500 Words or Less
Page 6
You have the worst football team in the nation. Division III and you have won only one game in five years. But I want to attend Elbridge because I want to be more than a football player. In America, this is not what young black men are supposed to do. We are supposed to go to college to be student-athletes, athletes first.
Meydenbauer has a great football program, but it is also one of the best public schools in the country. I came here as an athlete, but I’m leaving here as a student. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein mesmerized me. The law of momentum conservation was handy on and off the field. While I found AP US History to be all too whitewashed, I thoroughly appreciated my world history teacher’s syllabus on the non-“Western” world.
I want to go to Elbridge, not because you have a terrible team, but because your football players are people. Last year’s captain is now in the Peace Corps. Your running back took a semester off during football season to intern for the White House. Every Monday night one of your linebackers cooks a locally sourced, vegan meal for the entire team.
Why am I, as a black man, limited to being an athlete in order to go to college? Why do I have to rely on a full ride provided by an athletic scholarship in order to attend?
At Elbridge College, I want to be more than an athlete, more than a black man who has a great arm. At Elbridge College, I want to be a whole person.
Half a life
I couldn’t shake
the last line
from Bryant Barnett’s essay.
What did it mean to be
a whole person?
For most of high school,
I felt like I had been living
half a life.
Then,
for the brief eight months
I was with Ben,
there was
a new sense of roundness,
like I was a balloon
suddenly inflated.
Thoughts of Ben clung to me
Everything still reminded me of Ben.
Walking down the halls.
Seeing a familiar shadow
dart into a classroom.
Driving across the lake.
Eating a sandwich.
Thoughts of Ben were like humidity,
just there, on my skin,
there, when I breathed.
Last spring
I held his hand as we drove
across the lake
and inched through traffic
along I-90 and up I-5.
I let go as we wound our way
through the leafy streets
until we arrived at the end of the road,
at the edge of the city limits.
We stopped at a shack
outside a park
and ordered
pork sandwiches.
I took a bite. “OMFG.”
Sauce and grease and everything amazing
dribbled down my face.
Ben laughed and reached over
and brushed my face
with a paper napkin.
I wanted to kiss him.
I hesitated.
I had food in my mouth.
But then he leaned over
and licked my cheek
like I was a Popsicle.
I burst out laughing.
“You’re such a weirdo,” I said.
He shrugged
like it was no big deal.
And we both went back
to eating our sandwiches,
the best sandwiches ever.
I had a lot of bests with Ben,
and now I wasn’t sure
where all those bests
had gone.
At the Starbucks
On Northeast 8th
I waited
for coffee.
Marco handed me
a double tall cappuccino,
extra foam.
He wore thick-rimmed glasses
that fogged
a little
every time he frothed
the milk.
“Nicola, you look radiant,”
he said.
Marco believed
everyone’s name
should sound
European.
“I love that scarf.
Is it Pucci?”
he asked.
Before my mother
gallivanted away,
she dumped an armload
of clothes, scarves,
and shoes that were one size
too big
on my bedroom floor.
She called herself
a fashionista,
but her therapist called her
a shopping addict.
I brushed the silk scarf
away from my neck.
There was a time
it was a staple
to the outfits
I’d wear
when out
with Ben.
I thought it made me
look sophisticated,
like somebody’s
girlfriend,
like a girl
who was supposed to be
with a boy
like Ben.
I checked the tag
sewn into a corner.
“Hermès,” I said.
Marco’s eyes widened.
“Tell me a French lover
gave that to you
while holidaying in Nice.”
I smiled politely and shrugged.
“Sorry. It’s from my mother.
Maybe her story is better?”
I wondered if it was.
I wondered if she was off
creating better stories,
in the South of France or Spain
or Argentina
or Morocco.
I wondered, briefly,
why she hadn’t called.
I wondered, even more briefly,
if she had forgotten
all about me,
here in Meydenbauer,
where I still live,
in the same home
she left.
“I can’t create
In words,”
Marco said
after school last week.
So he paid me
to write
his art school essay,
and last night
I wrote
pieces of it.
I fell into his shoes.
