I ran my fork through the spaghetti. I’m not a big dinner person. Usually a handful of almonds is enough for me.
“Schools can be vindictive,” I said.
She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “You know…you don’t need to pull your punches in the novel. Even if we sold it tomorrow, it wouldn’t come out for years.”
I kept a blank face. “The book is fiction.” Err, well, at least the names are fiction.
“Right,” she said. “I thought about asking you to rewrite it as a memoir, but some of your inventions work fairly well. I loved the psychologist. What a clever way to thread in the metafictional element.”
We laughed at the same moment. Sorry, Dr. Wasserman.
“All right, let me tell you how I plan to market your novel.” She described a multipronged plan that involved capitalizing on my age and on the publicity surrounding my legal troubles. She’d already shown the sample around and elicited some interest from a few editors. Once the proposal was done, she hoped to bring it to auction and get a bidding war going for the publishing rights.
After she’d waxed expansive about all the editors she knew, I said, “But it’s not even finished. What if it’s no good?”
She put down her fork. “Honey, don’t worry about that. The most important thing is the freshness of your voice. Once you send me a draft, I’ll work with you to nail everything else into place.”
She gave me a twitchy little smile, and for the first time I wondered if I might actually be some sort of literary genius.
After I got home, I texted Aakash to see if he wanted to break out and go celebrate my fantastic meeting, but he wrote back:
Congrats. Sorry. I have a test in bio tomorrow.
That’s all. I didn’t even get an emoji!
The day after Alex’s party he’d called me up and given me a semi-parental lecture about how I needed to be careful when I drank. I’d apologized and asked him if he was mad that I’d ditched him, and he said, no, no, he was just worried about me, but I didn’t believe him.
I wrote him back just now:
Hey, I really am sorry about leaving you at the party. How can I make it up to you?
It’s okay.
Maybe you don’t have to go to any more parties?
Really it’s fine.
You sure? No more forcing you to go to parties. This offer is expiring in five…
Four…
Three…
Okay, come on. I’m not mad. Seriously.
Oh my God. You had fun. Despite everything you had fun.
Two…
One.
=]
Busted. Totally busted.
Okay, fine maybe if you’re nice to me from now on, I’ll let you accompany me again.
I really do have to study though. Sorry I can’t celebrate w/ you.
I wrote something incredibly sappy and thought about deleting it. But you know what? Text messages are for saying the things you’re afraid to say aloud.
No don’t feel bad. Your presence in my life is celebration enough.
<3
Later that night, Ms. Montrose e-mailed the recommendation to me so I could confirm it was what I needed. In it, she called me a “burgeoning talent” with a “fully formed, mature prose style” that’d someday make me “the voice of my generation.”
After reading it, I couldn’t sleep. I knew how my novel needed to end.
I, personally, am still going to be a doctor. Doctoring is secure. Even a bad doctor earns upward of two hundred thousand per year. Writing is too silly for me. There are no rules. One person tears apart everything you write while another person praises it to heaven. Doctoring isn’t like that.
But still, at the end of my novel, “Reshma” will abandon medicine and decide to become a writer. That’s an ending that the average white girl can relate to. Almost no one can become a doctor: you can’t even begin to think about it unless you’re one of the smartest people at your school. But anyone can dream about becoming a writer. Lots of girls want to be writers. I bet they tell themselves that doctoring is a dull grind and writing is so beautiful and free and empowering. My novel will flatter those second-raters.
Years ago, after I placed in my first essay contest, my mom tried to tell me that it’d be okay if what I really wanted to do was be a writer, but I got so insulted that she never brought it up again.
Went to homecoming with Aakash. He planned everything perfectly, as usual. So much so that when the dance ended and we got into his car, I was sure that he’d be taking us to the after-party at Tina’s house. But no, of course we ended up at the other after-party: the no-alcohol party hosted and chaperoned by the PTA in a rented hotel suite in downtown Las Vacas. He was, if anything, even more nervous at this party than he’d been at Alex’s, and as I walked through, I saw why: it was full of Aakash’s science-y friends. They normally didn’t go out, but they’d made an exception for homecoming. Each of them had dug up a date somewhere and now were dutifully out after midnight, trying to milk a few more memories. And as Aakash wheeled me around the room, introducing me to this person or that person, I realized he was showing me off! Which I actually kind of loved, and I made an effort to be, I don’t know—big.
You don’t know this, dear reader, because you’ve never met me, but in conversation I’m not big. I’m not friendly. I don’t shine. What I hadn’t known, though, was that when you’re in an expensive dress and you’re next to a guy who’s so happy to be there with you, then it’s impossible not to become bright and happy and a little bit flirtatious.
And as we went from corner to corner, leaving a trail of slightly stunned nerd boys in our wake, I came upon the biggest surprise of the night: Chelsea!
She was there with a guy I’d never seen in my life: a tall white guy with dull brown hair and a mouthful of braces.
“Hey there,” I said. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I came to a stop a few feet away, too far for a hug or even a handshake, but Aakash shocked me by giving Chelsea a big hug.
