Tyler Johnson Was Here(38)

“Very good. Carry on, Mr. Johnson.”





In first-period English class, Ms. Tanner goes easy on us, and we discuss, as a class, the themes and motifs in Antigone and Oedipus the King.

But Tyler.

My twin is gone.

“Guillermo,” Ms. Tanner says, pointing at him as he dozes off. “Please write a theme on the board.”

G-mo takes his precious time getting up there. He uses an orange Expo marker, so light that it’s hard to see. Power, he writes in big, bubbly, graffiti-like letters.

Ms. Tanner calls on a new girl who started a few weeks ago. She writes The role of women on the board in curly letters.

“Mr. Johnson,” Ms. Tanner says with a smile. “Would you like to finish our list off?”

And I inhale, getting out of my seat. Hands shaking, I write in black marker a few more themes that come to mind. Determination. Greed. Hate. Mortality. Fate.

It’s like Antigone and I are one and the same. It’s like the themes of her story are the same themes in mine. I stand at the front of the classroom for several agonizing seconds, everyone staring at me.

I sit back down, all eyes on me like I’ve suddenly become the most popular dude in school because of what happened to my brother.

“These themes are all important and relevant to your lives,” Ms. Tanner says, walking to the front of the room and underlining each theme as she speaks. “Power, greed, hate, determination, fate and free will, mortality—these are all things that you see in your community around you. We live in a society where attaining power is of the utmost importance, resulting in greed for very many of us.” She walks to stand next to her desk and leans against the surface. “Some of us, unfortunately, learn the hard way about the tension between individual action and fate. Like Antigone.” She pauses before she walks back to the board and circles tonight’s homework.

The bell rings. I can finally exhale.

I run out of class, not saying anything to anyone.

It’s time for my interview with an MIT representative, and already I know that it isn’t going to go well. I forgot to “dress for success,” like I want to really be somebody someday. And I’m going to be late.





? 18 ?


I’m a total of two minutes late to my interview in room B252, a biology lab around the corner from the media center. In the hallway, I pass booths of local community colleges and other universities—random and faraway ones, like the University of Chicago, Florida State University, Cornell, and a bunch of others—each a part of the college fair. They’ve got flags and banners and balloons and little sign-up sheets.

I round the corner and walk into room B252, and suddenly I’m taking a step into what could be my future, what could be my way out of the cycle—a step that Tyler never got to take.

My heart pounds like it’s drumming the MIT fight song to get me ready. And I can taste the anxiety on my tongue as I stare into the face of a light-skinned man with grayish hair. I can already tell this is going to be messy.

“Oh, hello! I’m Dave Ross. Are you Mr. Marvin… uh… Johnson?” the man says, standing up and smiling hugely, like he’s shocked to see a black boy walking into the room.

We shake hands. “Yes, I am.” There’s a short pause before we sit simultaneously.

The man shuffles through a large stack of papers in front of him. “I can’t seem to find your application,” he says finally, organizing the stack again.

I flinch. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I meant to send the application in early, before the college fair, but I didn’t end up having a chance.”

“Young man, MIT is looking for students who are goal-oriented and want to be there and nowhere else. We expect to sit down with students who are truly committed to their futures.”

I nod, looking away from him, wanting to explain everything that’s been happening, but I don’t. And I can feel the sweat forming all over my body in hidden crevices.

“So, what makes you an MIT man?” he says, skepticism creeping into his voice.

“I don’t know, sir. It’s just been a dream of mine to get into MIT, change the world, show people what I can achieve. Sometimes it feels like people don’t think I can achieve anything, and I want to prove them wrong.”

He runs a hand through his scruffy hair, frowning. “If I had a dime for every time someone gave me that answer, I’d have a year’s salary.”

I pause, feeling my heart sink, the sting of defeat pinching me.

“Let’s rephrase the question. What do you want out of MIT?”

“A decent education.” My shoulders shrug.

“You can get that at a lot of schools.” He pauses, tilting his glasses down from his face a little. “So, why MIT?”

I blink, feeling beads of sweat on my forehead. My back sticks to the chair like a wet page.

“Sir, MIT is all I’ve ever wanted,” I say. “Since I was in the fourth grade, I knew that I wanted to be at this school. I knew I wanted to be someplace where I’d defy all the odds, where I’d grow and become a better person, where I’d get one of the finest educations this country has to offer.”

“Now, that’s more of an answer for us, Mr. Johnson.” He nods slowly, marking down notes. “What do your parents think of your dream of attending MIT?”