I try to slap the grin from my face; I am wholly unsuccessful.
“So,” I begin. “What’d you think?”
“Simba...your friend is on drugs,” Mum says.
This is not what I expected to hear. I lose the smile right quick.
“Beg your pardon?” I ask.
“That boy, your friend, is high,” Dad adds. He’s all white-lipped and rigid as he says this.
“What?” I fume. “Have you lost your collective minds? Liam’s an elite athlete—the last thing he would do would be to ingest an illegal substance. He’s not high. He had a sports injury and he’s taking medicine, like Tylenol or something. That’s it. You’re both being incredibly irrational.”
“Simmy, no,” Mum says gently. “That’s not what Tylenol looks like.”
Dad is a lot harsher. “He’s jammed out of his head, Sim. That boy was off to see the wizard. He was not of this world. He was flying. You have to trust me, been there, done that, sculpted the goddamned fetus out of it.”
I know exactly what the problem is here; the problem is not me.
The problem is that since we’ve been in America, my dad has lost his spark. He’s not created a damn thing and that always puts him in a right foul mood. Last week, I thought he was finally inspired when I saw these huge lists written out on the wall of his workshop.
Turns out, he was simply trying to organize his fantasy football picks.
Mum’s concerned, too. He’s not himself when he’s not enmeshed in a project; it’s like his creativity is replaced with anger. The last time he was blocked like this, he went to war with the greengrocer on Drury Lane, saying Mr. Saccomandi was passing off factory-farmed leeks and beetroot as organic produce. Was quite a whole to-do there for a while, until he finally took that trip to Peru and came home inspired.
Mum and Dad eye each other before Mum starts to speak. “Simmy, sweetie, your Dad and I... Well, we’re older and wiser than you. We’ve been around the block. You have to trust us when we say that Liam was not right-minded. His pupils were little pinpoints and he was all ruddy and breathing hard—none of that is normal. All are signs of drug use. Bad ones, not just a blunt at a party.”
I want to stomp my feet or throw a knickknack or something, which is not at all like me. I can’t even recall the last time I wasn’t on the same page as my parents; maybe that’s why I feel like overreacting. I’m boggled by the very unfairness of their accusations. No one should be projecting his or her own shortcomings onto this perfectly lovely boy.
I calm myself and try to express my feelings. “I disagree. Those are completely normal reactions for someone who’s coming over to tell a girl that he likes her. Can’t you trust my judgment?”
“We trust you,” Dad says. “Always have. We don’t trust him. Who comes to a girl’s house when caned? My God, the lack of proper judgment is astounding.”
“Are you serious?” The urge to stomp is back. “He’s not on anything! And, hypothetically, what if he did experiment with something, just the once? You’re such hypocrites! Or did you forget traveling to Peru for the sole purpose of taking ayahuasca just last year?”
I’m referring to the hallucinogenic plant that’s cooked down into a tea and administered by a shaman. Chugging the elixir is supposed to give users insights regarding their earthly purpose and users have told stories of visiting different spiritual realms. Mum said it mostly made her throw up in a bucket and appreciate first world bathrooms, but Dad said this was what inspired him to create SegaGenocide.
Thank God it did. The veg weren’t nearly as fresh at regular supermarkets.
“That’s a single instance,” I add. “I know all about your lives back before I was born. People have written books about your crowd! I mean, if you Google ‘cocaine’ and ‘1990s,’ your picture appears first, Dad! You both used to chill with Keith Richards! Honestly, how I wasn’t born with flippers or a vestigial tail is a complete mystery! You two are the LAST BLOODY PEOPLE ON EARTH to judge anyone for anything, particularly without a shred of proof.”
With a preternatural calm, Dad says, “Go to bed, Simone.”
Mum and I are both taken aback at the notion of Dad doling out discipline and the use of my Christian name, but as I’m ready to end this conversation, I do as I’m told.
“Gladly,” I reply. I stomp up the stairs without bidding either of them goodnight...for the first time ever.
