by Corrie Wang
Dr. Graff was also not thrilled with Audra’s entrepreneurship and this latest Park Prep sex scandal. I’m guessing Audra opted for a suspended-until-graduation deal, as she never sat next to me in English again. By then I highly doubt she cared. Because it just meant, by early January, her life was exactly where she wanted it to be.
After her New Year’s pics posted, Vogue did indeed scoop her up, but she must have pissed off someone, because her column only ran for four months. Fawn said Audra was now working on a lifestyle brand and had a contract with a major national retailer—apparently she was thinking of naming it Slut Kitten. Leave it to Audra to take over the world, one repurposed word at a time.
There was a lot of leftover junk related to the video on my G-File, and right before the January 1 deadlines my parents paid a file-sweeping company to make it go away. Before they did, Audra thoughtfully untagged me from the B&P posts.
I immediately txted
moi you =
audy You know it, betch. Keep being good. And don’t forget to be bad, too.
I did not come to such charitable terms with my other ex–best friend. Ailey’s currently enrolled in Cornell’s new NYC Tech undergraduate program. Judging by her profiles—fine, I look—she seems happy. I need to know that, because almost daily I think about her sobbing in Audra’s dining room, and the same sickening shame I experienced that day washes over me. For someone who prided herself on never making a mistake, it doesn’t get much worse than how I dumped Ailey. And yet she nearly ruined my life, so I can’t quite forgive her, either.
I tell myself the best way to deal with the ick feeling of it all is to make sure I never treat anyone like that again. And that at least Ailey got what she wanted. I will never, ever forget her. Maybe one day I’ll even get to a place where I can wish her luck.
Currently, that day seems like a million clicks away.
As predicted, Fawn and Kyle lasted for about two months. On New Year’s Day, Fawn dropped by with flowers for me.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she squealed. “It just kinda happened. At first I didn’t think it was anything serious. And then I did. Does it help to say I think he’s loaded nachos with extra jalapeños?”
“Only if you don’t ever mention his jalapeño in front of me again.”
“Kylie, a penis joke? I’m so proud.”
Fawn dumped him right after Valentine’s Day. Kyle still insists it was the best two months of his life. And I suppose in an extremely creeped-out, please-let’s-move-on-to-other-subjects way, I’m happy she was his first. Everyone should be so lucky as to love the first person they sleep with. Still, things weren’t quite the same with me and Fawn after that. She’s currently enrolled in the French Culinary Institute and washing dishes at this hot young chef’s new restaurant in the LES. We mostly check in with each other when we need a little e-love pep talk.
Kyle continues to make overanimated facial expressions and remains one of my favorite people on earth, though it will be some time before I bring any of my single friends home.
Sharma, meanwhile, lives on an undisclosed campus in Virginia not too far from DC. I imagine she is fighting off e-ttacks or building apps that assist small businesses in developing countries or, who knows, hopefully fixing the free American universal Wi-Fi program. Aside from saying how much she loves it, she isn’t really allowed to talk about it. But that doesn’t matter. Since we agreed never to edit ourselves, it turned out we had lots of other things in common.
Over the summer, during my White House internship, she and I met weekly for lunch. (Weekends were reserved for her and Rory commuting to visit each other. Yup. Who didn’t see that one coming?) We’re closer now than we ever were at Park Prep. For the first time, when I say she’s my best friend, I mean it.
The weekend after I started at Yale, I had an erasing-Kyla-Cheng-themed sleepover. My college roomie, Electra, was the only person physically present. Sharma, Kyle, and Rory were there via FaceAlert.
Sorry, I don’t mean I erased myself completely. It wasn’t like I was going to stop listening to music or reading e-mags or commenting on Unicorn Wars or shopping—truth is, I do like clothes—and no way was I going to freshly enter a password every time I wanted to do those things. I only mean I canceled my ConnectBook account. It was actually a relief. Rory gave me two days before I reinstated it. Sharma gave me a week.
sharm Kyla =
rory (cb tech god) Nobody’s enough to not have a CB profile.
Nerds.
But I had to be strong, because the one huge perk about canceling my CB was that it effectively prohibited me from online Woofer stalking the daily life of Mackenzie Rodriguez. And I needed all the help I could get.
For 239 days—give or take some minutes—of our senior year and summer, Mac and I existed without labels and didn’t not date. And we grew cataclysmically close. But even good indefinite things must come to an end. And the morning my parents drove me to New Haven, Mac was inconsolable. He hugged me for so long that my mom teared up and my dad had to jingle his keys and say, “Traffic.”
“Promise.” Mac linked his pinky with mine. “Top five contacts when the lights go out.”
