Enter Title Here

by Rahul Kanakia

  And I remember thinking I’d never before met anyone like her. Until then, there’d been adults and there’d been kids, and adults were dull and impossibly old and they lived lives that had nothing to do with me, while kids were tiny and powerless and played strange games that I didn’t understand.

  But Susan Le was something in the middle. She had the ferocity and aliveness of a kid, but she existed in the adults’ world. When she spoke, they listened. When she moved, their eyes followed her.

  All day I’ve been pacing around the house, getting angrier and angrier. I don’t know. I just don’t know what it is. Something about Susan Le getting chosen for commencement. My commencement. The one I would’ve spoken at if I’d become valedictorian. Something about Susan Le standing up at the podium where I was supposed to speak.

  It’s a coup for Bell High. Most billionaires are boring and obscure, but not Le. She’s the It Girl. Le is on the cover of magazines. People respect her. They even made a movie about her. Little girls want to be her. Parents tell their children to be like her. She is everything I am not.

  And she is a thief.

  It’s so hard for me to hold that in my head. Everyone else in the world tells me, “No, what she did was fair and legal. Your parents were the stupid ones. They shouldn’t have accepted her buyout.”

  Even Alex claimed not to understand what she’d done.

  Are you really never going to speak to me again? Why do you hate me so much?

  And I got so angry that I sent her back a long stream of texts ranting about Susan Le until finally she wrote back:

  Whoa whoa, okay. That actually seems pretty sleazy. I never would’ve tried so hard to get her if I’d known about this! But I still have to ask why you’re taking this out on me? Even your mom doesn’t seem that mad. She was the one who helped me talk to Le.

  I tried for a long time to compose a text that would explain it to her, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Because that’s the worst part! Even my parents have accepted the standard narrative. They don’t blame her; they blame themselves!

  But that’s crazy.

  Susan Le knew something they didn’t! She made a deal they didn’t know about! If that’s legal, then legality means nothing.

  And whenever I think about commencement, I feel like I’ve divided into two Reshmas. I’ll call them reshma and RESHMA!!! and they’re having a dialogue that goes something like this:

  reshma: Que sera. Stuff happens. It’s nothing to do with you. Just get over it and move on.

  RESHMA!!!: Do something.

  reshma: You’ll regret it. Your parents will be annoyed with you. And anyway, you’re not really the schemer you thought you were, are you? Your machinations have gotten you nowhere.

  RESHMA!!!: Do something.

  reshma: Come on. Take a deep breath. In and out. That’s it. Now think about this logically. What can you do? She’s a billionaire. You’re nobody. Worse than nobody. You’re a disgrace. No one will listen to you. No one will help you. Even your parents don’t want you to do this.

  RESHMA!!!: Nope, I still want to do something.

  And that’s how it’s gone, for hours, just back and forth, in the hallways, up and down the stairs, and then out the front door and looping around the pathways and then in through the garden door. I’ve picked up my phone a few times to text George, but I’ve always stopped myself. He wouldn’t get it. No one would. The thing no one understands about me is that sometimes, once in a while, I get this feeling like I can do anything, and that feeling is so rare and so beautiful that it’s really hard not to simply surrender to it.

  All right. It’s decided. I was pacing through my room when I tripped and stumbled on a stack of mail that I’d tossed at the foot of my bed. As I glanced down, one of the letters caught my eye. I picked it up and read it. Then I read it again. After reading it a third time, I called Mr. Kilming and told him I was formally retaining him to be my new lawyer.

  Mr. Kilming and I were in the principal’s conference room. Colson and Ratcliffe and the school’s counsel were sitting across from us.

  “This is absurd,” Colson said. “We’ve already put your class rank onto the midyear reports. Everything is done.”

  “I’d prefer that my lawyer go over the calculations one more time.”

  Mr. Kilming tapped his toe against the hardwood floor. “My client doesn’t want any irregularities,” he said.

  “Fine. It’s very routine. We input your name, and the computer spits out a ranking.”

  Ms. Ratcliffe spoke up. “I can’t help but notice your parents aren’t here. They’re not angry that you dropped the suit, are they?”

  I angled my head and made a noise in the back of my throat, like I was gathering a wad of saliva. Her flinch sent her chair rolling backward.

  Colson passed over the transcript. Like I said, I was seventh. I could’ve been even higher, except that Ratcliffe had given me a D–instead of the C or C+ that she’d hinted was possible. The rest of my grades were all right, though: A+ grades in chem, Spanish, Latin, and econ; and regular A’s in art history, calc, and government. My other teachers were so happy I wasn’t going to be valedictorian that I didn’t even have to argue them into giving me better grades.

  “Wait,” I said, feigning surprise. “What’s this?”

  Colson raised his hand to the heavens. “Come now. More complaints?”

  “You gave me a D minus?” I said. “That’s absurd. My final paper was A-plus work.”

  “Well…dear…you didn’t develop your argument very…” Ratcliffe stuttered out.

  Mr. Kilming and the school’s lawyer exchanged grimaces, as if they were sharing some inside joke.

