For my nephews Juan, Alex, Josef, and
Victor, outstanding young men all
Imperative (adj.) necessary, pressing
Application fee to Harvard University: $65
Tuition per year for a full-time student: $32,557
Annual room and board: $11,042
Average SAT score for incoming freshmen: 2235
(although Harvard ain’t trying to admit that)
My chances of getting into any Ivy League
college with an SAT score of 1650: worthless
I type “SAT prep” into a search engine when Chingy yells, “Yes!” from the computer station next to me. “I got a 1560.” The librarian puts a finger to her lips. After mouthing an apology, he asks me, “How’d you do, cuz?”
“You don’t want to know, kid.”
“C’mon, man.” Chingy’s giddy because the average SAT score of an incoming freshman at Howard is only 1530. Being senior class president and having a GPA of 3.5, he’s headed to D.C. next August. That is, if his older brother Baraka doesn’t convince Chingy to join him at Morehouse in the ATL. “I know you did better than me,” he says, leaning over my shoulder to peek at my monitor.
“I got a 1650,” I finally say.
“Yo, I think you broke the school record, man! Mrs. Colfax said that back in 1986, this girl scored 1050 on the old version of the test.” Chingy activates the calculator on his computer desktop and types in some numbers. “Yeah, E., you did it! A score of 1050 on the old test is only a 1515 today. Congratulations, man!” I feel like a fraud but still give Chingy a pound for being a good sport about my outscoring him. “Get a teacher to mention that in a recommendation. That way you won’t sound arrogant in your essay. Stay shy, cuz.”
“You don’t get it, kid,” I say. “I have to retake the damn thing.” A 1650? I studied all summer. After borrowing every prep book I could from any library within walking distance—Princeton Review, Nova, Kaplan, you name it—I spent a few hours every week practicing math problems and memorizing hundreds of vocabulary words. When I took the test three weeks ago, I swore I scored much better than I did on the preliminary exam last October. But all that work did me no good.
I open up a new window in my browser to search for the next test dates. Thankfully, even the colleges with December 31 deadlines will accept scores from the test scheduled for late January. With November around the corner, however, that gives me only two months to study. As I write down the test date and registration deadline, I tell Chingy, “Harvard ain’t checking for no 1650.”
But Chingy’s already back at his station, pimping out his class ring on the Jostens Web site. A sales representative is coming to our high school next Friday, so today all the homeroom teachers handed out catalogs and order forms. You can design your ring on the company Web site, then print out an order form to give to the rep along with a fifty-dollar deposit. As Chingy adds and subtracts features, the subtotal on his monitor rises and falls. “Yo, E., what you think?” he asks. I roll my seat over to his computer. With a tap of the mouse, Chingy rotates the ring on the screen—a bulky model from the “Champion” series in white gold—so I can see it from all sides. “Smooth?” he asks as he clicks an onyx onto his design. “Or the majestic cut?” Chingy taps the mouse again, and the black stone morphs into a polygon.
“Definitely smooth. All those cuts are too busy,” I say, kicking off to roll back to my own station. “What happened to stay shy? You ain’t Allen Iverson.”
“Dude got jokes.” Chingy clicks back to the smooth onyx. The price of his ring drops twenty-five bucks but still costs over three hundred dollars. “Yo, you know what Leti told me? Some wild child just transferred to our school.”
“Yeah?” Leticia Núñez is Pedro Albizu Campos High School’s one-woman news network. She provides breaking stories on public affairs and human interest along with occasional unsolicited editorials, but her specialty is—you guessed it—gossip. I suppose when your best friend is GiGi González—the hottest chick in school—a girl has to make her claim to fame some other way. I scan my search engine results and click on the link for an SAT prep company whose name I recognize from subway ads.
“This kid is from K-Ville.”
“K-Ville?”
“You know … New Orleans. Katrina.”
