Enter Title Here

by Rahul Kanakia

“I don’t need her anymore,” Le said.

  And Vice Principal Colson grabbed me by the arm and escorted me out.

  The crowd filled the auditorium. Some kids had brought their entire extended families: there were whole little sections that stood together and chattered together and dressed alike. I’d avoided looking for my parents in the stands. I didn’t want to think about them watching as people booed me.

  Kian was sitting on one side of me and Chelsea was on the other. Chelsea caught me looking at her, then reached over and squeezed my hand. Hers was clammy and cold. In fact, her whole body had a pale sheen.

  When Colson began talking, the room fell quiet: I could hear the commuters honking at each other out on El Camino.

  I was about to graduate.

  I still couldn’t believe I’d asked Susan Le to hire me. And I couldn’t believe she’d turned me down. How could she do it? What I’d wanted was so tiny. She even could’ve lied and made nice in that moment and reneged on her promise later. But she hadn’t bothered. To her, I wasn’t even a monster; I was completely insignificant.

  Susan Le came onstage to applause that went on and on and on. The vice principal ran out and put a step stool in front of the podium. When she clambered onto it, there was a spurt of laughter. A smile oozed out of the corner of her mouth as she surveyed the room. She was silent for a moment too long, and the applause started again. It was only when this second burst died down that she began telling us a bunch of anecdotes about amazing people who’d changed their lives. The whole thrust of it was that willpower and drive could make anybody into a huge success. The subtext was that Susan Le was rich because she deserved to be: she hadn’t been born intelligent and dedicated; she’d made herself that way.

  People laughed at the right places and applauded at the right places. When she left the podium about half the audience stood up. I remained sitting, but Kian and Chelsea both stood. She didn’t go back to her seat, though. She kept going, retreating backstage. Even Colson seemed nonplussed. What was happening? She was such a coward! Was she really going to dodge my speech entirely?

  I tried to convince myself that it didn’t matter. She’d see it on YouTube. Or she’d hear about it.

  Kian’s speech came next. The moment he began, the room wilted. Somehow, the master debater wasn’t comfortable speaking from the heart. The delivery was perfect, but the speech was long and full of clichés: the wonderful people he’d met; how much he’d always miss the place; the things he’d learned; the difference we all needed to make in this horrible world.

  By the end of the twenty-minute speech, the crowd was restless: its slight sideways motion resembled water coming to a boil.

  My turn was coming up. I hoped they’d boo me. Since I couldn’t have approval, I at least wanted havoc.

  Despite his horrendously boring speech, Kian sat down to a sustained round of applause. I suppose a lot of people in our class really respect him.

  When Colson called out my name, there were scattered hisses. I got up, and the booing rose. But, then, somewhere between my second and third step, it fell away. By the time I got to the podium, a few people had started to clap their hands. The spotlight caught me. I blinked, dazzled. The microphone was still warm from Kian’s fingers.

  A moment passed, and one long hissssss echoed through the room. It went on for a very long time, maybe five seconds, but I think it was only one person. Eventually, even that died away.

  Someone shouted, “I wanna marry you, Reshma!”

  I still have no idea who that was.

  Then, in the front row, someone yawned. His gaping mouth was a tiny black hole. When he’d reached the apex of his yawn, the person next to him yawned. Without meaning to, I let out a long yawn as well. And then the crowd was a winking starscape of open throats: everyone was already pretty tired.

  The parents were mostly up above, in the back rows and mezzanine. Their faces were pink dots. My parents were in there somewhere. And so were George’s and Alex’s and Chelsea’s. Everyone I knew, pretty much, and all their parents, too. Standing there and watching me.

  I looked down at my phone, which was displaying a copy of the speech Susan Le had ripped up, and then I started to speak.

  My voice had that low, strong quality that I think I’ve described before, and the room went absolutely quiet. I went on like a bulldozer, feeling the anger build up inside my throat as I said, “Yes, I cheated. I admit it. And I deserve what I got. But there’s a person here who’s cheated on a far grander scale.”

  No one applauded. No one made a sound. The sun streamed in through windows all along the top of the auditorium, and the only people who moved were the ones baking away inside the hot little spots of light that it made.

  Something about their silence was so awful. If they had booed me, I could’ve disregarded them. I could’ve called them idiots and fools. But they didn’t boo. They listened. A few times, they even clapped. And that was…it was the worst. After a minute, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. I wanted to sit down and stop talking, but I couldn’t. Something forced me to keep going, to keep that anger in my voice, and keep glancing back at Susan Le as I spewed out insult after insult.

  My insides clenched, and I saw, at that moment, what George had been trying to tell me. I was selfish. That’s what it came down to. I wanted everything from him, but I never gave anything back. Even when he was in trouble, I never…I can’t even say that I disregarded his trouble. It’s more like I never even saw it. I never opened up my heart to it. I was selfish. I was so selfish. Oh God, how could anyone bear to be in the same room with me? I was absolutely terrible.