  I forced Ratcliffe to fetch her grade books and the whole class’s graded papers. Then I went through and disputed every point on every assignment. When she tried to defend a grade, I’d paw through her graded assignments until I found someone who’d got a higher grade and then I’d force her to explain, in detail, how that paper was better than mine.

  Sometimes I’d get quiet for a moment and Colson would start to close his laptop, and then I’d speak up again, and he’d groan very deeply.

  The sun went down and a dozen school buses passed our window.

  They forced Ratcliffe to do all the talking:

  “But, dear, this was for your own good. Your argumentation is simply weak….Your papers don’t go deep enough….The rest of your life will be immeasurably better because of the skills you’ve acquired due to my higher standards….No, I will not show you Chelsea’s final paper, but it absolutely was an A-plus paper. It was well-reasoned and well-written….Favoritism? This is absurd….Look, Vice Principal, here’s Ms. Kapoor’s paper….Everyone can go ahead and read…No, it’s obvious, it’s obvious….I won’t have you…This is absurd….The quizzes, too? No, this is too much….No, I don’t have to do this….No, no, no, you already agreed to the settlement….No, you can’t back out now….My God, fine….No, it’s not up to interpretation….The villain is clearly Madame DeFarge….What do…This is…Fine….Fine….Fine….”

  We were well into our third hour. Colson’s head was sliding out of his hands. Finally, Ratcliffe screamed, “Okay, damn it! Take a B. My God, you monster. Just take it and leave me alone!”

  Colson shot upright. I leaned back. “You all witnessed it. I want my transcript changed right now. Wait…” I ran through some calculations in my head. “No. You should log it as a C plus. I just want the grade that I earned.”

  Even my lawyer groaned. Colson logged into the database and authorized the grade change while Ratcliffe hovered in the doorway, shooting me sulky looks.

  Colson was about to close his computer when I said, “While you’re in there, you might as well register these.”

  I threw the envelope from Las Vacas College onto the table.

  “Five classes,” I said. “Organic chem, multivariable calculus, intro to physics A and B, and human biology. Five A pluses. Well, one hundreds, to be e
xact. All completed before January eighth.” That was the official closing date for fall semester grades.

  Colson’s face twitched. “Errm, that’s very nice, but you know that college courses don’t register on our transcripts….”

  My laughter was drawn up from the bottom of a deep well of hysteria—it went on and on and on. “They don’t keep you in the loop, do they, Colson? You should go and talk to Coach Masters. He’ll know how to handle these grades.”

  He scowled at me.

  I almost left him in the dark. It was his fault if he didn’t understand his own school.

  But I couldn’t resist showing off the secret history that I’d pieced together:

  You see, Bell is a tough school. And that makes it particularly tough on student athletes. Coach has had a lot of players who couldn’t take up their college scholarships because they didn’t have the grades. So, this year, he quietly went and looked for a college that was willing to make a deal. He’d funnel students into some of their extension classes, if they offered him guaranteed A’s. Then, he formed a bridge partnership between the high school and the university—one of their professors was nominally a teacher here and one of our teachers was nominally a professor there. They headed up a joint center that they’d ginned up under some little-known provision of the school district’s regulations. That means that LVC’s classes count as high school classes and that those grades can be factored into our GPAs.

  Since most of the perfects and study machines didn’t talk to the jocks, we hadn’t caught on to the scheme. If we had, we would’ve immediately grasped its implications, and everyone would’ve taken these classes. As it is, I was the only one who found out—through George—and I was definitely the only one who was crazy enough to sign up for five classes over the winter break.

  Colson called up a spreadsheet on his computer.

  “My final GPA will be 4.54,” I said. “Chelsea’s is 4.55 and Jeremy’s is 4.53.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. It’d been hard to give up on the number one slot, but it was also necessary. What mattered was standing up and telling the truth. And people would be much more likely to listen if they didn’t think of me as the person who’d stolen the top spot from their golden child. And, whatever, I suppose Chelsea has put in some amount of work over the years and that, on some level, a person could say she deserved to be number one.

  He ignored me and kept punching numbers into the computer.

  “Do you think I’m lying?” I said.

  Ten minutes went past. Sweat poured down his face, and I started to get a sick feeling in my stomach. That had been a cute trick, going with a C+ instead of a B. But what if I’d calculated wrong?

  Ratcliffe was stuttering. “I…I’ll change it…a D plus…It wasn’t C-plus work anyway. I was—”

  “Shut up!” Colson said.

  I laughed until my chest burned. “Careful. There are lawyers present.”

  Colson slammed the computer shut. He took in a number of ragged breaths. And then he flipped open his phone. Half an hour later, we were talking to Coach Masters. Colson did a lot of yelling. We were there until well past midnight. But before I left I watched as the computer printed out my report, and then I took a copy and searched down through all the columns until I saw that they’d given me the ranking I wanted.

  I’d finally beaten them.

  I expected the universe to cheer for me. But I was wrong.

  I suppose this novel confused me. I am the hero of this novel. Well, antihero. Still, I know that if you’ve gotten this far, then you can’t help being pleased at my success. Also, you’ve heard about Colson and Ratcliffe and Susan Le, and you know that they’re awful.

