None of the Above(54)

Darren clambered up beside me. “It gives you some perspective, doesn’t it? To look out there, see thousands of houses full of thousands of people, and know that there are a thousand more cities out there with just as many people. I started writing my application essays, you know, and sometimes I get freaked out: What makes me different from every other schmuck out there who wants to get into their dream school?”

“You’re, like, in the top five in our class.”

Darren shook his head. “Oh, I know I’ll probably get in somewhere good. But sometimes I remember that, in the grand scheme of things, I’m just a little speck of dust in the universe.”

“My aunt Carla always says that every person is a unique snowflake.”

“Yeah. And let’s hope colleges think that this snowflake is more unique than others.”

I stopped myself from reminding him that sometimes being able to differentiate yourself wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.

The sun dipped below the trees. “It’s getting dark,” Darren said, sliding off the rock. He put his hand out to help me down, and even though I didn’t need his help, I took it. The air was chilly, so his hand was cool, but his grip was strong.

Dr. LaForte had told me to ask myself, “Who am I?” The night before my appointment with her, I sat in my room with my Monet book, staring at a blank page.

Who was I? I played so many roles: daughter, friend, babysitter, runner, girlfriend.

I’d been proud when I was elected team captain, but now I wondered who my teammates had thought they’d voted for. And who my classmates had thought they’d elected Homecoming Queen.

Sam had said that I was someone who smiled at people in the hallways. In my birthday card just a month ago, Vee had thanked me for always being there to listen. My junior yearbook had been full of notes using words like nice and sweet.

But if that was who I was, how had people turned on me so quickly? Take away the people around me, and who was I? Just another smiling face? There had to be more.

In the margins of my Monet book I doodled a set of ten hurdles, and drew a finishing tape at the bottom of the page. Freshman year before tryouts, Coach Auerbach had introduced all the newbies to the different track-and-field events. She told us that each discipline had its own personality. Sprinters were the divas of track, long-distance runners were the patient workhorses, throwers were the loose cannons, and jumpers were the free spirits.

Hurdlers were a breed of their own.

When Coach Auerbach talked about the hurdles, she cautioned us that the event wasn’t for the faint of heart. “Hurdling has the steepest learning curve, and probably the most painful. It’s all about technique, so there’s a ton of practice involved. A lot of hitting your knees and face-planting. They say that hurdlers need three things: speed, flexibility, and courage.”

Within the first day of learning how to hurdle, I knew she was right to warn us. I looked at my sprinter friends and was totally jealous of how easy they seemed to have it. But at the same time, I loved being hard-core. That’s who I was: a hurdler. And hurdlers were never afraid to fall.

Dr. LaForte was pleased with my homework.

“So, Kristin. Here’s the million-dollar question: Have any of these character traits been impacted by your AIS?”

“No.” It was such an obvious leading question that I almost rolled my eyes.

“I ask you this because I want to show you that nothing changed when that doctor told you your diagnosis.”

“Everything changed,” I insisted. “Even though I kept on telling Sam and Vee and all the others that I was the same, everything was different.”

Dr. LaForte shook her head. “The world around you may have shifted, seen you in a different light. But the Mona Lisa is a masterpiece whether it’s in a pitch-black room, under a strobe light, or in the sun.”

When I didn’t say anything, she reached over sideways to her desk and pulled out a manila envelope. “You may remember that you allowed me access to your school records.” It must’ve been on one of the dozens of release forms that my dad and I had filled out the first day.

“Ms. Diaz’s file had several of your recommendations in it. I won’t tell you who wrote them, but I will read a couple of excerpts to you. Because the person described in these pages is still there inside of you: ‘Kristin Lattimer is a young lady of great character. Hardworking, kind, and unfailingly polite, she is respected by students and faculty alike.’”

“It sounds like a form letter.” I grimaced. Of course I had been kind. It was easy to be kind when you were popular, when everyone loved you.

But Dr. LaForte went on. “Here’s another one. ‘What sets Kristin apart from my other students is her leadership. She obviously leads by example while she competes, but she also takes an active role in nurturing underclassmen. She always has their back and is always looking outward and thinking of others.’”

That was obviously Coach Auerbach. Like she was an objective observer. “So what?”

At first Dr. LaForte didn’t say anything. She just looked at me, and I looked away after a second, wondering how I had managed to get her to hate me, too.

“Do you think these people were lying, Kristin?” Dr. LaForte asked gently.

I chewed at the cuticles on my left index finger. “No,” I said reluctantly, “they weren’t lying. They’re just . . .” I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say. I’d fooled them the way I’d fooled my pediatrician. I was a fraud. “They’re just seeing what they want to see.”