500 Words or Less
Page 13
Jordan continued.
“The girl I slept with.
The girl who dated
my best friend,
my best friend
who died.
“Don’t you think
we both got accepted
out of some sick joke?
A cruel form of karma?”
“That’s not how college admissions work,”
I said.
“But isn’t it kind of
a crapshoot
to be admitted
to an Ivy?
“Like, don’t they just
throw all our applications
on the floor
and pluck two off the ground
and stamp them with
‘Admit’?”
“No,”
I said.
Not everything
in life
was arbitrary.
Jordan shrugged.
“Jordan, you have a 4.0 GPA.
National Merit Finalist.
Class president for three years.”
“My father bought my acceptance.
He donated handsomely to the school,”
Jordan said.
I didn’t say anything.
“Well, good thing he spent all that money
to ensure my spot at Princeton,
because I just sent in my deposit
to UW yesterday,”
Jordan continued.
“You’re staying here?”
I asked.
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Because I was always supposed to go
to Princeton.
Because I was supposed to become
my father,
and my father is an asshole,”
Jordan said.
His voice softened.
“Because I will never find out
who I am
if I go to Princeton.”
Jordan stopped talking. He bit his lip.
“Did you know that Ben called me
only four days after
the night of my party?”
Jordan asked.
I shook my head.
“He called me to say,
‘Dude, it’s okay.
We’re gonna be okay,’ ”
Jordan continued.
“We were never the same,
but we were something,
and Ben made that happen.”
Jordan’s eyes started to well.
“I don’t know why
Ben forgave me, Nic.
But he saw something inside me
that was worth
forgiving.”
Tears streamed down my face.
I stood there and let them fall.
I will never know
if Ben forgave me,
but I knew I needed
to search for the something
that was worth
forgiving
in myself.
“I hope you find
What you’re looking for
at Princeton,”
Jordan said,
wiping his eyes.
“I’m not going either,”
I responded.
The salty tears started to dry
on my cheeks.
He cocked his head.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.
Well, not nowhere.
China, probably.”
Jordan gave me a look
like he didn’t understand.
“I’m taking a gap year,”
I continued.
“My father has a six-month project
in Shanghai next fall,
so we are all going to move there
with him.
“And my stepmother
used to own an art gallery.
She’s going to try
to get me an internship.”
I’d had no idea Xiaoling
was a former gallery owner.
There were so many things
I didn’t know
about the people
around me.
About my family.
About myself.
“What about your mom?
Is she back?
I thought I saw her
at Starbucks the other day.”
“Sort of.
She lives in Portland
with my aunt.
But she’s here for graduation.”
Jordan nodded.
“How is she?”
“All right.
She has a job.
She quit drinking.
I have her phone number.
It’s progress.”
Jordan reached out
and grasped my shoulder.
“Progress is
everything.”
Then he zipped up
his backpack
with everything
tucked back inside,
removed his sunglasses,
and stepped into class.
I thought I cheated on Ben
Because I was young and
flippant and
careless.
Because I was selfish
and self-involved.
I thought I cheated on Ben
because I could.
We could do anything.
We dug holes
too deep,
jumped off
too many cliffs,
got caught
in too many avalanches.
We lived and lived
like yesterday was the end,
until one day you woke up
and it was.
But I cheated on Ben
because
I never saw him
for who he was.
I never looked him in the eye
long enough
to know him
like I knew myself,
because I never looked at myself
long enough
to know
who I was.
So how are you supposed to
dig yourself out
of your own snowy grave?
You just are,
with your hands
and your feet
and your heart
melting into puddles.
Burial
There was a piece of me left
in the ground.
There was the grade-school me,
when Ben and I were friends.
The high school me,
when we were more than friends.
The cheater me.
The insecure me.
The rotten me.
And somewhere in that plot of ground
there were seeds growing
a new part of me.
Sandwiches
Kitty and Ashok
sat together
at a picnic table
in the courtyard
outside the AP Bio classroom.
I saw them
and they saw me
and most of me
thought about
continuing to walk right by.
“ ’Sup, girl,”
Ashok said,
and I froze.
I wanted to unravel
everything I held
so tightly inside.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
They both stopped eating,
and Kitty turned around
to face me.
“I’ve been a shitty friend!”
“Yep,” Kitty said, but she smiled.
“Come sit with us.”
I squeezed in next to Kitty
and emptied the contents
of my lunch sack onto the table.
A roasted turkey sandwich
with avocado, tomatoes,
and a chipotle aioli sauce
on a crusty French baguette.
Ashok and Kitty
&nb
sp; both stared.
“Did you make that?”