I wandered around
in his world
until the words came out
to greet me.
The essay prompt
was something about
obsession.
I didn’t really know
anything about
Marco’s obsession.
But I imagined
what his obsession might be,
because wasn’t there only one thing
we were truly ever obsessed with?
So I wrote,
and I wrote,
and I wrote, about
love.
A Draft of Marco’s Essay
Art can be an endeavor in obsession with sometimes profound or detrimental outcomes. Describe a time when you found yourself obsessed with an idea, concept, or thing. How has this experience influenced your understanding of yourself as an artist?
Portrait of Shane
I used to think I was obsessed with lots of things. A single melody from an up-and-coming songstress. A pleated jacket from New York Fashion Week. The new fro-yo shop that opened up next door to work. I had no idea what it meant to be obsessed until I met Shane. Or, more correctly, I had no idea what it meant to be obsessed until I met Shane, dated Shane, and then lost Shane when he left to join the Peace Corps, somewhere I couldn’t even visit on weekends.
I was smitten. I was in love. I devoured the time we spent together. He said words to me that I’ve never known any other human to say. He touched me with fingers that were both bitter and sweet. He listened to me
. He nodded along with all the outlandish ideas I proposed. He hugged me hard. He kissed me harder. For one entire summer, he was all mine.
Then he took it away. He left to listen, to hug, to say things to other people more deserving in this world. Now I am obsessed.
I refresh his page every other minute. I send him cat memes and notes with emoticons. I am not one who emotes in ASCII. I am not a lover of cats. I DO NOT KNOW WHY I SEND HIM THESE THINGS. I’m obsessed with checking my messages. When he replies, I feel like he sent me a cookie, like I ate a cookie, and then I want another. So I search for more cat memes, more emoticons to express how I feel, in order to receive another message, to eat more cookies. I am the freaking Cookie Monster.
As an artist, I’m not sure my obsession does me any good. Under the influence of love, I make bad art. I collage his face. I acrylic his body. I photograph his every angle in every light. The gaudiness in this world is a product of obsessive love like mine.
There are very few works that have gotten love right.
Félix González-Torres’s Untitled (Portrait of Ross in L.A.), a 175-pound pile of candy, depleted over time to represent the ideal weight of his dying lover. Who could possibly create a work as poignant and devoted as that? I have a lot to learn.
I love the process of creating art. The hours spent meticulously creating something, planning, experimenting, and feeling the work. The love that I have for the process is the type of love I want with someone else, a slow love, not one born of obsession.
Ben used to bring me
Double tall
soy vanilla lattes
every morning.
I used to bring him
an Egg McMuffin
sandwich.
“You guys are, like,
so mature,”
Jilly would exclaim.
“You never buy me coffee,”
Jenny would whine at Jordan.
“That’s because you’re not
my girlfriend,”
Jordan would respond.
“That’s not what everyone else
thinks.”
Jenny would smirk.
“Wanna walk me to class?”
Ben would ask,
and I’d nod gleefully back.
“You guys are sooo cute,”
Jilly would say,
and Ben and I would walk away
hand in hand
down the hall.
“Do I have to bring you
a latte tomorrow?”
Ben would whisper.
“I guess not,”
I would say.
“But I’ll still bring you
an Egg McMuffin.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I want to.”
“But you don’t have to,”
Ben would say.
But the next morning
Ben would hand me
a double tall soy vanilla latte,
and I’d hand over
an Egg McMuffin.
Jilly would swoon
and Jenny would pout,
and Ben and I
would walk
hand in hand
down the hallway
and off to class,
again,
neither of us
considering
what we actually
needed.
What does a pumpkin spice latte taste like?
I slipped into a gray upholstered armchair
and waited for Laurel LeBrea.
“OMG, Nic.
I have some
uh-mazing ideas
for my college essay,”
she said over voice mail
this morning.
When Laurel moved to Meydenbauer
from Southern California
in sixth grade,
I thought she was
the oddest girl I had ever met.
I was pretty sure
she thought
the same of me.
“My daddy’s an entertainment lawyer.
