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by Rahul Kanakia


  Wait a second. Was Chelsea going to try to defend me? I don’t know why, but her ingratiating smile brought out something hard and cruel inside me. I needed to find out what Chelsea really thought of me.

  “Aakash thinks that I don’t deserve to go to Stanford,” I said.

  There was a newly formed tightness around Chelsea’s eyes. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “Maybe…I mean…you could’ve…no…”

  She took a deep breath.

  I ran my tongue along the underside of my teeth. Dear God. I was going to see Chelsea crack! Where was Alex?!

  “I know how hard you worked.” My voice was sly and high-pitched. “Don’t you maybe deserve it a bit more than I do?”

  Her smile rotated slightly. The tensions working within her were written out neatly on her face.

  Aakash gripped my arm. “You’re being a bitch. Come on. We should leave.”

  “No, Aakash, if you think she’s so great, then let her talk.” I turned to her. “Come on, Chelsea. Don’t be polite for my sake. This isn’t about ego or awards or honors. It’s about what we can give to the world. Stanford can give someone a world-class education and an amazing set of mentors and a ton of wonderful research and job opportunities. But aren’t those things only useful to a self-directed person? A person who’s willing to explore with an open mind? Which of us would’ve made better use of all those opportunities?”

  Chelsea’s teeth were ever-so-slightly grinding against each other. I drew in a breath and then let it out, and put on my widest smirk. This was going to be perfect.

  “I…I think…” she said.

  And then, her face became different. I mean, she didn’t change expressions or anything. Or, if she did, it was only a millimeter of alteration: the slightest relaxation of a few muscles. But some inner light flooded in.

  “I wouldn’t agree with that at all,” she said. “The world needs people who push the limits. Even back in ninth grade, you saw the absurdity of our school and, ever since then, you’ve done your best to circumvent the system. Yeah, I’m disappointed I didn’t get in, and yeah, I think I could’ve done good things there, but let’s face it: you’re pretty capable, too, and I think you’ll be a great success.”

  Aakash said, “Don’t humor her delus—”

  Her gaze flipped over to him, and he was forced back a few paces. His hip hit the counter and a red cup would’ve spilled if he hadn’t caught it in time.

  Chelsea shook her head. “No, she deserves everything she’s gotten.”

  Aakash watched her until she disappeared into the hall. He looked a little bit in love with her. I shook my head. I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or impressed: Chelsea kept finding new ways to be perfect. She couldn’t possibly be like that in private, could she? But who knows, maybe the act never ever stops.

  Eventually, Aakash settled into a nerd klatch on the patio, and I hung out on the living room couch with Alex.

  She was really communing with that couch. Every so often, she’d stop talking and push almost her whole body down into its crevices. I think she wanted to strip naked and roll around on it.

  But she kept saying, “You’re woooooooonderful, Resh! I love you sooooo much! I’m soooo glad we became friends! This makes me want to bring back BFFs. Are BFFs still a thing? It should totally still be a thing. I want to be your roommate while we struggle together in our shitty big-city jobs. I can introduce you to your future husband and have Sex and the City–type brunches with you and be one of your bridesmaids and…”

  However, the glow of friendship dimmed a bit when she said, “Oh my God, isn’t Chelsea great? You have no idea how nice she is! I love her!”

  As midnight approached, the druggies might’ve calmed down a little bit, but it was hard to tell, because everyone else had gotten much drunker. George came and sat down on the edge of my chair.

  “Ironic,” he said. “Today, you’re the only one who’s not on drugs.”

  I shot him a death glare, but he touched my shoulder and smiled a little bit. “So, umm, where’s your boyfriend?”

  “Outside,” I said. “I’m trying to think of the most devastating way to break up with him.”

  George slid down off the arm of the couch and sat down next to me. We were both flushed and a bit sweaty, and I’d acquired Alex’s wild-eyed look.

  “Oh,” he said. “I guess it had to happen eventually.”

  “What? I thought we were fine. I liked him.”