“So it worked out!” Aakash said. Then he shook the guy’s hand. “Hey, Brandon, right? Chelsea told me about you!”
I looked from side to side, then all around the room. What in the world was happening?
“Are you going to Tina’s place after this?” I said. I guess part of me was still hoping that the night would end up there.
Her date, Brandon, raised his eyebrows. “Tina?” he said. Even though he was six inches taller than Chelsea, he had a strange, servile aura around her. When he touched her, he did it so lightly, as if she was a photograph that he didn’t want to smudge.
“It’s nothing,” Chelsea said to him. “Another party. But I don’t want that kind of night.”
Chelsea and Aakash chatted excitedly for a few moments, mostly about the dance itself, and then I maneuvered him away, to the other edge of the ballroom.
“What’s with her and her date?” I said.
“Oh, Brandon,” Aakash said. “She told me about him at that party you took me to. He’s a friend of her family. Homeschooled. He’s never been to a dance.”
“So it’s a pity thing?” I said.
Aakash got a little bit stiff. “I wouldn’t characterize it that way.”
“Yes, and that’s why she’s here instead of at Tina’s,” I said. “So they won’t see him.”
He had drawn farther away from me. “You’re not being very charitable. Didn’t you say yourself that she’d had a falling out with Alex? Maybe she just didn’t want to be around them.”
I laughed and ran a hand up and down Aakash’s arms, like I was physically soothing his feathers back into place. “Oh my God, you and Chelsea really spent way too much time together at that party.”
“We had to,” he said. “While I waited for a cab.”
I laughed and leaned over to kiss him. For a second I thought he might draw back, but then I made a pouting face at him and he smiled. We stood there, kissing, in the center of the r
oom, until I caught a PTA mom glaring at us. Then we took a few more spins through the crowd, until Aakash began to yawn. I thought about offering him an Adderall but stopped myself just in time.
“You’re wrong about Chelsea, you know,” he said. “When you did this lawsuit, I thought…I don’t know…I thought it might be too much, but at the party she explained to me that your parents were really the ones who’d pressured you to do it.”
I stopped short and grabbed the elbow of his suit coat. “What?”
“Yeah.” He yawned again. “That’s why everyone was so nice to you at the party. No one blames you.”
I glanced over my shoulder at her, standing there, gazing into the eyes of her date. She looked over at me and started to smile, but when she saw my expression, her face went pale. Chelsea. It’s not that I hated her, precisely. It’s just that right at that moment, I wanted bad things to happen to her. Okay, maybe I hated her. She’d not only slandered my family, but she’d come out of it looking good!
And the weirdest Chelsea interaction of the night was still to come. Our suite’s bathroom was filled for too long—undoubtedly because someone had gotten or was getting drunk—so I went down to the lobby to use the bathroom there. Chelsea followed me into the elevator and said, “Hey, Resh. I just wanted you to know that…I…”
Her face was really red. “I don’t know how to say this,” she said. “But I’m…I decided to apply early to Stanford.”
She patted her forehead, and I realized she was reaching for the sunglasses that would normally be there.
“And…?” I said.
“I’m…” She shook her head. “I’m really sorry. It’s just…now that I’m first…I thought that…if you want to apply to Harvard, there’s still time to….”
“Relax,” I said.
Far from it. A little spark of elation had actually flared up inside me. Yes. Yes. Yes. Chelsea and I were finally going to be matched up head-to-head.
“I’m not mad,” I said. “I always thought the dividing-up-colleges thing was silly.”
Chelsea threw her arms around me. “That’s fantastic. I’m so glad! Since we’re the only two people applying from Bell’s top twenty, I really actually bet we’ll both get in!”
While she hugged me, I looked past her and stared at our reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, while my sleeveless dress was showing a spot on my shoulder. I reached around her and rubbed a little bit at the spot, but I couldn’t brush it away. I wasn’t sure if it was a mole or a pimple or insect bite that I’d never spotted before, but somehow it was a part of me.
My life is hell.
Ten days ago, I called Linda and explained my plan for the “Reshma becomes a writer” ending.
“That could work,” she said, “But how long is the book going to be?”
“It’s forty thousand words right now, and I think I can wrap it up in less than two thousand more…”
I could hear her pursing her lips. “Hmm. Most young adult novels for older readers—age sixteen and above—should be at least fifty thousand words long. But, honestly, it’d be even better if we went up to sixty thousand. Is there any way to expand the story?”
“What?” I said. “I’m almost done. I am moments from the epiphany.”
“Well, here’s an idea. What if she doesn’t get into Stanford? Maybe they defer her and say they’ll consider her again during the regular-decision cycle? That’d give you more time to—”
“No. Then the epiphany would be irrelevant. The story works because it’s about turning your back on a brilliant medical career. Without Stanford, she’s just one more second-rate idiot who turns to the creative arts because she’s not good enough for a real profession.”
“Huh. Well, let me see how it works on the page….”
Except now I’m stuck! I need some sort of twist or surprise. Or maybe a new ending entirely? But I keep writing pages and then throwing them away.
