The Best Possible Answer Read online

Virgo laughs. “You’ve got to stop apologizing so much.”

  And then Evan puts his hand on my shoulder, and every muscle in my body melts. “Come on, it’s funny.”

  I force out a laugh. “Yeah,” I say. “Real funny.”

  He’s right. It’s nothing. It’s a dog. It’s silliness and stupidity.

  But then I catch Sammie’s sad stare. She’s focusing on Evan’s hand on me. She’s not laughing. She’s not having a good time.

  I quickly shrug off his shoulder. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right. I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

  It may just be silliness and stupidity to him, but if I’m not careful, it could turn into another fine mess.

  * * *

  During dinner, I tell Mila and my mom the story of Professor Cox and his dog, which makes Mila giggle with that deep belly laugh I love.

  My mom doesn’t laugh. She just shakes her head. “I know who you’re talking about,” she says. “Harold. I know him.”

  “You know him?” Mila and I yell in unison.

  “Not personally. He and I have only exchanged a few words. Sammie’s mom knows him better. I’ve seen them talking to each other.”

  “About what?”

  “I couldn’t say. I have no idea.” But the way she says it makes me think she does, and whatever it is about, she doesn’t approve.

  Mila takes a guess. “Maybe they’re secretly in love with each other and are going to get married!”

  “Doubtful.” I laugh.

  I grab my phone from the kitchen counter and text Sammie. Your mom knows Professor Cox. Ask him about his—

  But before I can finish my text, my mom snaps at me. “What is that thing doing at the dinner table?”

  She’s talking about my phone. Ever since the Dean incident, she’s become the enemy of all devices, particularly if I’m near any. After some deep negotiations, we finally agreed that I could keep my computer for schoolwork and that I could have a cheap twenty-dollar replacement phone that takes only calls and texts—no apps, no online photos. My mom adds minutes each month and checks my usage, but at least she didn’t completely cut off my lifeline to the world.

  I don’t answer her. I just slide my phone back on the counter and take a bite of my chicken.

  Mila slides down into her chair. “Can we please have one night when we don’t argue?” She looks like she’s going to cry.

  I reach over for her hand and look at my mom. My mom keeps her eyes down at her plate, ignores Mila’s question.

  I smile at my sister. “Yes. No problem. One night with no arguments. We can totally do that.”

  My mom still doesn’t say anything.

  I squeeze Mila’s hand and take a sip of water.

  We continue eating in silence. No more stories, no more belly laughs. Mila’s question hangs in the air. We’re not arguing, but we’re not talking, either.

  College Essay Tip

  Be yourself in your essay. It’s important to be both honest and specific so that the readers can “hear” your voice. The essay is an opportunity for you to humanize your otherwise-sterile application. Telling your unique story allows you to stand out!

  Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe

  Common Application

  Very Rough Draft #1

  Prompt: Write about someone who has had an impact on you.

  They say to pour everything into a rough draft and then edit for what’s essential later. So here it is: I choose my very best friend, Samantha Lailani Gabriela Salazar, aka Sammie, as the single most important human being on this earth.

  Why Sammie? First, she knows almost everything about me. We’ve been friends since before kindergarten, partly since we live so close to each other and our moms were friends first. You might say proximity forced us together, but we’ve never resented it.

  It is true that we’re very different. Even in elementary school, I was shy and quiet and my teachers loved me. Sammie, on the other hand, was loud and bold and was always getting yellow and red cards for talking during class. But she made me giggle, and I can’t remember a day when we weren’t together. When I was with her, I wasn’t shy anymore. When I was with her, I could be myself. When I was with her, I laughed.

  By the time we got to middle school, there were some times I felt like I could hardly keep up with her inspired schemes. She ran barefoot in the snow. She cooked small pieces of aluminum foil in her aunt’s microwave to watch the fires ignite. She once downed two cans of Coca-Cola in under two minutes and then proceeded to burp the entire “Star-Spangled Banner” for my amusement alone. We were polar opposites, but she still kept me around, maybe because I laughed.

