“Not yet,” I said. “I think the results aren’t supposed to come out until sometime in early November.”
“Cross your fingers you won it,” Ami said and snickered. “Or else Ellen will flay you alive.”
Not that I needed that reminder.
“I think it’s great that you’re taking a little interest in making the most of your college experience,” Andrew said. “Even if it is for the wrong reasons.”
Luckily I didn’t really have to respond, because we pulled into the beach parking lot and I swung Gretchen expertly into a small space between two SUVs. Already I could smell the sweet tang of salt water and feel the gentle breeze on my face, and I smiled as I stepped out of the car.
The fall is a beautiful time in California. Okay, so the leaves don’t change color or anything, but who needs it? Once you’ve seen one red leaf, you’ve seen them all. Fall takes the edge off California’s heat, softens the colors a bit, and gives everything this sparkling serenity.
Just then a bird pooped about two centimeters away from my bright yellow flip-flop, and I sprang back in surprise. Maybe I was laying it on a bit thick when I said serenity. California in the fall is dry and hot, and let’s face it—there’s something very autumn-ish about multicolored leaves that you just don’t get from a swaying palm tree.
In the distance I could see a group of people who looked like they could be Joanna’s friends, and we all started trudging toward the beach with our towels and bags. Andrew has a tendency to walk a little fast, and Ami stopped to fumble through her bag for sunglasses, leaving Nathan and me to stroll through the soft sand together.
It was several moments before he spoke. “I’ve never ridden in your car before,” he said.
Why would you have? I wanted to ask, but all I said was, “Oh.”
I waited for the inevitable follow-up. Having no air-conditioning in California is ridiculous. Why don’t you buy a newer car that isn’t such a clunker? We could have just taken my car, you know. I’ve heard it all before. In the first couple of weeks, Ami complained a lot about my car (although she does like the “cute retro” way it looks). Eventually, I stopped midtrip to the art supply store and told her Gretchen wasn’t taking her anywhere until she apologized. Since then, Ami’s been very respectful.
I was so busy anticipating Nathan’s words that it took a while to realize what he had actually said.
“It was fun.”
Ami caught up with us, and she started chattering about some project she was doing that involved stringing shoelaces in a grid across the school courtyard. But I was still glowing from Nathan’s compliment to Gretchen the way a proud mother would beam over her child.
I spotted Joanna, and she waved. “You came!” she called. “Awesome!”
“Who’s that?” Ami whispered, leaning in.
“That’s Joanna,” I explained. “She’s cool. Jenny probably won’t be here, and I doubt Ellen will show, either. Sydney said she was coming—you remember her. Watch, she’ll be the only one wearing stilettos at the beach.”
“Joanna kind of looks like Hulk Hogan. You know, if he were a woman.”
Which was an extremely difficult image to get out of my head, but somehow I managed to greet Joanna normally. “What did you think of the Intro Psych study group the other day?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “It was all right,” she said. “What about you?”
“Worth it for the group dynamics alone,” I said, my gaze seeking out other people I knew and finding Sydney standing there, just as I thought she would be, wearing a small bikini top, a sarong, and three-inch heels.
Signs that Sydney was definitely a narcissistic personality: Grandiose self-importance, check. Fantasies of unlimited success or power, check. Believes she is “special” or somehow deserving of excessive admiration, check, check.
Unfortunately, she saw me, too. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that she saw Nathan. She stalked over toward us with her familiar stork walk and a determined look in her eye.
Andrew stood next to me, an idle hand draped around my shoulders as he surveyed the crowd. Andrew’s strange about parties. He always acts like he’s above them, but once he finds new people who haven’t heard his theory about what constitutes a soul, he’s in his element. After all, we did meet at a party.
“Leigh!” Sydney greeted me warmly. It occurred to me that my past few interactions with her had been largely pleasant. While I know that the laws of probability don’t really support the idea of being “due” a certain outcome, I’ve also always learned that past behavior is the most obvious predictor of future behavior. Given that, the odds of her niceness continuing just didn’t seem very high.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” she cooed to Nathan, her fingers brushing against his forearm. “I’m Sydney. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Oh, that�
��s right. Narcissistic personalities are also very interpersonally exploitive. I remember now.
“Really?” Nathan shot me a look out of the corner of his eye.
Sydney tittered. “Don’t worry—I don’t believe all of it. I’m sure you’re not as self-righteous as Leigh claims.”
Nathan turned to face me fully, the wind ruffling his hair. There was a quietness about his face that caused a weird twisting sensation in my gut. “That’s good to hear,” was all he said.
I wanted to say something, to protest that my words had been taken out of context, but the truth was they hadn’t been. I felt horrible, but I couldn’t think of anything to do or say that would make it better.
Andrew dropped his arm and squeezed my waist. “Let’s go walk by the water,” he said, pulling me away. I glanced at Nathan one more time, but he had turned his full attention to Sydney and was listening intently to a question she was asking about statistical analyses for her thesis. Sydney is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them. I didn’t buy for one second that she needed help to run a simple chi-square, especially from a freshman.
Ami seemed to be clicking with a group of surfer guys, and with her and Nathan both occupied, Andrew and I split off and headed toward the water. I had shaved just earlier that day in anticipation of the beach, and now the salt water stung my legs as we walked in comfortable silence.
“You know,” Andrew finally said, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
Since Andrew’s always thinking, I wasn’t surprised. But I looked up at him, an expression of polite curiosity on my face. “Oh?”
“I think you should stay over tonight,” he said.
I stumbled slightly on a seashell protruding from the sand. “You do?”
He nodded. “After all, what’s the point of college if you can’t have your girlfriend spend the night?”
Psych Major Syndrome Page 8