The Best Possible Answer(43)

I know what it’s like to have a beautiful mother, a beautiful sister, a father who brings home toys from his fancy business trips abroad and who holds his wife’s hand lovingly.

I know exactly what it’s like to be them.

This family I see before me is beautiful and perfect.

And it’s also a lie. A cruel and terrible lie.

I could run up to them, make myself known, ruin their lives just as much as he’s ruined ours. And then I could run home, tell my mother about everything.

I could take them all down, ruin them all.

But then I think about Mila, her birthday wish, how she wants us all to be together.

I let my father and his other family turn the corner, out of sight, and I head back toward Bennett Village.

Instead of walking back through the park, I take the long route home down Lincoln Avenue.

I look in windows.

I sit at bus stops.

I stare at people.

I try to understand.

It’s all too much.

I don’t know where to go, what to do next.

I could text my dad. Or not.

I could talk to my mom. Or not.

I could keep it all to myself and pretend I never saw anything.

Nothing makes sense. I can’t figure it out.

There are too many choices but no right answer.





Habits of an Effective Test Taker #7

More often than not, answers that are longer and contain more detail are the correct ones. Shorter answers are created quickly and are often throwaways that can be easily eliminated.


I stay at Sammie’s another three nights. I don’t bother going downstairs to get clean clothes. I don’t want to run into anyone accidentally, not my mother, certainly not my father, and not even Mila. I buy a new toothbrush and some underwear, and Sammie lets me borrow her clothes. I text my parents that I’ll be at Sammie’s for a few days.

My mother calls me and begs me to come home, but after a few uncomfortable conversations, she finally agrees to let me be. My father, on the other hand, texts back: This behavior is unacceptable. Come back when you are ready to have a conversation like an adult.

What a jerk.

I go to work, make my way through the day even though Sammie won’t be able to get her shifts changed back to mine until next week, and then I walk around the city, alone, while Sammie and her mom look at apartments in Morton Grove.

At night, Sammie distracts me by telling me stories about the O’Briens and Professor Cox and Mrs. Woodley. I half-hear them. They seem silly and pointless, but I don’t say anything to Sammie. I just let her talk.

When I finally return home Thursday after work, my mom’s on her computer at the dining room table, as usual. My dad’s back, and he’s on the couch watching Wild Kratts with Mila. She’s got her head against his shoulder and her pinkie in her mouth.

No one looks up to say hello to me.

In their world, everything is fine. I am the one who’s acting strange. I am the one who is illogical, emotional, childish. I am the one who’s threatening their perfect harmony for no good reason.

I head to my room and shut the door.

My mom calls out to me: “I did your laundry. Everything in the basket is clean. You just need to fold it.”

I sit at my desk and open my computer. I haven’t checked my e-mail in five days, not because I couldn’t do it at Sammie’s, but because I’ve been on a mission to avoid the world as much as possible. AP scores are scheduled to come this week, but I haven’t checked, mainly because I haven’t been able to face the results.

But now that I’m here, seeing my world as it is—the lies and disappointments that it’s built upon—I figure, what’s another layer of failure?

It’s there. An e-mail from the College Board that my scores are ready, that I just need to log in to my account to see the results.

I take a deep breath.

Here we go.

AP English Language: 2 (Possibly qualified)

European History: 2 (Possibly qualified)

Physics B: 5 (Extremely qualified)

How is that even possible? Physics is my worst subject. How could I have aced the physics exam and bombed both English and history?

I print out two copies of the results. I grab my backpack and stuff it with clothes from the laundry basket. I close my computer, grab a different pair of shoes, fold one copy of my results and put it in my pocket.

I take the other copy to the dining room and throw it on the table.

“I suppose you’ll want to have a talk about why I got screwed up on my AP tests.”

My mom looks up at me. “What?”

“Vivi?” Mila jumps up from the couch. She runs to me and wraps her arms around my waist. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“Hi, Mila.”

My father walks over to the table and picks up the paper.

“I didn’t get perfect scores on my exams like you wanted. In fact, I pretty much bombed them.”

“Where have you been?” Mila looks at my backpack. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.” I kiss the top of her head. “Out.”

He looks at the paper. “You got a five in physics.…”

“But I got twos on my other exams. And two B’s on my report card. So yeah. There goes Stanford. They’ll never accept me now.”