26
STEPHEN
“How do you want to be remembered after high school, Mr. Cho?”
“Mom, please, can I have one second? I need a timeout. Lemme get my head together, okay?”
My phone’s been blowing up the whole ride down the expressway but I haven’t even been able to glance at my texts because my mom’s too intent on quizzing me until the very last moment. I finally unblocked Kent and Simone, largely because I didn’t want to get into why I’d cut them out in the first place. Doesn’t even matter.
My mother’s been peppering me nonstop for the past week with potential questions that the alum might ask at today’s MIT interview. She doesn’t reply to my request for a respite and I see her narrowing her eyes at me in the rearview mirror.
Oh, did I not mention that despite being eighteen years old, I’m still forced to sit in the back seat? Her rationale is I’m safer back there. Didn’t Ralph Nader himself conclude that shame was the best airbag?
Kent always says I should play it off like she’s my chauffeur. Works in theory, but I ask you, what Uber driver rolls down the window upon drop-off, insisting I make the family proud? Some days it’s like I want to contact NASA to calculate exactly how embarrassed I am, because the humiliation can’t be measured on the tools I possess.
I’m so anxious about my interview right now I want to puke. I feel my guts churning and I’m all lightheaded. I can taste bile in the back of my throat and I swallow again and again to keep it down. Perspiration is pouring out of my palms and my feet are so sweaty that my socks are slipping around inside my stiff dress shoes.
What would make me feel better isn’t more prep; I desperately need amnesty from this rolling quiz bowl. This morning she was shouting questions at me through the closed bathroom door; I can’t even take a shit in private. If I could have a few minutes to listen to my tunes and center myself, I’d come back to this refreshed. I unzip the case and pull out my headphones so I’ll be ready to plug them in the minute the warden releases me for yard time.
With every question my mom throws at me, the invisible band around my chest constricts harder, practically choking the life out of me. Thank God Caitlyn needs her for a day of wedding planning after she drops me off, so I’m taking the train home by myself. At least I’ll be spared from the play-by-play recap until dinner.
Headphones in hand, I say, “I’ll do a better job if I go in there relaxed. Take five?”
My mom doesn’t look away from the road as she answers, generating oceans of bad karma as she cruises down the expressway at her usual forty-seven miles per hour in the center lane. “Oh, yeah, you think MIT wants students who’d rather relax? This is the homestretch, pal. Quit stalling.”
I place my headphones in the seat pocket. My iPhone chimes again and it’s all I can do to not rip it out of my blazer, but the price for noncompliance is just too high.
As I’ve prepped for the interview, I’ve thought a lot about the question of my high school legacy. Do I have specific achievements? Sure, by anyone’s standards, I’m having a decent run. But in fifty years, who’s gonna give a low-flying fuck about the minutia around my Physics Olympics wins or my GPA down to the tenth of a percentage point? High school’s the beginning of the beginning. What will be important is that I worked hard enough during my time at NSHS to put myself up for consideration at a place like MIT, that I sacrificed so much fun (so much freedom) to cultivate and maximiz
e every opportunity for growth and success. That’s what speaks to my character, right?
“Here’s what I’m planning to say: the notion of a high school legacy is shortsighted. I’m not concerned with creating a narrative about my ‘glory days’ or garnering a full-page spread in the yearbook. Have I had significant wins? Definitely. I could rattle off an impressive list. But the details of the wins aren’t pivotal, it’s the aptitude and drive I’ve demonstrated in winning that’s important. If no one remembers me when I leave NSHS, so be it, because I’m confident that I’ve pushed myself harder than I ever thought possible to set myself up for the next step. To me? That’s enough.”
My mother grimaces as she grips the steering wheel. “Ugh. Horrible. Try again, but with specific achievements. I’m thinking start with your GPA, then highlight competition wins. Talk about how your robot’s arms are articulated. They need tangible evidence, not flowery, philosophical bullcrap.”