“Oh.” At a hundred fifty bucks per hour with a minimum commitment of twenty hours, I can forget about one-on-one tutoring. But I’ve already tried the cheapest option—studying independently with books and software—and that ain’t cutting it. “Leticia must have it twisted. Why would he transfer to a high school in New York City so many years after the hurricane? That makes no sense, kid.”
“She’s been here since Katrina, and according to Leti, home-girl got kicked out of Mott Haven High School because she threw a chair in a teacher’s face.”
“That’s gangster.” Enough with the bochinche. That 1650 put me in a serious bind. Even if I had a new computer with a fast Internet connection at home—which I don’t—my gut tells me only a live class that meets for six to eight weeks before the next test date will make a worthwhile difference in my score, but how much does that cost? Eleven hundred bucks, that’s how much. Even though it means being limited to the public library’s hours, I check out online courses as a last resort. The least expensive one is four hundred dollars. Even if I skip the prep course, I still have to shell out another forty-five dollars registration fee for the January test. No fee waivers for a second shot at the Ivy League for me. Plus, eighteen bucks for the answers to last month’s test so I can see which ones I got wrong. And that’s just the beginning because there are no scholarships for students just to apply to college.
There goes my class ring. As much as I want one—as much as I deserve one—I can’t buy one now. But, really, when did I ever? Deserving a ring and being able to afford it are two different things, and a man has to set priorities and make sacrifices. It’s all good. I’ll get a ring in four years when I graduate from Harvard. With a crimson stone, baby, veritas engraved around it. Word is born.
Abet (v.) to aid, help, encourage
“Don’t look so scared,” I say as I lay out the financial aid forms across the kitchen table. After clearing it of all the shakers, keys, bills, bills, and more bills, my mother sits down with this apprehensive look on her face. “I just need you to give me some information and then sign them. It won’t take long.” The ironic thing is, if we owned a house, stocks, bonds, and things like that, we’d be drowning in financial aid forms, so for once, being broke has some benefit. My moms can actually rest on her one day off after haciendo la compra, washing the clothes, balancing the checkbook, and a hundred other things.
Moms places fresh batteries in the calculator. “Okay,” she says, jamming a pencil into the electronic sharpener. After grinding it to the rubber as if the shavings were cash, Moms fusses over her tax returns, repeatedly tapping the forms against the table.
“It looks like a lot of paperwork, but most of it is just information, that’s all.”
“Well, I guess I should read it, then,” she says, reaching for a random booklet from Yale. Ten seconds later, the frown lines on her forehead reappear. “Oh my God … Honey, the tuition at this school costs thirty-five thousand dollars.”
“Yup.”
My mother glances again at the page. “Per year, Efrain!”
“Lo sé.”
Her dark eyes dart down the page. “Room and board is an additional eleven thousand dollars. Each year!”
Okay, I freak out a bit every time I think about it, too, but I’m determined to find a way. Holding up a batch of forms, I force a smile and say, “That’s why we’re doing this.”
“You can get a big enough scholarship to cover everyt
hing, right?” Now my mother sounds hopeful, as if she answered her own question. “We’ll do whatever we have to do. Lo que sea.” See how she says we? My moms believes in me, all day, every day.
“I’ll probably have to take out a student loan every year,” I say. “But the interest rates are really low.” It took me a long while to accept that I will have to borrow money to pay for college, but it is what it is. If Harvard is going to give a kid from the ’hood a full scholarship, it ain’t going to be the valedictorian of Albizu Campos High School but the dude already getting a free ride at Exeter, Andover, or some prep school like that. Real talk.
My mother shakes her head. “That’s what I should’ve done to finish college.” My surprise must be obvious because she flashes a big grin at me and ruffles my hair. “Yes, Efrain, your mother finished two years of college. Where do you think you get all those smarts?”
I definitely knew I didn’t get them from Rubio, but I just assumed that when my mother graduated from high school, she went straight to work. “Where’d you go?”