Kitty asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s not smashed.
Your sandwiches are always
smashed,”
Kitty said.
“Why the change?”
Ashok asked.
I shrugged.
“I wanted to try something new.”
I bit into the sandwich.
Sauce and turkey and bits of avocado
dribbled down my chin.
Kitty and Ashok
both reached inside their bags.
They pulled out extra napkins.
“Here,” they said in unison.
I wiped away
the particles of food,
the sauce,
the messiness
of life itself,
and cleaned myself up
at least for the time being,
until the next time
we eat sandwiches
and bits of food
and sauce
dribble down our faces.
Through a mouth full of food
I said,
“So, tell me, what’s new
with you?”
In the end
At Meydenbauer,
we were imperfect.
We were lost.
We were, at times,
careless, selfish,
stubborn,
and scared.
But in the end,
we left those selves
behind,
sitting in a chair in a classroom,
stuffed into a locker,
stranded on a bleacher.
There was no room
for the self I had carried
through high school,
in the bags I packed,
headed, not to Princeton,
not to college,
headed somewhere
in a car
parked in the East parking lot
after seventh period
on the last day of high school.
In the end,
I wanted to feel
like I could leave this place
with some semblance of solace.
I wanted to feel like
maybe I was on a process
to wholeness.
We were all
about to walk
away from Meydenbauer,
beyond our worlds
of a life distilled
into five hundred words or less.
We were all
disassembled parts
waiting to become
whole.
We were infinite pages
of letters and words
waiting to be written.
We were human.
We were alive.
Acknowledgments
So grateful to my agent, Brent Taylor, for believing in novels written in verse, for seeing a special place for this story in the world, and for being an outstanding champion of my work. Seriously, best agent ever.
Immense gratitude to my editor, Jennifer Ung. I am so honored to be among your list of authors. Thank you for being so dedicated to the voices, stories, and work of underrepresented authors, in particular authors of color. The publishing world is a better place because of you and your work.
Thank you to everyone at Simon Pulse for supporting verse novels and this book. Thank you to Sarah Creech for the beautifully designed cover, and thank you to Cannaday Chapman for the gorgeous illustration.
Thank you to everyone at Triada US Literary Agency for the support and enthusiasm for my work.
My sincerest gratitude to my incredible critique partners who have spent years reading drafts and providing constructive feedback. We did this together, and I am a better writer because of all of you.
To the Longmont ladies—Penny, Eileen, Leslie, Stephanie, and Susan (as listed in couch order, clockwise—Ha!): thank you so much for inviting me into your group. I am so honored to be able to work with all of you. And thank you for continuing to remind me that “it’s a nickel for every word you use.”
To the Seattle folks—Ron, Carol, Corbet, Russell, and Gayle: seven years and counting! Thank you for being the first readers of the “verse version” and seeing something worth pursuing.
Also, a shout-out to Kasie, who served as an accountability partner in the early stages of writing this novel.
To my librarian friends, particularly my friends and colleagues in academic libraries: let’s keep making the world a place where stories can thrive, knowledge is created, and everyone has access to both.
To my dear friends in Colorado, in Seattle, from college, and all of you scattered about the world: thank you for all the support and for being just so darn excited to read this book.
To my parents: thank you for all the times you drove us to the library as kids, for being a family that reads, and for all the love and support. To my sister: thank you for teaching me about art and the creative process, and the discipline to make something special.
To Steve: thank you for listening to me ponder nuanced grammar questions, supporting me in finding the space and time to write, and making me coffee with lots of extra foam.
About the Author
Juleah del Rosario wants you to know that she grew up outside of Seattle in the Eastside. She currently lives a book- and mountain-filled existence as a librarian in Colorado. She is Chamorro and Filipina. Most importantly, she wants you to know that you are loved and you are whole.
juleahdelrosario.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition September 2018
Text copyright © 2018 by Juleah Swanson
Jacket illustration copyright © 2018 by Cannaday Chapman
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Jacket designed by Sarah Creech
Interior designed by Mike Rosamilia
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Del Rosario, Juleah, author.
Title: 500 words or less / Juleah del Rosario.
Other titles: Five hundred words or less
Description: First Simon Pulse hardcover edition. | New York : Simon Pulse, 2018. | Summary: High school senior Nic, seventeen, tries to salvage her tattered reputation by
helping her Ivy League–obsessed classmates with college admission essays and finds herself in the process.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017048137 | ISBN 9781534410442 (hardcover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Novels in verse. | Identity—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction. | Racially mixed people—Fiction. | Chinese Americans—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.5.D45 Aah 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017048137
ISBN 9781534410466 (eBook)