The truth is that I can’t write it until it happens. And there’s so much time between now and December 15.
Stanford has to take me, right? I’m the top-ranked student at a top-ranked high school. I have a literary agent. But what if they ignore Linda’s recommendation? Then they’ll only see another valedictorian with terrible SAT scores. One more over-groomed study machine who can regurgitate facts but can’t think critically. At that point, maybe, I don’t know, maybe they’ll decide that they prefer Chelsea.
Or is it possible that they know about the lawsuits? What if my mom was right, and they decide they don’t want to accept someone who might be litigious?
The Examiner article about the second lawsuit is the very first Google result for my name. But they usually get more than seven thousand early action applicants. They can’t Google all of us, right?
But what if someone tells them? It would only take one phone call, one e-mail…
Since her party, I’ve been texting Alex every weekend, asking if she wants to hang out, but she’s always responded by saying she’s busy with college applications. Which is understandable. But it’s also a bit annoying that we still haven’t brought the friendship plotline to its natural climax. So today I screwed up my courage and told her that I didn’t think friends were allowed to blow each other off all the time.
And I must’ve finally gotten through to her, because she just texted back:
You up for coffee in mtn view today? I’ve got something fun planned.
After I sat down at Alex’s table, she said, “Hey, sorry I couldn’t talk earlier. Had applications to send out.”
“Oh,” I said. “Mine went out weeks ago.”
Suddenly, I wondered why I’d one-upped her like that. I was always competing. Trying to show people up, even about tiny little things. Which was fine when I was talking to someone like Chelsea. But was that really how friends acted?
“Of course you did.” Alex took a sip of her latte. “Makes sense. Although I guess you must think you’re a shoo-in at Stanford. I mean, unless they find out about your lawsuit.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think for me it was just anxiety. I’ve, uhh—” I paused for a moment. I’d never really…I’d never actually confided in someone before. And trying to do it made me feel squiggly and unsettled. “I’ve been a bit worried about that.”
“Huh.” Alex frowned. “Yeah. That worry is pretty legitimate.”
“You’re not going to try to reassure me?”
“We live, like, five miles from Stanford. C’mon. Of course they heard about your lawsuit. Even if no one in the entire admissions department reads the local papers, all it would take is one anonymous e-mail from someone at Bell who has something to gain from you being rejected.”
I thought about Chelsea, applying to Stanford after all.
“So what should I do?”
“Write to them.” Alex tapped her nail three times on the table. “Explain yourself. Be honest. If you’re the first to tell them, then you can spin the whole thing in your favor. It’s a long shot, but they might respect you for being up-front about it.”
“That’s…interesting.”
She shook her head. The line for the counter was snaking along the side of the café, and people were now standing between our table and the window. “That’s so typical of you,” she said. “Always trying to get away with something, even when it makes zero sense.”
My heart was tender, and each of her words made it jump. But I was also enjoying this. I’d spent so many years hiding who I was.And I’d mostly fooled everyone. Either they were like my parents and thought I was honest and golden, or they were like my teachers and thought I was slimy and stupid. Only Alex understood that I was something else entirely.
“Just be honest?” I said. “That’s so naïve. Colleges don’t want you to be honest. They want you to be effective.”
Alex glanced at her watch.
“Come on, you know that,” I said. “You and the rest of the perfects. Yo
u’re all about appearances. Let’s pretend we don’t care about school. Let’s pretend we don’t study. Let’s pretend that getting straight A’s is sooooo effortless.”
Alex waved me off. “That’s Chelsea’s thing. I study. Of course I do.”
“Maybe alone. At home. But not at school,” I said. “Not at lunch or in the hallways, like everyone else.”
“I study when and where I need to. I dress in what’s comfortable. And I do and say exactly what I think.”
I shrugged, but Alex seemed genuinely incensed.
“You’re even dishonest in little ways,” she said. “Like when I asked you to help me talk to Susan Le, you could’ve just said no. But instead you told me what I wanted to hear.”
Really? That again?
“When you asked me, we weren’t really friends.”
“Oh, and now we are?”
I shrugged and glanced around the table as if to say, Huh, look at us sitting here. Seems pretty friendlike, doesn’t it?
“I could’ve used your help,” Alex said. “I tried to work around the speaker’s bureau by getting directly in touch with Susan Le’s assistant. And he told me to get in touch with her lawyer. And her lawyer sent me to her publicist. And her publicist sent me back to the speaker’s bureau! And I’m pretty sure not one of them have bothered to forward my request to Le.”
“Aren’t you overlooking the obvious?” I said. “Maybe she doesn’t want to do it.”
Nowadays, everyone at the school was really proud of Le, but I’d noticed that she hardly ever mentioned Bell in her speeches and interviews.
“Maybe,” Alex said. “But, like, most grads would kill for the chance to come back to their old school and trumpet how successful they are.”
“Le doesn’t need to trumpet,” I said. “Maybe she cares more about sticking it to the school than she does about being applauded by it.”
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