“Not Yale, that’s for sure,” she laughs. “I would take two trains to Jamaica, Queens, to go to York College. I was majoring in occupational therapy. Back then you only needed a bachelor’s degree to qualify for a license.” My mother talks with her chin on her hand and faraway eyes as if she can still see her dream play across the yellowing wallpaper of our kitchen.
I debate whether I should ask, but my curiosity gets the best of me. “Why didn’t you finish?”
My mother drops her arm as if I should know. “I had you.”
“Oh.”
She reaches out for my hand. “Hey, once you were in school, I could’ve gone back to college. But your father and I didn’t think we could afford it. I mean, it might’ve been possible had we been willing to borrow the money, but, I don’t know…. Your father and I were both raised to either save money for the things we wanted or just accept that we couldn’t afford them and learn to live without them. But we were wrong, Efrain.” Moms picks up a stack of blank forms and sifts through them. “Learn from our mistakes, honey, and set the right example for your sister. Go to college first, get married if that’s what you want to do, buy a home within your means, and then have children if you want them. In that order.” She winks at me. “Your education and your home are investments in your future. They’re the only things you’ll ever truly own and are worth going into a reasonable amount of debt to have. If Rubio and I had done that, you wouldn’t be sorting through this mound of paperwork right now wondering how you’re going to pay for college.”
“I don’t blame you, Mami.” When I turned fourteen, my moms encouraged me to get my working papers, work part-time, and make my own money so long as it didn’t interfere with my school-work. She always held a full-time job, but truth be told, I don’t put it past Rubio to have discouraged her from going back to school. Dude be machista like that. Moms probably worked because they needed her to, especially when Mandy came along. “You did whatever you thought was right for us.”
She squints at the form in her hand. “Your father has to fill out this one.” My mother hands it to me. It says, “‘Noncustodial Parent Financial Information Form. If your parents are separated or divorced, and the parent you live with has not remarried, your noncustodial parent must satisfy this additional requirement to complete your aid application. Both parents are asked to provide their financial information so we can determine their individual contributions to your college education.’”
I suck my teeth and cast the form aside. “Whatever.”
My mother leaps for the form. “Look, I hate to discuss money with Rubio, but this is for your education. Remember, Efrain, whatever it takes. And I’m sure your father will want to help put you through college.”
“How can he now that he has that baby?” My mother avoids my eyes by examining the form. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Then she suddenly bursts into laughter. Hey, if there’s anything remotely amusing about writing in intricate detail how much money your family doesn’t have, let a brother in on the joke. “What’s so funny?”
My mother reads from the form. “‘In the interest of confidentiality, your noncustodial parent’s information is submitted separately using this form, which is available from this office and on our Web site in printable format.’” She lets out a belly laugh, dropping the form on the table.
I don’t get it, but I smile anyway. It’s mad rare to see my mother cut up like that. “I guess the school wants to help a dude hide his assets.”
“What assets?” Moms yells in hysterics. “They think I don’t already know that Rubio doesn’t have shit?” This counts as one of those laugh-to-keep-from-crying situations, so I just whoop it up with my moms. She catches her breath to say, “’Chacho, if money were that important to me, I never would’ve dated your father, much less married him. Unless he has another job I know nothing about, there’s no secret here.”
No, Rubio has no secret job. But for a long time, he did have secret expenses. And once he had assets, too. He just decided to trade the three of us in for younger models.
Pertinacious (adj.) stubbornly persistent
The late bell for zero period buzzes, jolting me awake. That 1650 haunted me all weekend, so I must have dozed off while waiting for Mrs. Colfax in front of her office. She turns the corner with her keys in one hand and her “Teachers have class” mug in the other. I pick myself off the floor and say, “Hi, Mrs. Colfax.”
“Oh.” She slows down. “Good morning, Efrain.” Maybe I’m just trippin’, but I think I annoy Mrs. Colfax because I make her earn her paycheck as the college advisor. She probably came to AC thinking she wouldn’t have to do any work because the students here barely graduate, never mind head to college.