What does your daddy do?”
was the first thing she ever said to me,
and I stared at her
and her pink bow
and couldn’t comprehend
how Laurel LeBrea’s father
could be an entertainment lawyer
in a city with no entertainment.
Laurel strolled into Starbucks
with her sleek blond hair
curled perfectly
around her face.
She tucked her oversize sunglasses
into her purse
and glanced around.
She waved at me
with her fingers,
then headed to the barista.
I sipped the now lukewarm
cappuccino.
Laurel returned with a venti drink.
She took a small sip and squealed.
“Oh my God.
I love pumpkin spice lattes.
It tastes like
a million hugs.”
If only
drinking a pumpkin spice latte
was like
a million hugs,
then maybe
everything would be
okay.
But what good
are a million hugs,
when you really only
want one?
Ben’s hugs
Were epic.
I loved snuggling deep
against his ratty old T-shirt
that smelled like cut grass and laundry soap.
I loved being enveloped in his arms.
It was like we fit together,
perfectly,
in our hugs.
A yin and a yang.
I used to think
that meant something,
us fitting together
perfectly,
but it wasn’t a sign
of anything.
“I think I love you,” Ben once said,
while we were interlocked together
like puzzle pieces.
I kissed his forehead
and squeezed him tighter, and
all I could think was
But do you know me?
Smiling makes us happy
In front of us sat Laurel’s iPad,
filled with photos of Laurel
at varying stages of life.
Smiling with pigtails at summer camp.
Smiling as a sixth grader in front of her house.
Smiling as she’s being tossed in the air,
her arms outstretched,
her body in a perfect V.
She pointed to a photo of little Laurel
riding a horse.
“I used to be a horse girl, but
it wasn’t my scene.
Horse girls are sullen.
I switched to cheer.
Cheer makes people happy.
What about that idea?”
“No,”
I said.
“This is me
at last year’s state championship.”
She pointed to a photo
of her spiraling through the air.
“What about an essay on
my rise to cheer captain?”
“No,” I said
again.
“Do you have any photos
where you’re not so—
smiley?”
“I always smile in photos.”
I pointed to
the most boring photo on the screen,
the one of Laurel in front of her house.
“Tell me about this one.”
“I don’t know why
I included that photo.
I don’t like it.
I forced that smile.
But I still look cute,
right?”
I touched the screen
to expand the image.
Her smile was different.
All m
outh and no eyes.
“What’s going on here?”
She sighed and fell back into the chair.
“I had just moved to Meydenbauer.
I was supposed to wear
leopard-print flats,
my favorite pair of Sevens,
and a bright pink sweatshirt
that said BE BRAVE,
with a heart around it.
Mom had picked it out for me.
“It was supposed to be
my first-day-in-a-new-school outfit.
I was going to make
all sorts of friends
while wearing it.
“Mom folded it up
and put it on the top of my suitcase.
But when I opened my suitcase
in Meydenbauer,
it wasn’t there.
Nor was my mom.
So I cried.”
Laurel’s story continued,
but I was stuck in the moment
when her mother
was gone.
I knew of the panic
that settles in
on those initial days
without a mother.
“Where is she?”
I said.
The words came out,
interrupting.
Laurel flinched.
“California.
My parents split.
Mom was sad.
Dad wasn’t.
It was all very—confusing.”
She paused,
and smiled widely
again.
“She’s good now.
Very centered.
We talk every day.
I mean, looking back,
she was kind of
not that stable.
I’d always try to
cheer her up.
“It’s another reason
I joined cheer.
To actually cheer
people up.”
Would I ever get to that place
with my mom?
When I would be able to say
she’s good,
centered?
That we talk every day?
Maybe it would happen—
if she ever returned.
Laurel looked back at the photo.
“Dad promised
he’d send her a photo
so that she knew I was
happy.
“I wanted to look happy for her.
That’s why I’m smiling.”
“Your mom, Laurel.
That’s the essay I’ll write.”
“But it’s so depressing,
and totally not fun.”
Laurel slumped.
“But it’s real.”
Laurel nodded hesitantly,
holding a brave smile.
Where’s Mom?
I had to say it to myself,