500 Words or Less Read online

  “It feels so wrong

  to love this song

  so much,”

  Kitty griped,

  and belted out the lyrics.

  I was about to deconstruct

  our love for “Ignition”

  as the ultimate form

  of privilege,

  but then I saw

  Jordan Parker

  leaning against a wall

  paying attention to

  no one, yet surrounded

  by everyone who mattered

  to the social structure

  of Meydenbauer.

  He didn’t have to say

  the right things.

  He didn’t have to pretend

  to like people.

  He didn’t have to wear

  Ray-Bans or Chuck Taylors,

  or fluorescent-colored anything,

  because the way he wore

  his arrogance

  was enough

  to attract

  his admirers.

  Then a sophomore

  doubled over

  and puked

  on the hardwood floor

  in front of us.

  Her friends screamed

  and ran away.

  Kitty wrinkled her nose.

  She reached for some paper towels.

  “I thought high school parties would be—

  I don’t know—more

  glamorous.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I said.

  I found myself cornered

  In a narrow hallway

  by Miranda Price

  as I waited

  in line for the bathroom.

  She towered over me.

  She stretched her arm

  across the hall

  holding a rectangular black clutch

  against the wall,

  creating a blockade between

  me and the bathroom,

  me and the party,

  me and the rest of humanity.

  “I need you

  to write my essay,”

  Miranda said.

  The line dispersed.

  Word spread

  of a second and third bathroom.

  Technically,

  I was next in line.

  “What essay?” I asked.

  Miranda and I were ranked

  #1 and #2

  in our class,

  and if I was to be completely honest,

  she was smarter,

  or at least

  more tenacious

  at being smart

  than me.

  There was not a single writing assignment

  in any of our classes

  that Miranda

  could not do

  in her sleep.

  “Cut the crap, Chen.

  I know you wrote

  Clark Matthews’s essay

  for his college application.

  “He got into Stanford,

  and he’s dumb as shit.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Everyone knows about that.”

  Clark Matthews

  Last year, a senior

  who I sort of knew

  from the school newspaper

  handed me a sheet of paper.

  “I need you to

  rip this to shreds,”

  he said.

  “It’s my essay

  for my Stanford application.”

  I half eyed the piece of paper,

  and went back to finishing

  a newspaper assignment.

  He pulled up a chair next to me

  and scooted it real close.

  “I’m a photographer, not a writer.

  I don’t know how to make the words say

  what I see in my head.

  But you do,”

  Clark Matthews whispered.

  Two days later I found Clark.

  “It was shit.

  Use this instead.”

  I handed over two fresh sheets

  of typed paper

  and walked away.

  I hadn’t intended

  to rewrite his essay,

  but when I was editing

  his story,

  the one he wasn’t telling

  came to me naturally.

  I barely knew Clark.

  But in writing his essay

  I felt like I saw him,

  like the way he saw my articles,

  as something more than words.

  “I read it,”

  Miranda said.

  She lowered her arm

  and tucked the clutch back underneath.

  “It was really good, Nic.

  Incredible.

  “I’m definitely smarter than you

  and my SAT scores are higher than yours, but

  I can’t write like that.

  I can’t make people feel

  the way you did

  with those words.

  “I need you

  to write my essay.

  I need Stanford.”

  Maybe I was a little desperate

  for attention

  that came in the form of compliments.

  Maybe I was broken inside,

  with a moral compass

  that no longer pointed north.

  Or maybe I just wanted

  to be wanted,

  to be heard,

  to be seen

  by someone.

  Anyone.

  How drunk

  “Miranda, how drunk are you?”

  I asked.

  “Sober enough to know

  what I’m asking.”

  We both stood

  without drinks

  in our hands,

  outside

  a now-empty bathroom.

  “Are you really asking me

  to write your college essay?”

  “A version of it.

  A draft.

  God, not the final.

  That would be

  wrong.

  I’ll rewrite

  whatever you give me.

  It’ll be my words,

  my voice

  in the end.

  But I need you

  to start something.”

  At Meydenbauer High

  we were driven by

  grade point averages

  and rankings

  and accolades.

  We colored outside the lines,

  we broke the mold,

  we tore down walls

  only when we needed to,

  only when it served

  our interests.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  I asked.

