For a moment, I consider scarfing down Theo’s entire meal, but then I’d hate myself more than I already do. I settle for a bottle of water, a handful of baby carrots, and one thirty-five-calorie wedge of Laughing Cow Creamy Light Swiss.
Once upstairs, I recline on my comforter, which is snowy white with silver piping, and I shove a couple of pillows behind my back. My black cat Dora hops up next to me and curls against my leg. Yes, Dora as in the Explorer. (Don’t laugh, I was eight when I named her.) Don’t know where our other cat, Boots, is. He and Dora were littermates and they have hated each other their entire lives. In retrospect, we should have named him Swiper.
I flip open my Mac Book Pro to view my incomplete Princeton essay.
Or, that’s what I mean to do.
Instead, I find myself on what’s become my default—staring at Braden’s Instagram feed. I’ve spent the last few weeks enlarging each shot to see if there’s anything, anything at all I missed. In last year’s shot at Homecoming, I notice his smile doesn’t completely reach his eyes. Was this a warning sign? Should I have known?
After I’ve inspected another twenty or thirty pictures, I pull up the log-in screen for his email. I type in [email protected] and then pause over the password box.
I know that breaking into his email is a gross invasion of privacy and I’m disgusted with myself, yet I’m compelled anyway.
I’m compelled to know why. I mean, what if he drafted a suicide note and forgot to press Send? Or, what if he read something that sent him over the edge?
Then I remember something—in his final text, he said he’d email me. I never got that email.
I have to see what’s in his email account.
I’ve already tried a bunch of possibilities, like his birthdate, his first dog’s name, his football position, but none of them have worked. The NSHS email server tells me I have one more incorrect log-in before the account is locked without additional verification, so I can’t keep guessing. The next password I input must be right or that’s it.
I feel a trickle of sweat roll down my back, weird because I’m not hot. Yet my pajamas are clinging to my clammy skin and I’m on the edge of hyperventilating.
I’m at a loss so I click shut the window.
No answers today.
I gather my hair into a damp ponytail and I tab back to my Princeton essay. I’ve already filled out the particulars on which of my extracurricular activities was important and meaningful and why (peer counseling—because I love it and it’s the only thing I do that actually matters), and the section on how I spent my last two summer vacays. (Spoiler alert—the activities were enriching.)
My plan was to answer the second of five choices of essay questions, which is based on a quote from Omar Wasow’s speech at the 2014 Martin Luther King Jr. Day celebration on campus. My coach says bemoaning white privilege is a homerun swing to admissions directors, especially coming from this zip code, so that was the tack I intended to take. Yet in reading this question again, I can’t remember any of my talking points. And somehow it feels wrong to use my privilege as a tool, you know? I’ve already benefitted from it more than enough.
My eyes are drawn to the first question—Tell us about a person who has influenced you in a significant way.
That’s the question I should answer. I glance at the notes from my admissions coach. He said I should write about someone who moves me, who inspires me, who makes me feel like I could be a different person, a better person. He suggested I use Hillary Clinton and he helped me come up with a bunch of supporting arguments.
But hers is not the name that’s on my mind.
Hers is not the name on my lips when I wake from a turbulent dream.
The mention of her name neither causes my pulse to race nor sits like a stone in the bottom of my stomach.
I pull at my pajama top. The fabric feels humid and oppressive, despite how cold my room is.
What if I were to answer with what’s in my heart? What if I were to answer honestly? Not honest honest, with a wink and a nod, but just regular old honest.
Focused on Braden, I take a deep breath, positioning my shaking fingers over the keyboard.
I begin to type.
Sometimes the pressure to be perfect causes us to crack in the most devastating of ways.
Simone
6:11 PM
whos ready 2 par-tay
Kent
6:11 PM
me me me STOKED
Stephen
Read 6:11 PM
Simone
6:12 PM
k 2 meet up @9:30 under streetlite
Kent
6:12 PM
SLAP
Stephen
Read 6:13 PM
Simone
6:15 PM
what r u wearing
Kent
6:15 PM
swim fins & a ball gag
Stephen
Read 6:15 PM
Simone
6:16 PM
me 2!
Kent
6:31 PM
need 2 bring anything, like gift 4 his mom/appetizer?
Stephen
Read 6:31 PM
Simone
6:31 PM
r u kidding?
Kent
6:31 PM
no...new 2 ths
Stephen
Read 6:32 PM
Simone
6:32 PM
maybe some crisps?
Kent
6:35 PM
hmmm, how bout crudité?
Stephen
Read 6:39 PM
Simone
6:44 PM
like chopped carrots & celery??
Kent
6:45 PM
y
Stephen
Read 6:46 PM
Simone
6:46 PM
just brng u
Kent
6:47 PM
k, then ready 2 par-tay
Stephen
9:01 PM
no one actually says par-tay
19
KENT
“Yeah, I don’t feel good about it.”
“Come on Stephen, we never do anything like this. We’ll have fun,” I say in my most persuasive, authoritative voice.
No dice.
As we walk east toward the biggest homes on the lake, he stops under a streetlight and crosses his arms over his chest. Oh, good. He’s going into statue-mode again, that’s just what we need.
Simone says, “Check out how the light reflecting on Stephen’s hair gives him a halo! You’re downright cherubic-looking, that is, if angels wore Death Row Records T-shirts.”
She fails to convince him to budge and I quietly cluck my tongue. Aw, Simone. Sweet, na?ve Simone. Stephen’s bought himself a one-way ticket to Funk Town and it’ll take more than a throwaway compliment to pull him out of it.
Simone then pokes Stephen and he goes rigid, which I’m sure is the exact opposite reaction she hoped to inspire. We need him to move not to freeze. When her fingers grazed his arm, he became a turtle retreating into his shell. She’s still way too new at handling Stephen to know that being all touchy-feely-jokey is the wrong move.
She persists. “What’s the matter? The boy in my study hall said it would be fun when he invited me. You allergic to fun? Do we need to find a fun EpiPen to inject you, just in case small traces of fun spill over and contact your skin?”
Stephen lets out a ragged breath. “Yeah, but you’re dope, Simone, you have a tattoo and everything.”