I grit my teeth before parroting back everything she wants to hear.
We’ve only been in the car for twenty minutes, yet the ride feels never-ending.
* * *
“This is it,” my mother says, pulling up to the curb in front of an intimidating expanse of steel and glass. The sun reflecting off the fifty stories of skyscraper windows is practically blinding. Dozens of pedestrians squint, not because it’s so bright, but because they’re glaring at my mother, as she’s half-parked in the crosswalk. She pays them no attention. They make a wide berth around our SUV, scowling as they clutch paper bags full of burgers and fries and sad desk salads from various fast food restaurants.
Of course we’ve arrived in the middle of the lunch rush, making ourselves an obstacle, a target of impotent rage. Story of my life.
“Bye, Mom,” I say. I grab my backpack and slide across the seat to exit at the curb. “Wish me luck.” I try to open the door, but she has the child-safety locks depressed.
“You’re prepared, you don’t need luck. One more thing—before you go, what are you going to say when the alum asks you about your favorite music?”
“What? Mom, unlock the door,” I say, trying the handle again.
She is resolute. “Listen, it’s a common question and you should be ready for it.”
Behind me, impatient motorists begin to sound their horns as she’s blocking the right turn onto State Street. “I gotta go, Mom.”
“Okay. After you answer the question.”
Honk, honk.
“People are waiting,” I plead.
She shakes her head. “They are not my problem. You are my problem. And your answer is...”
“Um, I...” I’m so rattled that I can’t even think of a reply that she’ll deem acceptable, so I end up saying, “I’ll tell him the truth, that I love old-school rap because even though my experience is wildly different, I connect with—”
My mom pounds the steering wheel hard enough to add to the cacophony of horns sounding all around us, a veritable Khrushchev in lululemon yoga pants, banging that shoe at the United Nations. “Absolutely not.”
Hoooonk.
My blood pressure skyrockets with every beep, with each dirty look. I feel the flop-sweat start to roll down my face, dampening the collar of my overstarched oxford. “Mom, this question’s about personal preference, an insight to who I really am. It’s about my passion. They’re not going to deny me a spot in the freshman class because Tupac—”
The horns sound with more and more insistence. The Yellow Cab driver directly behind us mashes his palm long and hard into his steering wheel, while the lady in the Audi taps out a staccato beat with hers.
“Please, you’re going to tell them you love a man who shot himself in the jujubes? You know my friend from grad school worked in the Bellevue ER? She said everyone kept quiet that he shot himself because of the careless way he was carrying his gun. Do you want to tell MIT you emulate the guy who shot himself in the balls? No! Talk about Swan Lake! Or Peter and the Wolf! Talk about classical pieces featuring the oboe so you can bring the conversation back to your accomplishments in orchestra. Bach! Not Tupac! Or, let’s be honest, One-pac! Understood?”
I nod mutely, feeling overwhelmingly defeated, finished before I even start.
Satisfied, she replies, “Okay, kiddo, I’ll see you at home. Good luck. Now hurry up, these cars are waiting.” She unlocks the door and I practically dive out of the vehicle. Pedestrians and motorists alike curse at me and flip me the bird as I get myself together.
“I hate the oboe,” I spits at her tailgate as she pulls away. Long after I dropped out of symphonic band, she made me keep up with my lessons. Said she wanted me to be well-rounded. Oh, yeah, I’m plenty well-rounded. Between the oboe, the bowling, and the Physics Olympics, I’ve hit the Dork Trifecta.
I reach in my bag for my headphones so that I can listen to a song or two before my interview but I realize I left them in the car. Damn it. I head over to the concrete bench in front of the office building and sit on the opposite end from a woman reading a book with a busty heroine on the cover, who appears to be clinging to some oiled dude who looks like Fabio. I pull up my iTunes library and turn down the speaker, selecting the happiest song of the bunch—“California Love.”
Before Dr. Dre can even welcome everybody to the Wild, Wild West, the lady with the book huffs, “Really? Think you’re the only person out here, kid?”