  Today was an unforgettable day in the lives of thousands of people. It was the culmination of years of study. Some of these kids might be the first in their families to graduate high school. Some of the parents probably didn’t know English. They couldn’t even understand the speeches. They were down there beaming away, so happy to be here. Others were getting awards. Or, you know, why even think about it that way? Some of them had done nothing in high school. They’d smoked pot and skipped class. But they’d still been here. Something had happened. Even when they were seventy years old, this would be a major part of their lives.

  And instead of doing something to honor that moment, I spent ten minutes telling them about some sordid drama involving my parents and the cruel, lonely woman who was probably already back at her house in Palo Alto by now. And why did I do it? What did I gain? No one wanted me to do it. And there was so much else to say, too. Like…these were good people in front of me. I know at some high schools it’s not that way. I know some high schools are full of cruel and petty-minded kids who make life hell for those around them.

  But not at Bell.

  I hadn’t known that, you see, because I spent so many years avoiding them and trying to be better than them. But any one of them would’ve been a better choice to be graduation speaker than me. Like Alex, with her weird sense of right and wrong. Or Chelsea, who never let the mask drop, no matter how hard I pushed her. Or Aakash, with his incredibly methodical nature. Or George, with his quiet determination to do the right thing by both me and his parents.

  When I ended my speech, there was no applause. A few camera flashes went off as I walked to my seat, but otherwise I had complete silence. Even Chelsea refused to look at me. I sat there with my hands folded in my lap as Colson made his final remarks, and the moment it was all over, I dashed offstage.

  I still can’t believe what happened. I had so much to say and so much love in my heart, and all I had to do was end my harangue and switch my speech over to something happier and more heartfelt. I had the podium, and I had the moment. But I didn’t take it.

  I just e-mailed my last entry to George. I don’t know. Maybe it’ll stand in for the apology that I didn’t know how to give him.

  There was a furor, of course. My speech got a million views on YouTube and was featured on a few news programs. Susan Le issued a statement trying to explain herself,
but her company is publicly traded now, and her shareholders don’t need the negative publicity. The chairman of her board issued a statement saying they were looking into reports of these irregularities.

  This morning, a lawyer called my parents to offer them a settlement. Le would admit that they had developed the image-recognition algorithm and would give them a small stock grant. They haven’t mentioned exactly how much stock they’ll be getting or how much it’s worth, but when my dad told me about it, his eyes were wide and he spent all his time looking out the window.

  The only requirement, of course, was that I needed to recant my story and say that I’d exaggerated everything. My mom wasn’t around when my dad asked me to do that. I think she didn’t want me to. I heard them shouting about it last night. But I said okay, and this morning I signed and released the statement that Le’s people had sent over to us.

  So now the world considers me a plagiarist and a slanderer. Apparently, I’m the poster child for a spoiled and entitled generation.

  Which is fair, I suppose.

  From: Leo Wasserman

  To: Reshma Kapoor

  Subject: Can you take a look at this for me?

  Dear Reshma,

  My novel is finally done! Attached, you’ll find Dr. Nathan West and the Case of the Strangled Teacher. Would you mind reading and giving your comments? In about two weeks, we’re having a little critique discussion of the novel, and my wife and I would love for you to participate. Thanks so much for your help!

  Sincerely,

  Leo Wasserman, PhD (Doctor of Philosophy) and M.W. (Mystery Writer)

  Sent a text to George, telling him I miss him.

  Yeah. I guess I miss you, too.

  Did you read my note?

  Yeah.

  That stung a bit. I wanted to text him a million more apologies. But what did that matter? Nothing I said could make his life easier.

  How’s your mom? Is she proud of you?

  Don’t even ask. She’s out of control.

  Was there a party?

  More like did the party ever stop? Every time I come home she’s on the phone bragging to some old auntie about how I got a scholarship to Berkeley.

  So she finally came to terms with the sports thing?

  Oh you know Indian people. Once we realize there’s money in it we’re fine with anything.

  LOL. So you think she’s convincing the people back home that “running track” is the new “programming computers”?

  That is very possible. I’ve already had one cousin call and ask if I can coach him.

  We went back and forth, lightning fast, for two hours. Neither of us wanted to call the other, I guess. But finally I wrote:

  Hey you want to hang out? I’m free any and every time.

  There was a long pause.

  This’ll sound like a lie, but I can’t.

  Ever? Not even for an hour?

  He told me that he was working three jobs now: nights at a restaurant, days at the shoe store, weekends at a farmers’ market. He was trying to save up as much money as possible so that he wouldn’t feel like a bastard if he chose to live near Berkeley’s campus instead of commuting there from his home.

  Bus is getting close to my house.

  Nice talking to you. I miss you.

  Our entire conversation had taken place during one of his circuitous bus-to-Caltrain-to-BART-to-bus journeys back to his home.

  As a condition of the settlement, Susan Le’s PR people booked my parents for a segment on a morning show. I offered to go on the show, too, but everyone looked at me like I was crazy: nobody trusts me to stay on-message in front of a camera.

