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 maximize 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.