The Best Possible Answer(2)

“Vivi, come on.” She pokes me again. “Are you okay? Talk to me.”

She may be smart enough to memorize long lists of animal facts, but she’s too young to understand the long list of possible reasons for why I’m here today, why I’m stuck in panic mode, why I don’t ever want to leave.





AP English Language and Composition Exam: Sample Free Response Question

Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe nearly cracked her skull because she fell asleep while riding her bicycle home from a Very Important Test that will determine her Future Life Self.

In a well-written essay, develop your position with clear, detailed evidence to argue who is to blame for this particular mess of a situation.

From the very early years, Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe’s father told her to work hard, to give nothing less than her “very best.” Even when she earned—EARNED, I say—straight A’s, he still insisted that she could “do better.” He’s an engineer and should know. He made her promise not to date until she was at least eighteen, until after she was accepted into college (fingers crossed for Stanford, his alma mater).

Then, after she makes one mistake—one wrong choice, one missed bubble on the Scantron—he disappears—threatens to destroy his marriage, her family, the equilibrium of everything she knows. He didn’t care that her mother—his wife of twenty years, the so-called love of his life—looked death in the eye—thyroid cancer—and won. Instead, he moved halfway around the world to build skyscrapers in Singapore without explaining why. He didn’t care about leaving a recently very sick woman. He didn’t care that his daughters needed him, that Viviana needed him.

Of course, then, her father must be to blame.

However, upon second thought, perhaps Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe’s mother is no better. She won’t admit it, but she’s just as disappointed and embarrassed. She’s always sided with Viviana’s father when he pushed her. Her mother, for her part, likes to remind Viviana of how much she’s survived. How her family left the former Soviet Union when she was thirteen. How she spent her prime teen years in flux, without a real home. How the government promised them a new, better life, but they became stuck in the middle of an international tug-of-war, simply because they were Jewish. How they waited eleven months stuck in middle-of-nowhere Italy, not knowing what was to become of them, before the governments finally allowed her family to leave. She came to the U.S. so Viviana could have a better life than her. All Viviana’s heard, her entire sixteen years, is that she has to work hard, be grateful, do her absolute best, make her proud.

It’s too much pressure, these stories.

It’s too much to take in.

Therefore, her mother must be to blame.

However, then there’s Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe’s ex-boyfriend, Dean Andrews. Apparently, Viviana’s BFF Sammie always knew he was the biggest ass on the North Side of Chicago (perhaps even all of Illinois, perhaps even all of North America, Canada and all). During their late-night Binocular and Braiding Sessions, Sammie repeatedly reminded Viviana of that fact. She said so from the very start, that he’s totally and completely to blame.

While the evidence presented above is thorough and complicated and nuanced with the conflicting emotions of all those involved, do not be swayed by such arguments. They are only part of the mess, not the main contributor to it.

The bottom line is: Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe is, ultimately, the most at fault. Her father warned her; her mother begged her; her own best friend questioned her life choices.

But did she listen? Of course not.

Instead, she took on a boyfriend—she’s the one who made the choice to succumb to that distraction, and then to send him that picture (no one forced her). She had other, more important things she should have been focusing on.

Instead of accomplishing the very best, she’s sunk to her absolute worst.


“Viviana, talk to me.” Mila’s voice sounds small again, scared. “What happened? Mom won’t tell me. Are you going to be okay?”

I roll over and open my eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Her little face is full of worry. She’s a tiny version of my mom, with her big dark eyes and stick-straight bob. I look nothing like either of them. I inherited my dad’s light eyes and wild red hair. But Mila and I both inherited my mom’s ability to worry. I suppose it’s better than inheriting his ability to flee. “Are you sick?”

“Kind of. Not really. I just fell and bumped my head.” I don’t mention the blacking out or the concussion or the choking feeling that won’t go away. “I’ll be okay.”

“I can take care of you tonight,” she says. “You can lie on the couch, and we can watch whatever you want. I’ll be your nurse, get you juice, and take your temperature and stuff.” She strokes my hair, as if doing that could erase everything that’s happened. “I’ll get you anything you want, anything at all.”

All I want is to be left alone. I probably, really, most likely, absolutely did fail that exam today, but if there’s one thing I did learn from my physics class, it’s that an object at rest wants to remain at rest. I want to remain at rest.

I want to resist motion.

I want inertia.

But I know that’s not an option right now.

There is no option F.