He will be Dr. Sayanantham number three.
5. Me:
Son number two.
Expected to be
Dr. Sayanantham number four.
And even though, yes,
science and math come easy,
I love words, too.
And I don’t know if I wish to follow
in the footsteps of my
cheeseburger-loving brother.
The end result, these simple
but puzzling equations:
a ≤ b
or
a ≥ b
or
a ≠ b
a being what is expected of me
b being where my heart lies
x being an unknown quantity
utilized to figure out the intersection
between them, assuming I ever
find out what b actually is.
EMMA
I down a tall glass of Cran-Apple
with crushed ice, too fast,
but I can’t help it.
It tastes so good, cold and tart,
filling what feels like
a bottomless thirst.
I am exhilarated, wrung out,
but keyed up,
from an amazing practice.
I love that feeling
after I’ve pushed my body
to its limit.
It’s nice to have the kitchen to myself.
No nagging from Mom.
No questions from Faith.
Sweet Faith, who watches me like a hawk,
which can get annoying, sometimes,
like she’s memorizing me.
I like the quiet, but I miss Polly
banging her tail against my sweaty legs,
drooling and panting love all over me.
Mom and Faith must’ve taken
her with them on their
last-week-before-school-starts errands.
It’s Faith’s first year at the high school
and even though quiet is her style,
I can tell Faith is pumped.
I don’t remember feeling like that,
except for maybe the first time
I went to soccer camp.
It was the summer before 8th grade.
I remember making out with the
cute, blond assistant coach.
A total rush, until he got clingy
toward the end.
Which was awkward.
But high school, no.
I’m so done with high school.
Can’t wait to play soccer at Penn.
I wish I could wave a wand
and whoosh away
the next nine months.
My cell buzzes with a text
from Brendan. Damn, I still haven’t
told him about Saturday night.
About how we have to drag
Maxie Kalman along with us.
Thanks to my mom.
Saw Mrs. Kalman in the grocery store, Mom said. Poor thing, she looked miserable. I told her you’d include Maxie in your plans this weekend. She was so grateful.
Maybe I’ll see if I can get Felix
to join us, for old time’s sake.
Brendan doesn’t mind Felix.
Who could mind Felix?
Not the winner he used to be,
but still a good kid.
Maxie and I and Felix were tight
back when we were kids.
Lemonade stands, kickball, the whole bit.
But that was a long time ago.
She always was the artistic type.
Whatever.
As long as she doesn’t ruin
Saturday night.
CHLOE
“I Am/I Am Not”
My mom is big into personal inventories.
Back when Dad dumped her
and right before she became a realtor,
she stocked up on all these self-help books
and they all told her
to make a list of who she is
and who she hopes to be.
She’s always trying to get me
to do them, but I always refuse.
They remind me of those “I am” poems
we did back in 5th grade.
I am cheerful and tan.
I wonder if I will ever finish this poem.
I hear the sound of one hand clapping.
I see rainbows and unicorns.
I want a boyfriend and a new smartphone.
I am cheerful and tan.
Okay, I don’t think that’s really
what I wrote in 5th grade,
but close.
So here’s my up-to-date, honest,
anti personal inventory.
What I’m not:
a cheerleader.
a soccer player, or a jock of any kind.
an art nerd.
a math and science nerd.
a Christian nerd.
a drama geek.
a Harry Potter freak.
Oh, and I’m not:
smart.
quick with a comeback.
careful.
What I am:
a klutz.
pretty.
cheerful, or at least decent at faking it.
What I am good at:
babysitting.
picking out clothes.
makeup.
blow-drying,
showering, and exfoliating.
cleaning my room.
sex.
What I’m not good at:
just about everything else.
MAXIE
Mom kept at me about Emma,
to call her just as soon
as we moved back.
You two were best friends, Mom said.
That was a long time ago, I answered.
I kept putting it off.
It’s not like we stayed in touch
while I was gone.
She’s the one who faded away,
stopped writing,
stopped calling.
She’s probably too busy with soccer, Mom would say.
Yeah, right.
But I understood,
life goes on.
It’s not like we can
just pick up
where we left off.
But to get Mom
off my back
I sent Emma
an e-mail.
A few days later:
Jeez, sorry, I just saw this. Never look at e-mail,
what’s your cell? I’ll text :)
But she didn’t.