  She’s also brilliant. I mean, her dad was an English teacher at our high school. And, thanks to him, we both love to read, and that’s part of what we can spend hours bonding over. It’s part of what I love about her.

  I’ve always looked up to Sammie and was especially in awe of her ability to flirt. We both developed at the same time, earlier than the other girls in our class. At that time, I felt incredibly self-conscious about my broad shoulders and large chest, my thick hips and thighs, which never fit into any pants at places like Urban Outfitters. Sammie and I are built similarly, and she says it’s because “we come from people who love to eat.” But it never seemed to bother her that we’re substantially bigger than the other girls, and so eventually she taught me to feel the same. She’s also photogenic, with a heart-shaped face and thick black hair that cascades down her back. She’s mastered the art of the selfie. She’s figured out how to shop. She likes clothes. Clothes like her.

  So, I was sure she’d be the one to get a boyfriend first.

  We both were.

  When we got to high school, she made lists of the guys she thought were cute, while I made lists of colleges, with help from my dad. Not just one list. Lists. It didn’t matter what year they were, how old they were, if they were athletic or dorky, some brooding senior, full of angst, or some scrawny freshman who smiled nicely. She flirted with them all. And they all seemed to want to flirt back.

  But I don’t know. Nothing ever happened. She went out on a few dates, but nothing ever stuck. Maybe it’s because her dad was a teacher at our school, and they were too afraid to go for her.

  You can imagine our mutual shock when Dean and I got together.

  “So that’s why you take all these ridiculously hard classes?” she said when I called her up to tell her the news. “So you can hook up with other nerds?”

  “No. It’s so I can learn more and get into a good college.”

  “Where you’ll undoubtedly hook up with more nerds, marry one glorious supernerd, and then proceed to have cute little nerd babies.”

  “You know, you’re a supernerd, too, or you wouldn’t be at Uni.”

  “Thanks, but you know I’m at Uni because of my dad.” Uni Lab High is a college prep school associated with the local university, and you have to pass a test to get in.

  “That’s not true, so stop it,” I said. “Anyway, don’t doom me to a future of matrimony, old age, and death. Maybe I don’t want to get married. Maybe I want to live on my own, be by myself, do my own thing. Maybe I don’t want to have kids.” I thought about my sister, how much work she was when she was a baby, and how I’ve already helped raise one.

  “Maybe you want to grow old alone, surrounded by dozens of feral cats?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Maybe.”

  “Just promise me you’ll always love me, even though I’ll never be as smart as you.”

  “Stop saying you’re not smart.” I hate it when she puts herself down. Sammie’s one of the smartest, funniest people I know, but she likes to do this self-deprecating thing, and it makes me crazy.

  “Just say you’ll love me forever,” she said. “And that you’ll let me be the godmother to your cute little nerd babies.”

  “You know I’ll love you forever. And if I choose not to have babies, you can help me take care of my twenty-six cats.”

  “I’m not scoo
ping the crap of twenty-six cats out of your litter boxes.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll love you anyway. I’ll always love you, Sammie.”

  And I always will.

  She’s the only one who didn’t judge me when my ex-boyfriend spread that photo of me around school. Once upon a time, I had a decent supply of friends. Sammie had always been my true one and only, but we also were open to being social with the other kids in our class. Uni High is relatively small, so a scandal like the one I got myself into is big news.

  The day I returned from winter break was bad. I walked into side eyes and murmurs and muffled laughter from the very same people who I’d previously called my friends. It was like there was this new invisible cloud around me, one that kept people from actually talking to me, but one that made them want to stare, as though I was an F-up, a sideshow freak. It was as though, by staring, they could make me do it again. They’d already seen a part of me—my body—in the picture, and I could feel their eyes, not looking at my face to see if I was still a person, but looking at my clothes, trying to see through them, trying to see me naked again.