  “Um, I’ll pay you?”

  “I don’t need the money,”

  I said.

  Gas money, a little extra cash,

  college tuition—

  it was all provided to me

  by a father who thought

  that’s all I needed

  from a father.

  “Then what do you want?

  A spot on Student Council?

  A higher grade in AP Bio?

  This handbag?”

  She waved the clutch

  in front of me.

  I wanted a lot

  of things.

  For senior year

  to be easy.

  For people not

  to hate me.

  For Ben.

  For love.

  “My mom.”

  The words fell out

  as soon as I opened

  my mouth.

  They floated between us

  like two frantic fireflies

  unjarred.

  The color drained

  from Miranda’s face.

  She bit her lower lip.

  “I don’t know, Nic,”

  she said quietly.

  Everyone had a story

  about my mother.

  She left town.

>   She didn’t want to be found.

  No one else wanted

  to find her.

  But I was still here

  in spite of all the gossip.

  Trying.

  Miranda wanted

  to say something,

  but I shook my head.

  “Money. I’ll just take the money.”

  Laurel LeBrea

  Laurel LeBrea, captain of the cheer squad,

  could do splits in the air.

  She could touch her nose to her kneecap

  while her other leg followed obediently behind,

  completing a perfect line.

  I kind of hated her for these reasons.

  She called.

  I silenced the phone.

  She left a voice mail.

  Why was she leaving

  a voice mail?

  Nic! It’s Laurel.

  I heard from Jilly,

  who heard from Miranda,

  that you are in the business of

  writing college admissions essays.

  So yeah, I’m definitely interested.

  Sign me up.

  I’m dying to go to Brown.

  Call me!

  Packed lunches

  “Why does the cafeteria smell like fish

  even when it’s not Fish Fry Friday?”

  I asked.

  Kitty nibbled

  on a quinoa and kale salad.

  “I guess it smells a little.”

  She kept her head buried

  in a textbook

  as I sat on the bench

  across from her.

  “It smells like spoiled milk

  and rotten fish.”

  I emptied the contents

  of my lunch bag.

  Overripe banana.

  Turkey sandwich.

  Carrot sticks.

  What I wouldn’t give

  to have my mother back

  to pack me lunches

  of leftover pork roast,

  of pesto and brie,

  of grilled vegetable paninis.

  To write me notes

  on my napkin,

  like I’m her little girl,

  not the seventeen-year-old

  who was supposed to be

  grown up enough

  to navigate life

  without

  her mother.

  Kitty and I

  sat in uncomfortable silence.

  She barely raised her eyes

  from her book.

  Stagnant air

  filled my lungs.

  “What’s going on?”

  I asked.

  She shrugged and flipped a page.

  “What are you studying for?”

  I said just to say something.

  “Psychology.”

  “So you can analyze

  our friendship,” I joked.

  “Yeah,” Kitty said,

  and she flipped another page.

  I chewed on my soggy

  turkey sandwich in silence

  until I opened my mouth

  and said something

  I probably shouldn’t have said.

  “What is up with you, Kitty?”

  “You didn’t text me.

  You never called, Nic.

  “You took me to a party,

  watched me get shit-faced,

  and nearly left me there

  fawning over some lacrosse boy.”

  Kitty closed her textbook.

  She looked me in the eye.

  “Jesus, Nic.

  You broke, like, all the rules

  of girl code.”

  Girl Code

  1. Don’t let your friend get that drunk.

  And if she gets that drunk,

  you are obligated to

  stay by her side

  the entire rest of the night

  ready to either hold back her hair

  or hold out a wastebasket

  as she pukes up

  her breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  2. Never. Ever let your drunk-ass friend

  sit on the lap of a lacrosse boy.

  3. DON’T LEAVE YOUR FRIEND AT A PARTY.

  4. Call or text your friend the next morning

  to check in on her.

  Ask her how she feels.

  Be a good friend.

  Show some goddamn sympathy.

  So important

  “What were you doing on Sunday, Nic,

  that was so important

  that you couldn’t call or text?”

  There was the exam

  I was studying for in AP Calculus.

  Six chapters remained in Crime and Punishment.