Then my mom ran into her mom
at the grocery store.
Sorry!! Crazy busy. Free Sat night?
Can’t wait to see you!
Yeah, right.
Thursday, August 26
ANIL
1. Girlfriend:
Chloe Carney,
for the past month and a half.
At least I think she is.
The code for these things
mystifies me in a way that
math equations
never do.
Especially since I’ve never
had a girlfriend before.
And what kind of dumb luck is it
that Chloe Carney should be my first.
Chloe Carney, with her looks that stop traffic.
Literally.
(I saw a pickup truck
rear-end an SUV last week.
On account of Chloe Carney
and her blue sundress.)
2. Let’s be honest:
I am not Chloe Carney’s usual type.
I’m
not good-looking,
not a lacrosse player,
not white.
3. How it began:
After teaching junior clinics all morning
Zander and I were goofing around on the
tennis courts.
Some kid from the community pool
next to the courts kept hollering “Marco Polo”
in this high-pitched pirate accent
that cracked Zander up.
So I kept hammering his backhand.
Beat him 6–0.
I didn’t even notice Chloe Carney
watching through the chain-link, but Zander did.
At the changeover he told me a hot blonde
was checking me out.
I didn’t believe him. Looked over,
but she was gone by then.
But later, when Zander and I were leaving,
this girl from my class, with honey-blonde hair,
was hanging out by the tennis shop.
Chloe Carney.
I knew her name because she’s one of those girls
whose name you just know, everyone knows.
She said something dumb like
Hey, Mr. Six-Pack.
I don’t usually play without a shirt,
but it was blistering hot that day
and I was soaked through
and I’d had this reckless so-what feeling,
so I stripped off my shirt after the first set.
Reckless.
Good word
when it comes to describing how
Chloe Carney makes me feel.
She said she’d seen me at the high school
and wasn’t I on the tennis team and what was
my name?
I said Anil. Then introduced her to Zander.
He’s on the team, too.
But she didn’t seem to care.
Hey, Anil, Zander said, let’s go. I gotta get home.
Nice meeting you, Anil, Chloe Carney said.
Polite words.
But she said my name like it was
some exotic, mouthwatering candy
from World Market.
4. That weekend:
a party at a kid’s house,
and Chloe was there.
She and her friend Emma came up to me.
This is Anil who’s a tennis player, Chloe said, and he’s ripped.
Emma rolled her eyes and then eased away,
calling someone’s name.
I couldn’t take my eyes off you, Chloe said in a husky, flirty voice.
Then she laughed,
and I laughed back.
5. How could I say no to Chloe Carney?
How could anyone?
She is one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.
Hair the color of clover honey,
with all sorts of shifting lights in it.
Deep blue eyes.
Royal blue.
I haven’t brought Chloe Carney home,
but my parents know about her.
The only thing my father said,
It’s okay to have fun, Anil, but be careful.
Use protection.
Which made me blush,
but he was using his white-coat doctor voice
so it was okay.
And remember, he went on, once school starts you’re going to be busy.
6. Busy, yes.
My senior year:
Tennis team captain
School newspaper editor
AP classes
International Baccalaureate
College applications, more than one, in case, God forbid,
I don’t get into Columbia.
7. But sometimes it’s nice
to feel
no pressure.
Just be
reckless,
with Chloe Carney.
MAXIE
I am not ready to walk
through the doors to
George Washington High School
on Monday morning.
Even though
when I was
a kid I
couldn’t wait.
In middle school I’d walk by
George Washington High School,
watching kids in their hoodies
and ratty sneakers,
smoking cigarettes,
swearing at each other.
I wanted that.
I still remember the day Mom
told me we were moving to Colorado
and I’d be going to high school
at some place called East High,
which I had never seen
and where I wouldn’t know
a single person.
I felt cheated,
betrayed.
Like my parents had
stolen my future.
But it wasn’t so bad.
I made a few friends,
learned how to ski,
and, most important,
had this awesome teacher,
Mrs. Gablowski.
She’s the one who put
a camera in my hands
for the first time
and told me I was a natural:
observer,
composer,
finder of moments.
So here I am, back again.
A senior.
At George Washington High School.
I feel like I’m going
the wrong way in a
revolving door.
I’ll know people
but not really.
And they’ll know me
but not really.
I’ll have to start over,