Enter Title Here

by Rahul Kanakia

  “But I didn’t enjoy reading it,” I said. “Almost every sentence is clunky and ugly. And the characters and plot are silly. It doesn’t feel like it has a reason for existing.”

  The noise that came out of Wasserman’s mouth was strangely akin to whale song.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t enjoy saying this. You’ve been writing for so long, though, and your work is still so bad. Have you ever considered quitting? I mean…I normally wouldn’t recommend that, except…it’s clearly not making you happy. I mean, you were always a bit wifty, but you used to be tall and confident and funny. And now you’re this little nervous guy. Come on, Mrs. W, you see it, too, don’t you?”

  Her nose was scrunched up and her eyebrows were twitching. She looked like she wanted to reach across the expanse of carpet and strangle me.

  I stared at the ground. “That’s, umm…That’s all I have to say….”

  He looked up. His face was stained with tears. “Thank you for your critique,” he said. “I’ll try to keep your comments in mind for the next draft.”

  “You’re really going to try to rewrite this?”

  “Thank you for your…” His voice broke. “This is all I’ve ever wanted to do!”

  Then his wife threw her arms around him. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You can do it. I know you can.”

  I tried to make as little noise as possible when I snuck out, but Wasserman croaked: “Wait.”

  I’d almost made it to the door. I looked over my shoulder.

  “Don’t forget the falling action and the dénouement,” he said.

  I almost wished I’d lied. But…maybe he will recall my words someday, when he’s close to the edge of despair, and they will make him realize that his true calling lies elsewhere.

  In a way, I was elated. Ever since giving my valedictorian speech, I’ve been trying to be less selfish, and sometimes I wonder if maybe that means I’ll also have to be nice and sweet and fake all the time. But you know what? Sometimes the most selfish thing to do is to be nice when your friend really needs you to be honest.

  The back room of the shoe warehouse was a nest of metal shelves, packed so close that we had to walk sideways to get through them. Even though it was over eighty degrees outside, I was chilly in here amongst the concrete and the piping.

  George’s mouth dropped when his manager introduced him to me:

  “This is Reshma, our newest hire,” he said. “She’s going to be shadowing you for the day.”

  He snapped off some quick instructions and then left us there, in the back, surrounded by mountains of new shoes.

  “How did you…?” he said.

  “What, I’m not qualified to sell shoes?” I said. “I’ll have you know that I am a high school graduate.”

  “Stock shoes, for now. You’re in the back.”

  “Oh,” I said. “And is there anyone else back here?”

  I leaned on one foot and tapped the other on the concrete floor. His face was just a few inches from mine. He swept a strand of hair behind his ear, and I thought the nervous gesture might be a cover for how uncomfortable he was, so I started to back away, but then his hand was on my waist, gathering me closer to him.

  “Hey,” he said. “Can I kiss you?”

  I enjoy seeing George at the store. Since he works in the back and I’ve been transferred to the front, we don’t butt up against each other too much. The whole store laughs at how much time I spend in the stockroom, but it’s a gentle laughter. I don’t know what it is about me that’s changed. I feel like I’m acting exactly the same, but no one here hates me.

  The working world is so clean and simple. Your boss might say, “Good job,” but you don’t get a number—a grade—that you can use to lord it over other people. I work as hard as anyone. We don’t work on commission, but I keep my own private set of sales figures: I sell a third more shoes than the next-best person. When I try to show my tally to the manager, he looks over the numbers and says, “Hmm, interesting,” and doesn’t act on this information at all. He only cares about making sure that the corporate office doesn’t get on his case.

  Okay, you’re not interested in this. You’re waiting for the novel to be over. And…well…maybe this is the ending?

  No, wait, it can’t be!

  The last time I ended this novel, I was sure I’d gotten to the end because I had everything I wanted. This time, all I’ve got is a job in a shoe store.