Chastened, I mumble an apology and head inside to the lobby to read my texts. Simone’s wished me luck and so has Kent. Of course, he’s followed his good tidings with fifteen additional texts about that girl Noell. I don’t know what voodoo he worked on her at Homecoming, but she seems to legit like him now and they spend all their time together.
Awesome.
Because I didn’t feel alone enough already.
He’s been making noise about hooking me up with Spencer, the four of us going out together, but the idea of a pity date feels worse than no date at all.
You know what? I half hope he doesn’t get into MIT. I hope he tanks his interview. I hope Noell throws him off his game. If he’s just going to toss his social success in my face, then I don’t even want to be around him. He’s already got a foot out the door away from me anyhow. Like he was just biding his time before something or someone better came along.
Another good luck text comes in, this one from my Quantum Mechanics instructor.
Cool. Texts from my teacher friend. Could I be more pathetic?
I throw my phone back into my bag without replying to anyone.
I’m in the elevator up to the thirty-seventh floor, after showing my ID to Security. I’m heading to Burkholder Fitz Gamble, which is a law firm. The alumnus who’s supposed to interview me works here. I guess this Alex Gamble guy went to MIT to study biomechanical engineering before Harvard for his JD and now he’s a patent attorney who defends pharmaceutical companies.
The receptionist at the firm tells me to have a seat on one of the big padded benches and that someone from Alex Gamble’s office will be out in a few minutes. Last night, I Googled Mr. Gamble to find out his background. I had a hard time finding much. He must be busy climbing the corporate ladder because he has, like, zero social media profiles. I did run across one thing, though. He races sailboats on his off-time, which is badass. Got a little distracted looking at the blurry shot of him on his boat next to a hot lady in a snug tank top. Nice. Wife? Girlfriend? He looks like a bit of a tool, so my assumption is that maybe girls are into smart guys once they get out of high school?
God, I hope so, because right now they look at me like I’m a walking petri dish full of HPV or something.
As I sit here, my leg starts to bounce. I can’t keep it still. I just want this thing to start so it can be over. Let me get through this unscathed. Let this Alex dude be cool. Everyone says the interview is more of a formality than anything el
se, but what if it’s not? What if my whole future rests on my having a satisfactory answer to what three adjectives others would use to describe me? (Note to self: don’t say loser, coward, reject, no matter how true it may be.)
I bow my head and try to center myself. In my peripheral vision, I see a pair of shapely legs in red-soled, high heel shoes approaching me. I instinctively follow the legs up, past the curvy hips and narrow waist, over her considerable assets, only partially obscured by a conservative blouse, and up to the face, which absolutely fulfills the promise of the tight bod. The woman realizes I’m checking her out and I can feel myself blush.
Nice move, Cho, I say to myself. Very suave. Let’s put a pin in this so you can continue to sexually harass Mr. Gamble’s assistant even more after your interview.
“Stephen Cho, I presume?” she asks, holding out her hand so I can shake it.
I want to die. I seriously want to die right now. I could not be more embarrassed.
I jump up from my seat to take her hand so quickly that I spill the contents of my backpack. Every item in the bag spews out all over the floor. The hot lady bends over and helps me retrieve everything. “Here you go.” She hands me my scientific calculator and a handful of pencils covered in bite marks because I tend to chew them while thinking.
Scratch that, I can always be more embarrassed.
“Thanks,” I say, practically whispering this into my chest.
“Please don’t worry about it,” she laughs. “The alumnae interview is nerve-racking, right? Borderline torture? Cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Oh, my God, so much!” I exclaim.
“Trust me, you’re not the first MIT hopeful who’s been in here feeling anxious. You’ll be fine, I promise. Take a couple of deep breaths. You’ll feel the difference and I’m in no rush. I know how stressed you must be. Been there myself.”
I comply and after a few lungsful, my heart stops trying to pummel its way clean out of my ribcage.
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