  George’s breath smelled like whiskey. It was weird to be so close to him, but it was nice to be around a guy who wasn’t a two-faced liar.

  “Yeah,” George said. “No offense to Aakash, but, umm, he seemed like a bit of a goober.”

  That stung, and my instinct was to defend Aakash and talk about how nice he could be underneath, but then I was, like, wait, what? George was completely right.

  “Like that’s news to me?” I said. “I never even liked him, but I was on a deadline to find a boyfriend. I was just using him for the novel.”

  “Oh yes.” He snapped his fingers. “The infamous book that almost displaced me from my room. Your novel seems pretty hard on the guys in your life.”

  My stomach felt wriggly and uncomfortable about George’s implication that he was one of the guys in my life, but I decided to let it go.

  George continued, “I mean, novels are fiction, right? If you absolutely needed to include a boyfriend, then why didn’t you just make him up?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I couldn’t visualize the kind of guy who’d like me.”

  “Isn’t that the beauty of making stuff up?” George said. “You don’t write the guy who wants to get with you. You write the guy who you want to get with. Now come on, who’s your dream guy?”

  Chelsea was standing in a corner, face turned upward, as Jeremy jabbered to her about his astrophysics research. She nodded appreciatively. Did she ever worry that people might not like her?

  “I’m all alone,” I said. “I hate these people. Why am I here?”

  “Hey,” he said. “You don’t hate me, though, right?”

  “But you’re here with, uhh, what’s-her-face?”

  I don’t know why I pretended to not know Cecily’s name.

  “Oh yeah. Cecily and I hang out sometimes.”

  “And besides, you’re secretly one of them, aren’t you?”

  “Them?”

  “Yeah, class president. Going to Berkeley like your mummy always wanted.”

  “To you, it’s always ‘them’ and never ‘us.’”

  He rested his chin on my shoulder for a minute. Suddenly, the room lit up with eyes glancing over at us. No one had ever looked at me this way when Aakash touched me. George was wrong. Aakash had very much been part of “us.” Well, at least until he decided he was too good for me.

  I curled one of George’s long strands of hair around my knuckle. It made me feel weirdly powerful. George was actually pretty hot. I’d never let myself think about it. What would it be like to date one of them? I glanced down at my phone and smiled.

  Then I threw my head back and shouted: “Twenty seconds left…”

  Drinks clattered. The music shut off. Someone said, “Wait…wait…”

  Aakash came rushing in from outside. He was scanning the crowd, looking for me, desperate to kiss someone at midnight. I guess even though he didn’t like me anymore, he still didn’t want to be left out. I caught his eye for a second and screamed, “Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!”

  He raced toward me.

  The shout caught on. I went silent, but the countdown bellowed around us. I kept my eyes locked on George, like a snake charmer, and drew closer to him. At “one,” my lips touched his. There was nothing studied or controlled about this kiss. His hand passed up my thigh. Our legs got tangled up in each other. He sucked on my lower lip and then lightly bit it. My whole body was hot and then cold. I was breathing in his exhalations. We were locked together for a good ten seconds.

  Then
someone shouted, “Jesus, it’s still ten minutes to midnight!”

  My laughter broke off the kiss. George looked a bit confused. But I couldn’t stop laughing. It pulsed up my throat and flowed out of me.

  And, wow, Alex was making out with Kian in the recliner.

  Aakash was standing over the couch. His face was bright red.

  I smiled at him. “Was that painless enough?” I said.

  His reply caught in his throat.

  George grimaced, then moved me around by the shoulders, shifted my weight, and hopped off the couch. Aakash stood there, baffled, for a few more seconds until he disappeared, too.

  When the New Year actually came, George was in the kitchen, exchanging kisses with Cecily.

  A CORRECTION, RETRACTION, AND APOLOGY

  From the editors of The Huffington Post

  Several weeks ago, we were alerted to a well-publicized charge of plagiarism against a previous op-ed columnist, and we were motivated to begin a post-facto scrutiny of this person’s contribution to our site.