  Err, and I’m no longer quite so insane. When did that happen? How did it happen? Everyone says I seem ten times nicer and happier nowadays, but I still identify so strongly with the girl who sat in that basement a year ago, bubbling with so much anger and resentment. I feel like I owe her so much, and I’d be sorry to discover that I’ve killed the most dynamic and interesting part of her.

  Today Alex let slip that she was going to be helping Chelsea move, so I decided to head over to her place and see if I could catch her in time to say good-bye.

  It’s not that I like or care about Chelsea, but the two of us have been through so much together, and I don’t know…I suppose I also wanted her to acknowledge that I could’ve taken her number one spot away from her if I’d wanted.

  I’ve never been to her house before, and now I know why. Chelsea lives in East Las Vacas, in a strip of bungalows on Swamp Road. Her house has a little lawn and a wooden fence, but it’s tiny—only five rooms—and huge trucks are constantly barreling past on their way to the highway.

  Alex and Chelsea were out front, watching an older man in a T-shirt and cargo shorts try to maneuver a bicycle into the backseat of Alex’s beamer.

  “This thing is so tiny,” the man said. “How do you fit any people in here?”

  “Oh, well, I think it’s not, like, a real backseat,” Alex said. “It’s just there for the insurance. For some reason, two-seaters cost way more to insure than four-seaters, you know?”

  The man frowned. I don’t think he did know.

  “Hey!” I said. “How’s it going?!”

  Chelsea kept her back to me for a moment, and I thought, Oh my God, this is it. This time she won’t be smiling. This time she won’t be nice. This time she’ll show what she really thinks of me.

  But when she turned around, the grin was as wide as ever, and she said, “Oh wow! Great to see you here, Resh!”

  Alex clapped her hands. “Perfect timing, Resh! You’ve got an SUV, right? So much more room!”

  Chelsea glanced over at Alex and then back at me. The man finally gave up heaving at the bicycle and said, “Look, let me get a wrench. I’m just gonna take the wheels off, okay?”

  He trotted indoors and left us standing out there in the heat. The air was still, and the only sound was from the cars passing behind me.

  “Hey…I, actually, umm…” I looked pointedly at Alex to signal that maybe she should leave me alone with Chelsea.

  “No, I’m gonna stay for this,” she said.

  “Fine.” I looked at Chelsea. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. You know, nothing I did was personal. But…you were the one who suffered. It was your name in the newspapers next to mine. And you were the one who didn’t get to speak at graduation and didn’t get in early to Stanford. You were the better person.”

  Okay, yeah, I know I went there to make her thank me, but I changed my mind. I don’t know. I guess I realized it was silly to want her to be honest with me when I’d never been honest with her.

  Chelsea pointed her face at me, and I stared into her oversized sunglasses. The big black lenses made her look like a praying mantis.

  “An apology,” Alex said. “This is so sweet, isn’t it? And to think that after all these years of mutual loathing, you—”

  “Shut up, Alex,” Chelsea said. Then she rubbed the tips of her fingers against the side of her skirt. “Thank you, Reshma. I appreciate that. But there’s nothing to apologize for. It’s been wonderful getting to know you this year. I’m only sorry you won’t be there at Berkeley to make sure I
keep my nose to the grindstone. Oh, and I know that you could’ve been valedictorian if you wanted to, and I’d like to thank you for letting me have it. The title really meant a lot to my dad.”

  Behind Chelsea’s back, Alex made a face like she was gagging, but I shook my head.

  Chelsea is amazing. She is one of the marvels of the universe. Even when there was absolutely nothing to gain, she remained completely self-possessed. Wow. I don’t know. I guess I’m just not fated to ever know or understand the real Chelsea.

  Then Chelsea said, “Well, I better get back to packing,” and Alex said, “So…I’ll see you later tonight, Resh?” and I realized that the window had already closed on the possibility that something meaningful would arise from this interaction, so I glanced at my phone and said, “Oh! I have to go,” and, with a flurry of hugs and waves and good-byes, allowed myself to be shepherded back to my car.