Initially we txted about a thousand times a day, but as our semesters geared up, those numbers fell off. With that hair and those eyes, Mac wasn’t going to have a hard time finding a girlfriend at NYU.
Oops, hold on.
My weekend guest wants to insert something….
Insert something? Gross, Kyla. Y en verdad, Mac wasn’t going to have a hard time finding a girlfriend wherever he went. But he was certain none of them would compare with the unlabelable Ms. Cheng, the one he would always be fondest of.—M.R.
For real, Macky? Unlabelable? And you can’t end a sentence on the word “of.”
You just did. You’re also not supposed to start them with “and.”—M.R.
I can do what I want. I’m the girl who took her video down.
Remind me how long you’ll be saying that for again?—M.R.
Yeah. Clearly we’re still pretty close. And maybe one day I will outright “date” Mackenzie Rodriguez, or maybe I won’t. But for sure I’ll do my best to keep that boy in my life. If the video taught me anything, it’s that you’d better do everything in your power to hold on to the good ones.
So as for me? I can’t possibly wrap up myself here.
As I told Yale in my amended application essay, who you are in five hundred words or less is an unanswerable question, yet another constricting label. I’m not just the pretty one or the smart one or the slutty one. I’d be disappointed in myself if I could be narrowed down to so few words. Considering there is so much life, knowledge, and emotion to experience, I like to believe there’s room for growth. I firmly believe that we make our own history.
So I, for one, fully intend to screw up, try new things, and, most importantly, have a little fun. Because that’s another funny thing I’m figuring out. The moments in my life that have mattered the most aren’t the ones that everyone “sees,” but the ones that they don’t.
Often, non-English or unfamiliar words are italicized in novels. The author believes that this is an antiquated tradition that should have ended yesterday. Not only does it cast a weird sheen of “other” on perfectly normal words that millions of people speak daily, but it hinders the natural happy process of your language becoming mine and vice versa. As you might guess, it is the preference of the author that italics not be used to accentuate non-English words in The Takedown. Thanks to translation technology, there will soon come a day when we’re all communicating easily across language barriers. Hopefully, a little of that begins here.
A tremendous thank-you to my agent, Sarah Burnes, for her relentless belief in this book and her all-caps enthusiasm and insistence that we get it RIGHT. This book would not be in the world if it wasn’t for you. To my editor and soul sister, Kieran Viola, who thought the most important thing was maintaining my voice. I am constantly astounded by how ex
cellent you are at doing yours and how willing and supportive you are of letting me do mine. This book would not be any good if it wasn’t for you.
To my copyediting team for making sure all my trains ran correctly, my publicity and marketing team for being so pumped to get this book out into the world, and especially to Marci Senders for creating a cover so wonderful, I can no longer imagine the book without it. Also, to Ellen Goodlett, who read more early drafts than is humane. To Rose Costello, whose enthusiasm for a middle draft provided the oomph to finish. And to Julie Schiena, who read one late draft and knew all the right fixes. This book would not have such good bones without all of you.
To my inner circle of women who have provided shoulders, ears, and sanity along this entire journey. Christine, Anne, Julie, and Cyr, I am eternally indebted to you. Thank you to Rick Purcell for his smashing legal advice. Also a huge arigato, y’all!, to our vast Short Grain crew for making the two years it took this book to pub the most thrilling of my life. And to my broader Buffalo, Brooklyn, and Charleston contingent of support, there are too many names to list, but I hope you all know who you are, because I do and I couldn’t have done this without (venting to) you. This book would not have any soul without all of you.
I can’t say it often or well enough, but thank you to my mom, for her constant loving encouragement and for infusing me with her passion for the written word. (And for being muy amable about all my last minute “will you read this??” requests.) I wouldn’t be me without you. Also many thanks to my dad for all those preorders and my stepdad for catching the overflow of stress I send Mom’s way. To my sister Amanda for reading an early draft and saying “We’re gonna be rich!” And to my sister Annie for being my favorite sounding board and most enthusiastic promoter. And lastly, to my husband and partner in shenanigans, Shuai. You, sir, make life fun, even when it isn’t. Thank you for loving me even at my most teary and for unknowingly schooling me in how to write an adorable good-guy character. This book would not have any heart without you.
CORRIE WANG owns and operates the award-winning untraditional Japanese food truck Short Grain. She is passionate about libraries, road trips, and eating all the food, everywhere. Corrie grew up in Buffalo, New York, but spent her formative years in Brooklyn, where one of her last paying gigs was managing a three-story nightclub on the Lower East Side. She and her husband, Shuai, currently live in Charleston, South Carolina, with their pup, Moose. The Takedown is Corrie’s debut novel. You can find her online at www.corriewang.com.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: Now
Chapter 2: Then
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author