  After careful investigation, we have concluded that Reshma Kapoor’s August 29th column, “Double Standards for Asian Students,” contained unattributed text and ideas from a number of off-line sources…

  I knew about the article before I got out of bed, because the phone calls and text messages and Bombr messages and e-mails kept coming in. Most were from unknown numbers, and almost all had an angry, jagged tone. Finally, I turned off my phone and pulled the covers over my head and stayed there. Ever since I was little, I’ve had this weird intuition that nothing bad can really happen to me as long as I stay in bed. And what with the constant drowsiness now that I wasn’t on the Adderall, I felt like I could sleep forever.

  Voices rose and fell and drifted out of range, while dread filled the empty space beneath my stomach.

  Around sunset, hunger finally forced me to get up.

  When I appeared on the steps, three heads rose up in the dimly lit living room. My mom and dad and Arjuna were sitting around the kitchen table. They looked at me, and my mom’s eyes narrowed. She said, “Oh,” as if I was a detail that they’d forgotten.

  I crept into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice. With one hand on the stone counter to support myself, I drank down the glass. Behind me, the refrigerator door beeped; I’d left it open for too long.

  “It was…it was an accident,” I said. “I must’ve just remembered those passages. You know I have a good memory….”

  My mom shook her head and gave me a look, as if it wasn’t even possible to put her disappointment into words.

  “I know, beta,” my dad said. “I told them it is not your fault.”

  “The facts don’t matter,” Arjuna said. “Legally speaking, this has no bearing on your case. In fact, even had you intended to commit the original plagiarism, it would’ve had no bearing on our argument, which was, in any case, built on constitutional grounds and…It’s of no use. Public opinion is not with you. It’s become substantially less likely that we’ll win the case. We’ll need to drop it.”

  I blinked my eyes. “What? But you said the law’s still with us.”

  “Go back to your room,” my mom said. “I’ll call you soon.”

  “No,” I said. “You can’t drop the case. Not if we can win. That’s crazy.”

  Arjuna put up his hands. “My opinion as both your lawyer and your friend is the same. The school came to us today with a settlement offer: no fault admitted on either side and no recovery of court costs. It will be as if this had never happened. And you should take it.”

  My dad gave his vague, absent smile, and ran his hand over his head. “Thank you, Arjuna-Bhai, we will discuss this and—”

  “No. I’m eighteen. This is my case, and you’re my lawyer. And I’m saying we refuse their offer.”

  “Very well,” Arjuna said. “But I can no longer represent you. If you find another lawyer, please let me know and I will transfer your files.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I don’t need fair-weather friends.”

  “Reshma!” my mom said. “Apologize to—no. Don’t say anything. Just leave. Adults are speaking now.”

  “Mummy. Daddy,” I said. “Arjuna is old. He is already famous. He only wants to take cases he can win. Somewhere in this country, there’s a lawyer who’s looking to make a name for themself. He or she will take this case and will win it.”

  Arjuna had already begun to pack up his suitcase. He smoothed out his white suit and adjusted the strings of his bolo tie. My dad got up, and he hovered nervously by the table, smiling at Arjuna and then at me.

  “I’ll find the lawyer myself if I have to,” I said. “Do you think I can’t do it? Really?”

  Neither of them said anything. I felt like I was going crazy there, screaming into my kitchen. These were my parents. But they’d become ghosts who puttered around in a half-lit room and tried to ignore the voice of truth. As Arjuna drifted toward the door, my mom pulled out her laptop.

  “I’m not like you,” I said. “I know how to fight.”

  I was expecting her to explode, but my mom looked up at me with tired, sunken eyes as if she wondered why I still existed.

  “Susan Le stole from you, and you let her get away with it,” I said. “But I would’ve fought, and I would’ve won.”

  “Beta, how many times must we argue?” my mom said. “Everything was done legally.”