  Okay. This is the dénouement. Get ready, because nothing comes after this.

  Aakash has been spotted making out with Kate Erickson. She was a girl in our class who was hella into computer science: she commercially released two iPhone apps during our senior year. I looked on his Bombr account to see what he was saying about her, but saw that almost 75% of his bombs are being thrown to @Kateerickson14. They’re always sharing links with each other and arguing about philosophy. It’s a bit disgusting.

  Raymond Lodge’s dad is really into Indian classical music, so I pretended to be interested in the topic and went to talk to him—as part of a mission to reclaim my cultural heritage, you know? After a few minutes, I slowly steered the conversation over to Ray’s grades. And, before I knew it, his dad was showing me stacks and stacks of Ray’s old report cards. I took surreptitious photographs of some of the high school grade reports. Soon enough, I will acquire a copy of Ray’s final transcript. This will hopefully contain a number of discrepancies with the quarterly score reports. Thus, I will be provided with reams of blackmail material to deploy should that bastard ever achieve a position of high responsibility after he graduates from Brown.

  Tina Huang got into Columbia, regular decision, and is going to attend in the fall. I feel like I should’ve worked her in a bit more. Maybe I should’ve combined her with Cecily? But whatever, I hate when you read a high school novel, and it’s like there’re only six kids in the whole school.

  Kian and Alex kept making out all summer, but they never started dating. They’re both too smart to get tied down before college starts.

  Yesterday, Mummy said that maybe the shoe store is interfering with my writing productivity. She thinks I should quit and focus on being a full-time writer. When I told her that the novel had zero chance of being published, she looked at me sternly and told me not to give up: if this was something I wanted to do, then I needed to pursue it.

  I’m still not sure whether to destroy Linda Montrose. Some days I think, Yes, she is certainly worthy of being destroyed! And on other days, I think, No, you know, she was doing her job. Why should she rep a book that she doesn’t believe in? Nowadays, I try not to destroy people unless I am at least 90% sure that they deserve it. So I guess she’s safe. For now.

  I tried to schedule another appointment with Dr. Wasserman, but his wife called me back and said he didn’t think he could see me anymore. That sent me into a shame spiral that lasted for days. I still wonder whether I could’ve phrased my criticism a little better.

  Anyway, I know it’s traditional to dedicate your first book to your parents, but none of this would exist without Dr. Wasserman. I hope that when he reads this, he finds himself able to forgive me. In the meantime, I gave him super positive reviews on Angie’s List and on Yelp. I’m still not sure what was wrong with me, but I think he cured it, right? And I’m sure plenty of other screwed-up writers are looking for talented therapists and editors.

  One day, I e-mailed Ms. Lin to tell her I was sorry I’d abused the trust she’d placed in me. When she gave me that amazing recommendation letter, she’d been so confident that this plagiarism thing was an isolated fluke. She wrote back:

  You are forgiven. Now go forth and forgive.

  Sometimes, George looks up at me and says some very nice things. I have slowly learned to say some nice things back to him. Like, he’s very kind. And decisive. Good to have around for when you overdose on prescription amphetamines. He’s going to Berkeley in a month. Since I’ll still be in the area, we’re going to stay together, but…well…I don’t know. Berkeley is fifty miles away. He’s moving forward and I’m staying behind.

  I don’t know what to do with Alexandra. She’s such a major part of this story, but she’s got no plot or resolution. When I was revising it, I e-mailed the book to her along with the note:

  Can we maybe talk about your character arc?

  She wrote back:

  Sure!

  I spent a day or two being afraid that maybe she’d be mad over something I’d said in the book. When I went into her house, she was sitting on a cushion on her living room floor, and she had pages from my book spread all around her.

  “Oh my God, your novel is so meta,” she said. “Are you, like, are you going to write this conversation into the book? Maybe I ought to say something so unspeakably foul that you’re forced to cut this scene….”