  But, in the real world, everyone is hungry for me to fail.

  I was in Latin when they announced the valedictorian and salutatorian over the intercom. Some people shrugged and went back to picking at their nails. But, in the back, a clot of smart slackers with lip rings and colored hair muttered sarcastic comments about how they were sorry they’d graduate before the new Reshma Kapoor wing got built onto the school. As I listened, I realized they actually thought my dad had bought the spot. I broke in and tried to explain what I’d done. I figured that if anyone would appreciate how I’d fought the power, it’d be these vaguely punkish kids. But one girl rolled her eyes and said, “Oh. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t know there was an award for ‘most fake A pluses.’”

  Even the perfects have grown colder. When we meet, it’s always in the courtyard—never in the cafeteria. The other day, I walked past the old table, just for nostalgia’s sake, and saw a pack of juniors—they were obviously their class’s version of the perfects—sitting there, chattering away while they looked down on everyone.

  When I saw Chelsea, she smiled her beatific smile at me and shrugged, as if to say, Oh well. Stanford had wait-listed her in the regular decision period. She got into six out of the ten schools she applied to, but none of them gave her much money, so she’s probably going to end up at Berkeley.

  Ray went into open rebellion: he kept grousing about how I was a cheat. At one point, I saw him closeted in a corner with Aakash. They both glared at me as I passed. Then, one day, Ray cornered me in the parking lot. We were right between my SUV and a white sedan. He wedged himself in behind me and said, “Look, are they gonna do any more investigating about grade stuff?”

  I beeped my door lock. “I don’t know. I think they only wanted to untangle the LVC thing.”

  He put his hand out to stop the door. “Are they going to hand-verify the grades from the computer system? I need to know.”

  His hand was shaking.

  “Oh my God. You altered your grades.”

  “It’s no big deal.” He pulled the door open and leaned into the car. “I guessed an administrator’s password, then turned a few B’s into B pluses, B pluses into A minuses….Stuff like that.”

  “Jesus. For how long?”

  He whispered. “Long enough.”

  “You could’ve been first.”

  He shook his head. “Being first is how you get caught.”

  “Wait. Without the alteration, what would you have been?”

  “I’m smart. Smarter than you. I deserve my rank.”

  I rapidly blinked my eyes, trying to clear the fogginess. He bowed his head and, no matter how long I stood there, he stayed silent. Eventually, I had to get into my car.

  Today, during first period, Colson went on the speaker system and announced a change: this year we would elect our own graduation speakers, rather than having the top-ranked kids speak. He said we should think very carefully about which of our fellow students was most representative of the values of this school, and then fill out the nomination ballots on the school’s website.

  I knew they’d strike back, but I hadn’t expected them to be so blatant.

  Before he’d finished, I’d stalked out into the hall and was already dialing Mr. Kilming. This was obviously retaliatory. I’d get an injunction, and then I’d tie them up in so many lawsuits. At the back of my mind, I wondered how long Mr. Kilming would keep working before demanding some money and at what point he’d realize that my parents weren’t going to foot the bill for this, but I shoved that thought aside.

  I felt a tap at on my shoulder. Alex was standing behind me.

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You can start writing up your speech. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I don’t…” I looked all around, trying to see if maybe there was an audience, but we were in a completely empty hallway.

  “For whatever insane reason, you refuse to believe that I’m your actual friend,” she said. “So I will make sure you get elected, and then I’m going to need you to forgive me for that thing with the gossip column. And the thing with Le, too.”

  “Hmm. I think I will pass on that offer.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Don’t trust me. But in a few days I’ll expect an apology
.”

  Then Mr. Kilming answered my phone call, and I walked down the corridor to make sure Alex wouldn’t hear.

  From: Linda Montrose

  To: Reshma Kapoor

  Subject: RE: Where are you?

  Dear Ms. Kapoor,

  I apologize for failing to return your latest call. It’s been a very busy time for me at the agency. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about. I’m afraid that I overestimated my abilities and took on too many new clients in too short a time. After realizing that it had become impossible for me to zealously advance the interests of everyone who I represent, I was forced to make some hard decisions.

  Reading your draft has convinced me that it was a mistake to take on a book that was at such an early stage of revision. Your book needs room to grow and flower without an agent constantly pressuring you to finish. I think your novel will benefit from a long, unforced period of revision, perhaps while you’re in college, to give it the maturity and insight that this story deserves.

  I sincerely apologize for whatever false expectations might have been inspired by my offer to represent your work. However, given these concerns, I find that I am forced to terminate our agency agreement.

  I wish you the best of luck in completing this fascinating book and, eventually, finding an agent who’s right for your needs.

  Sincerely,

  Linda Montrose

  I have absolutely no idea how she did it.

  Results of Election for Student Commencement Speakers:

  1. Kian Gupta (129 votes)

  2. Reshma Kapoor (101 votes)

  3. Travis McNell (55 votes)

  4. Jeremy Ozick (43 votes)

  5. Chelsea Blahnik (21 votes)

  Congratulations to your two class speakers: Kian Gupta and Reshma Kapoor!