  “I wouldn’t have cared about that,” I said. “She knew what she was doing. She knew the algorithm was valuable, and that the next generation of smart cars would need it. She convinced you to sign away your rights. And then she made hundreds of millions. That’s stealing. And you let her do it.”

  My mom looked up at me with an openmouthed expression. “Are you still punishing us? I admit that I was stupid. Your father did not want to sign, but I thought the market was going in a different direction and that soon our company would be worthless. I gambled poorly and—”

  “No, Mummy.” I shook my head. “Stop blaming yourself! That’s their rules. They’re the ones who say things like, ‘Oh, you should’ve known better.’ They’re the ones who say some ways of cheating are legal, and some are illegal. But I don’t care about blame. No, you made a mistake. So what? People make mistakes. They trust the wrong people. Does that mean they should lose everything? What I’m telling you is that I don’t care what the law says. I would’ve fought her. And I would’ve beaten her. And you know why? Because I would’ve done anything. And I know you think, Oh, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She doesn’t know the kind of power that Le has. But I do know. And I would’ve figured something out. I would’ve hired private investigators to follow her. I would’ve broken into her house. I would’ve gotten thugs to beat her up. I would’ve framed her for murder. I don’t care! I would’ve done anything before I let her get away with robbing our family! Do you understand? I would’ve done anything. Anything!”

  Her mouth opened and then it closed. My dad had disappeared somewhere. I waited there for a long time, staring down at her. Then she opened her laptop and started typing. I wanted to stand there until she cracked, but I finally decided it wasn’t worth my time.

  I had calls to make.

  In between researching lawyers, I’ve been calling news producers, trying to get them interested in my story. I know that if I’m going to get a lawyer to represent me for free, then I need to be a bankable, nationally known property.

  It’s interesting. They all want me to be contrite. That’s the angle. They want to rehabilitate me. And that’s okay. I’ll play that game. But only so far. Because if I was really contrite, then I’d have to give up the lawsuit, wouldn’t I? And I won’t do that. Honestly, I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to say about the cheating.

  What do you think of me, dear reader? I haven’t really addressed the cheating up to now, have I? I’ve just played it off as an accident: a onetime thing. Honestly, I haven’t known how to explain myself. I know that
the outside world hates cheating. Even Alex, when I brought it up with her, started spouting that nonsense about how cheaters are really only cheating themselves.

  So here’s what I’ll say: I didn’t cheat that often. Just a few times, here and there. And I only did it when my work really needed to be perfect. Most of the time, cheating would be pointless. The standards are so low that all you need in order to get an A+ is to turn in a paper that makes a coherent point. But if you want to publish an essay in a magazine? Or placate a teacher who’s got some silly idea about reforming you? Well, that takes something extra.

  People say, “Oh, cheating means that deserving people lose their spots, in favor of the less deserving,” or “When cheating is rampant, then all that grades measure is who is best at cheating,” or “Would you want to be operated on by a doctor who’d cheated their way through medical school?”

  And I let them say all those things. I don’t argue with them, because what would be the point? They’ll believe whatever makes them feel good about themselves. But let’s look at the facts:

  When Susan Le stole my parents’ money, everyone knew what she’d done. She got appointed to their board of directors. She made secret overtures to another company about licensing the technology to them. And then she quietly bought out my parents for pennies before the deal went through. But no one called it cheating. No, they made a movie about her. They gave her awards. They put her on magazine covers and called her a savvy businesswoman.

  And when the parents of the perfects pressured Vice Principal Colson to change the way that grades were weighted, so they could get bumped up a few places in class rank, no one called it cheating. They were just good students who’d taken the hardest classes and deserved to be rewarded.

  And when Arjuna got me into school with a word, or Alex’s money got her into Princeton, that wasn’t cheating, either. No one talked about the “deserving” kids who might’ve lost their place because of Alex. It was just how things are done.

  And yet when I take a few words from a now-dead author and use them to create an essay that people can genuinely enjoy and empathize with, then somehow I’m the cheater.

 

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