  “All the other major characters have an arc.” I paced back and forth in the narrow corridor she’d formed between the stacks of pages. “Wasserman descends into this weird madness. Ms. Ratcliffe’s bohemian façade slowly cracked, and we saw that she’s the sort of racist who can’t look at a pair of perfectly fine Indian parents without assuming that they’re abusing their child. George and I fell for each other. My parents and I reached some kind of détente, and—”

  “Okay, okay, I understand.”

  I couldn’t face her, so I kept my head down. “But have you and I finished our arc? I mean, weren’t you going to tell me that you admired me and wished you could be more like me?”

  “Umm, Resh,” she said. “I didn’t want to draw too much attention to this, but I’m pretty good at life. I have friends, grades, fulfilling activities. I mean, I like you, but I think maybe you should have learned from me.”

  “You definitely changed, though. You drifted apart from Chelsea, for one thing.”

  “Oh, I could never really talk to her. Not like I can with you,” she said. “Except, hold on. Reshma, what was the deal with this amphetamine overdose? That is crazy! You should’ve called me. I would’ve been there for you, right? Yeah. I’m almost sure I would’ve. Come on, you shouldn’t have hid that from me.” She gritted her teeth. “I just…I guess I never thought about what I might be doing to you by—”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “If I hadn’t gotten the pills from you, I’d have gotten them from someone else.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe that’s my arc. I’ve finally realized that drugs are bad!”

  “Have you?”

  Alex flung a few of the pages up into the air, and we both watched them flutter down. “Hmm…no. Maybe I’m done dealing, though? That’s progress, right?”

  “I really don’t get it. You and the perfects were mean to me for years. How did it all change?”

  “First of all, you’re, like, the only person who still calls us ‘the perfects.’ That’s so sophomore year, Resh. Get with the times. Second, we were not mean to you, you were mean to us. Third, if we’re such ‘friends,’ then why has your novel portrayed me in such an extremely unflattering light? For instance, right now the novel seems to imply that I leaked a gossip item about you in on online blog, which is completely false. All I did was plant a very judicious rumor that was designed to force George and you to acknowledge your nascent feelings for each other. Everything would’ve worked fine, and nothing would’ve blown up, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was illegally pretending to be your relative! So really all the fault here belongs to you.”

  “Oh please,” I said.

  “No, no, no,” she said. “It was a Machi
avellian scheme. I am a Machiavelli. I’m like twelve Machiavellis, in fact.”

  “You are no Machiavelli. You are one gossipy little bitch.”

  “I am offended. I think that our arc ends here! Now!”

  I leaned against one of the arms of the couch. “Hmm, I guess it could work if we drifted apart as inexplicably as we came together….”

  “Ugh, no. You cannot write that.” Alex looked down and started sweeping the pages together into one big pile. “Come on, Resh. You know, reading about all that stuff I said and did to you…it really does hurt. I don’t know. In school, I always hated you. I mean, for years whenever I’d talk to you, you’d glare at me like I was interrupting. And God forbid I ask what you were doing for the weekend, because you’d just snap, ‘I’ll be studying.’ It just…it really felt like you had no soul. How could we have ever been friends? What could I have said or done to get past that wall?”

  That wasn’t really how I remembered things.

  “No,” I said. “Don’t you remember? Freshman year? You…” My voice was cracking, and it was so embarrassing, because why should I still care about some tiny little thing from four years ago? “You…you wouldn’t let me sit with you at lunch.”

  “Fuck,” Alex said. “I…I remember making those stupid rules. I was so excited about how real we were going to be. How we wouldn’t talk all the time about grades and school. How we’d be so much better than everybody else at school. I can’t believe how awful I was.”

  “We…”

  Both of us had wasted so much time.

  “Anyway!” She took up the big pile of paper—my novel—and slapped it down onto the coffee table. “Guess it’s good that you decided to write this thing, huh?”

  I felt a little frazzled, because if there was ever a moment to resolve everything, then it was right now.