“So let me guess,” Mrs. Colfax says as she unlocks the door to her office. “You need another fee waiver.” I follow her inside, and while she opens the drawer where she keeps the manila envelope with the waivers, I reread the poster above her desk for the thousandth time. The photograph is of a basketball hoop, and under it in gold letters it says, “You’ll always miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”
“I need two, actually.”
“Two?” she says, hugging the manila envelope like it contains her life savings.
“One is for Princeton; the other is for Yale.” And please spare me the speech about how these two waivers make a total of four, and that is the maximum she can give me. I don’t need Mrs. Colfax to remind me that from here forward, I have to come out of my shallow pockets for the fee to every college application I complete.
Mrs. Colfax sighs, sits down, and motions for me to take the seat across from her desk. She says, “So you’re applying to Princeton, Yale, Harvard, the University of Pennsylvania, Columbia—”
“No, not Columbia.” Nothing against Columbia, except that it’s in New York City. I got mad love for my hometown, but isn’t college about expanding your horizons, learning to be on your own, and all that? When I graduate from law school, I’ll come back, no doubt. Get a good-paying job, help my mother, and give my sister a leg up. But to do for them, I first have to lift myself up, and that means I have to bounce for greener pastures.
“Are you applying to any of the CUNY schools, Efrain?”
“Oh yeah. Hunter, Lehman, and City.” If push comes to shove, and I don’t get into an Ivy League college, I’ll just go to CUNY for a year, then transfer. But that’s plan B.
“Good, Efrain, because …” Mrs. Colfax pauses like she’s trying to deliver some tragic news. Pulling two cards out of the envelope and laying them across her desk, she says, “You have to be realistic about your chances of being admitted to an Ivy League college. They’re very competitive schools, and—”
“I know.” Who doesn’t? Last year Harvard received almost twenty-five thousand applications for only two thousand seats. That’s what makes it Harvard.
“Did you receive your SAT score yet?”
“Yeah.” I hesi
tate to answer. “I scored 1650.”
Mrs. Colfax yells, “Efrain, that’s wonderful!” One minute she discourages me, the next she acts like I just won the Nobel Prize. “Now, I have to check,” she says, all giddy, “but I’m almost positive you broke the school record—”
“Yeah, but I have to take the SAT again and score much higher,” I interrupt. “Plus, I’m in the honors program, and I’m probably going to be valedictorian, right? All that counts for something, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but please understand, Efrain. Even if you were to get into one of the Ivy League colleges—and the chances are very slim—I’m afraid you’d be in way over your head. The honors classes here at Albizu just don’t compare to the advanced courses that your peers at other schools are taking. For example, they’re taking calculus.”
“I wanted to take calculus,” I shout. “It’s not my fault they cut it.” Only five students registered for calculus, so the principal canceled the class. Mrs. Colfax explained that since calculus was an elective, a class of five was too small to justify the cost of offering it. Everybody was heated, especially me. When an admissions committee sees that you didn’t take math during your senior year, it’s not going to think Maybe the school doesn’t offer calculus. No, the committee will think This lazy kid is just doing the minimum course work necessary to graduate, especially coming from a school like AC.
“The point remains, Efrain, that first-year course work at a Harvard or Yale would be new to you,” says Mrs. Colfax. “But it’ll be familiar to students who have gone to elite high schools. They’ll have already read the books—”
“So I’ll get a list and read them over the summer.”
“Even if you get in, you’re going to be so overwhelmed!”
“Why do you keeping saying that?” But I know what Mrs. Colfax means. The woman doesn’t believe I can even get into any of those schools. Either she cops to it or falls back. As if a Latino kid from the Bronx who went to an “academically challenged” high school never got into, never mind graduated from, Harvard or Yale before. The damn high school’s named after a Puerto Rican who did just that!
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