  An essay I formulated for Miranda.

  But there was also

  the time I whittled away

  scrolling through contacts on my phone.

  Landing on Ben.

  Reading his last text.

  Pick you up in ten

  And before that

  I’m outside the library

  And before that

  dope

  And before that . . .

  I read and reread his messages

  to get to the one

  where he said I was

  “special,”

  or the one that made me feel

  something

  that might have been love,

  or the one that would be

  the last one

  I would need to read

  to feel

  enough,

  today.

  “I should have called,”

  I said.

  A turkey sandwich

  sat in a crumbled mess.

  Kitty sighed.

  “Yeah, you should have.”

  The new girl

  Teetered with a lunch tray

  down a row of tables, looking

  like a sad, lost Bambi.

  “I think we should invite

  her

  to sit with us,”

  Kitty said,

  forcing us

  to move beyond

  the uncomfortable

  moment.

  Kitty waved.

  The new girl

  shuffled toward us.

  Her hair, her eyes,

  her overall demeanor

  all looked very—

  shiny.

  She extended her arm toward me.

  Tiny silver bangles, making

  tiny jangling sounds,

  slid down.

  “I don’t think we’ve been

  properly introduced,

  but I’m in most of your classes,”

  the new girl said.

  Her hand remained hanging

  midair.

  Why would she transfer here

  senior year, abandoning

  all the friends she had known

  her whole life?

  Like what Ben

  did to us.

  What happened to her?

  Or maybe,

  what did she do

  to cause such a fissure

  in her life?

  Her bright blue eyes

  offered no secrets,

  no darkness,

  no sadness.

  She looked

  perfectly fine,

  and I felt

  a twinge

  of jealousy.

  “This is Nic.”

  Kitty nudged.

  I forced a polite smile.

  What if I had been

  the one

  to transfer schools,

  to abandon everyone

  I had ever known

  and loved?

  But the thought

  quickly dissipated.

  That wasn’t me.

  I was still

  here.

  Your firstborn child

  Miranda sat poised

  at the edge of a faux-

  leather armchair positioned

&nbs
p; next to a fireplace,

  in what had been deemed

  the school’s Academic Commons.

  Our public school’s showcase space

  looked like a Starbucks

  sans the coffee and baristas,

  with sconces illuminating walls

  and pendant lights hovering

  above cozy tables.

  Apparently, taxpayers

  were generous.

  “Describe, in your own words,

  what happened

  at last year’s Golf Pros

  and Tennis Hoes party,”

  I said slowly.

  We were alone.

  “You want me

  to tell you

  what happened

  at a party where

  the male population of Meydenbauer

  dressed in respectable golf attire,

  while the female population

  arrived in slutty tennis skirts

  and skintight polos?

  “And this is for

  my college application?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m applying to Stanford.

  Remember?”

  I nodded again.

  “A sweet, safe, slice-of-life essay

  isn’t gonna cut it

  for an Ivy or any other decent school,”

  I said.

  “College admissions officers want

  to read

  something real.

  They want to feel

  something raw.

  In turn, they want us to emote

  all over the damn page—

  in five hundred words or less.”

  “You mean—in five hundred words

  or fewer,”

  Miranda corrected.

  “Yeah, I know.

  Words are countable objects

  so

  it

  should

  be

  fewer.

  “But I’m not the one

  screwing up the grammar.

  Read the essay prompt from last year’s

  Common Application.”

  Miranda narrowed her eyes.

  “I volunteered

  in Haiti.

  An orphanage

  in Haiti.

  Why can’t you write about that?”

  “Hey, I’m just doing my job.”

  I set down a notebook,

  and leaned in close.

  “My job

  is to get you into college.

  Not just any college,

  Stanford,

  which has an acceptance rate

  of 5.1 percent.

  “If you want an essay

  about a volunteer trip to Haiti,

  then write it

  yourself.

  “But if you want me

  to write your essay,

  then I write it

  my way.”

  Miranda slumped.

  She chipped away

  at polish on manicured nails.

  “What happened at the party

  is on YouTube,”

  she hissed.

  “You can go watch it.”

  A string of pearls dangled

  below her pressed shirt.

  She twirled the necklace loosely with a finger.