  I found notes in my locker, on my desk, in my bag, sometimes just words like “cyberslut” or “photo whore” or “sext skank.” But there were also those trying to be clever: “Congrats, you have won Uni’s Distinguished Award of Resident A+ Slut.”

  Each one was a punch to my gut.

  Each one was a reminder of how badly I’d messed up.

  Sammie stayed by my side and told me to ignore them. “Don’t let them get to you. They want you to lose control. Just don’t let them.”

  I tried, really hard, to focus on the lecture or on my homework or on the hallway floor or her hand tight around my elbow, but there was no ignoring the reality that I was a complete failure.

  My dad had his one-way ticket to Singapore, and my mom wouldn’t talk to me about any of it—not his leaving, not the separation, not my new status as resident Uni “slut.” She’d just give me these sad, judgmental looks. It was bad enough I had to deal with the piercing stares at school, but I got to come home to more from my own mother.

  During a wholly uncomfortable meeting with her, Ms. McKee, the principal, and Ms. Fuentes, the counselor, they said that I should report any bullying immediately, and they promised that they were there for me, whatever I needed. But then, at the end of the week, they held a special assembly with the entire school to discuss the realities of bullying and to teach lessons on compassion and kindness. They defined the differences between psychological bullying and physical bullying, giving lists of examples of each. They gave warnings about suspensions and expulsions. It was supposed to be this general assembly, not in relation to anyone in particular, they said, but then they spent all this time telling stories of kids who had killed themselves from the pressure of “cyberbullying and sexting incidents,” and, of course, everyone in the auditorium looked at me.

  I tried to keep my head up high, like Sammie told me to. I tried not to slide down into my seat. I tried to hold back the tears. I felt her squeeze my hand, and so I chanted to myself: Do not lose control. Do not lose control. Do not lose control.

  But the reality was, if there was anyone who didn’t know about the photo before, they certainly sought it out after the assembly. There was no way to erase all of the copies online. They had been shared and retweeted and retumbled and reblogged. They were there. For good.

  That’s when I had the first Episode.

  Ms. McKee and Ms. Fuentes had just opened the room to Q & A when some jackass freshman, Jared Wentz, two rows behind me, whispered my name, and without thinking, I turned around. He flashed his phone at me, and there it was: me, naked, in his creepy little hands. I turned back in my seat, my jaw clenched, my heart racing. I slid into my seat.

  Sammie turned around and snapped at the kid: “Shut that off right now.” A bunch of kids laughed around us until a teacher came over and shushed them.

  No one had any questions for Ms. McKee and Ms. Fuentes, so they ended the assembly and told us to go back to our regular schedule. Sammie had to go to math, while I had to go to physics, so she hugged me and whispered in my ear: “Don’t let them get to you. I’m sure they’ve all sent their own pics, but they were just lucky enough not to get caught.”

  I let go of her and made my way toward lab, wishing she were next to me to defend me from all the vicious stares and murmurs. I chanted again: Do not lose control. Do not lose control. Do not lose control.

  That’s when I heard it. Jared Wentz. He was following me now, calling out to me again, but this time, he was moaning my name.

  “Viviaaaaaana.”

  He was repeating my name, and then breathing heavily, in a sexual way, moaning and groaning and grunting at me.

  “Viviaaaaaana.”

  The kids around us laughed, which only served to encourage him.

  “Viviaaaaaana.”

  I vaguely remember stopping.

  I vaguely remember trying to tell him to stop.

  I vaguely remember the spinning hallway, the echoes of laughter, other kids joining in, moaning and groaning around me.

  And then I remember—clearly—Sammie. She appeared as though from nowhere. She yelled at them, all of them, called them names, told them to get away from me.

  She held my arm, led me to the bathroom, where I collapsed on the cold tile floor.

  “I. Can’t. Breathe.”

  I vaguely remember the body spasms, the hot flashes of terror in my chest, the floor like a sinkhole. I could have melted into it.

  I could have lost complete control.