  But I went along for the taping, and I sat with them in the green room as Le’s lawyers gave them prepared statements in which they carefully delineated the role that Susan Le had played in the development of their company and their ideas, and then, just as carefully, thanked her for everything she’d done. In it, they acknowledged she’d committed no wrongdoing, and that they were grateful for the completely voluntary compensation she was giving them, out of a sense of fair play, for what she felt were their contributions to the company.

  My dad stroked my mom’s hand as they look at their statements. We were all alone in that windowless room, except for a blond-haired woman wearing an earpiece. My mom had recently dyed her hair, but the fluorescent lighting brought out all the gray in the fringe of hair that surrounded my dad’s bald head.

  Then my mom’s phone buzzed, and she said, “Ahh, Jim wants to move the Sequoia Capital meeting up a few hours.”

  “Will they invest?” my dad said.

  “No, they’re too focused on social. I doubt they’ll get into tech.”

  “But we have social applications, too! I forgot to tell you! I’ve been working on creating plug-ins for Bombr that…”

  My dad flipped over his paper and started scribbling on the back of the sheet. My mom shoved her prepared statement into her purse and leaned in to my dad so she could see better. Meanwhile, his pen was slashing across the back of the paper, and he was talking very fast. My mom’s eye furrowed, and her finger stabbed out to call attention to some mistake. Their heads bent closer together.

  I still couldn’t believe I’d asked Susan Le to hire me. It seems insane to me, but I know that if she’d said yes, I would’ve abandoned my speech and gone into business with my parents’ worst enemy.

  I must’ve made a noise in the back of my throat, because my mom looked up at me, and we locked eyes.

  My mouth opened. I was about to confess everything and apologize to them and beg them to forgive me.

  Then she frowned at me, and she blinked a few times, like there was something about me which was a bit blurry, and I decided not to say anything.

  Dr. Nathan West examined the body with a tremendously exacting amount of excruciating care. He’d seen a hundred dead bodies in his career as a part-time consultant for the San Francisco Police Department, but this body was just about the most dead body that he had ever seen. Its skull had been smashed open, and its brains were leaking all over the floor. The murder weapon: a silver trophy—bashed into a leaden lump—lay by the side of the brainless and thoroughly brained teacher.

  Dr. Nathan West was as brilliant a detective as he was a psychologist, but this time he was truly stumped. The door of this office had been locked from the inside. How could anyone have possibly got in to kill this teacher?

  At his side, the student said, “We all loved Ms. Manfred. She was our favorite teacher. Who could want to do this?”

  Dr. Nathan West turned to her. The student was named Laila Azadian, and she was the one who had found the corpse. As stage manager of the school’s amateur theatrical society—the one that was managed and directed by Ms. Manfred—Laila was one of the teacher’s closest associates amongst the student body.

  Laila’s dense eyebrows came close to joining above her nose and her somewhat overlarge hands gripped and tangled with each other. “You don’t think it’s a student, do you?” she said.

  “It can’t be,” Dr. Nathan West said. “If it was a student, that would make a terribly predictable case. And they only call me in when the case is an excellent and unpredictable one.”

  Dr. Wasserman’s house was a Craftsman cottage on the edge of Mountain View. Apparently, he collected images of lighthouses: they were emblazoned on sculptures, figurines, tapestries, throw pillows, carpets, and plates. I sat in the Wassermans’ narrow living room in a recliner that’d been turned around so it faced away from the TV. The two of them sat next to each other in the love seat. Her hand was intertwined with his, and his head was bent down so his scalp was pointed at me: it was pink, with a coating of fuzzy white hair, like a blooming dandelion. His breaths were almost gasps. He looked like he was ready to receive a beating.

  “Sorry this gathering is so intimate,” his wife said. “But all the rest of Leo’s writer friends said they couldn’t make it. You’re such a dear
for coming.”

  I grimaced. Their couch was sagging underneath them. I had a mental image of them sitting here at night, holding hands and exchanging chaste kisses during the commercial break of a Law & Order rerun.

  I had the whole huge printout of his novel in my lap. I was about to open my mouth to begin talking, but he interjected: “How’s your novel coming? Are you done?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s puttering along.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. The important thing is to let the ending breathe. Too many writers forget that the novel can’t end right at the big climax. There has to be a falling action, where the tension is slowly released. And then a dénouement, where all the final threads get wrapped up.”

  “Come on, now,” his wife said. “This isn’t therapy, it’s a critique circle. Why don’t we pull the bandage off? Reshma, what did you think of my husband’s book?”

  I rifled the pages with my thumb. Sure were a lot of them: almost four hundred sheets of paper. Every single one was filled with words. “This novel is…not very good,” I said.

  Wasserman let out a slight hiss.

  I waited. The hiss stopped.

  “Umm, dear,” Mrs. Wasserman said. “You’re supposed to give reasons. And, you know, in a critique, Leo usually doesn’t get to speak to defend his work. So please talk until you’re done.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what to say. This is unreadably bad. You obviously know a lot about stories. And this follows all your rules: there’s rising tension and internal/external arcs and third options and it’s got the Hero’s Journey and…is there something a little extra, too?”

  “Five-act structure,” Wasserman muttered. His wife looked at him and jerked her head from side to side. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll be quiet.”