  But she didn’t let me. Instead, she held me, patted wet paper towels against my forehead. She rubbed my back. She sat with me for an hour, until I was able to breathe again, and then she snuck me out of the building, led me to a park down the street, where she lay with me in the grass and told me to cry.

  The next day, her math teacher called her up to the front of the room and chided her, in front of everyone, about cutting class. Sammie walked out and went straight to Ms. McKee, telling her about Jared and what he’d done to me.

  The news of my promiscuity was quickly replaced by the news of Jared’s expulsion, and thereafter, the stares stopped. It turns out that for Uni nerds, the fear of banishment is more powerful than the thrill of a good scandal. Sometimes I still find printed copies of the photo deposited anonymously in my locker or I’ll hear whispers behind me, but considering how bad it was, I’ve survived the rest of the semester with relative ease. And I have Sammie to directly thank for that.

  College Admissions Tip #4

  REMINDER: Junior Year Grades Are Essential!

  These grades are the last that the admissions boards will see, and they can determine your college fate. They show that you’re ready for the big time. This is your best chance to impress!

  Sammie and I still have to endure the torture of school for another two weeks, but since the APs and Sammie’s play are over (she had the lead role, of course, of Abigail in The Crucible), we’re scheduled to work afternoons until school’s out, when we’ll be able to work mornings, too. By our shift Tuesday afternoon, the pool is nearly deserted, just as Sammie predicted.

  The afternoon is quiet and lazy, which is good, because I need the time to study for finals, even with the nausea and dizziness that come and go in waves, which I tell no one about. The only productive thing I can really do, other than leave town from the public shaming, is focus on getting through it without completely bombing all my classes.

  Sammie’s reading horoscopes on her phone, and as much as I try to remind her that I need to study, she continues to interrupt me with forecasts regarding my health and career over the next year.

  About twenty minutes before closing, Evan approaches from the deck. He sits down on the counter and hovers over us. “Whatcha reading?”

  Sammie lights up. “What’s your sign? Wait—let me guess. Scorpio?”

  “I have no idea. March twenty-n
inth?”

  “Aries. Of course. I totally see that.”

  “How, exactly, do you see that?”

  “Aries are, like, pure energy, confident and adventurous. I see that in you.”

  “Well, thanks,” he says, and then he pokes at my book. “What’s your sign, Vivi?”

  Ugh. Please don’t do this. Talk to Sammie instead.

  I ignore him long enough that Sammie answers for me. “She’s a moody Cancer. I’m a Leo. Aries and Leos have a high affinity. Did you know that?” She doesn’t say that Cancers and Aries have the lowest compatibility possible on the zodiac, but I know she wants to.

  “You really believe this stuff?” Evan asks. “I mean, it can’t really predict the future, so why bother reading it?”

  “You’d be surprised! I usually read it at the end of the day to see if it was right, and more often than not, it is. A lot of our energy is written in the movement of the planets.”

  “But what about for people who get really sick or die? It never says, ‘When Neptune passes the fourth moon of Pluto this Tuesday at noon, avoid walking under cranes or you’ll be a flattened mess of blood and bones.’”

  “Of course not. But it might say that it’s a good time to stay home and curl up on the couch with a good book.”

  “When isn’t it a good time to curl up with a good book?” He laughs and turns to me. Again. “Are you also reading about the mystical secrets of planetary alignments?”

  I lift up my physics textbook and shake my head no. I don’t want to get into a conversation with him. I want him to focus on Sammie, not me. At least, that’s what I remind myself.

  Evan leans over my book. “Does science have anything to say about Saturn’s impact on human destiny?”

  I can’t help but laugh, but this makes Sammie frown.

  I’m about to say that I think it’s fun anyway, when Professor Cox walks up to sign out. “What do you want to know about human destiny?” He’s shivering and shaking, dripping wet, and standing less then two feet away, but he yells this as though he’s lecturing in a classroom.

  “Hey, Professor,” Evan says. “Perfect timing! Here’s the question of the day. Horoscopes: yea or nay?”