Wrong About the Guy(48)

Alone that night in my room, my grandmother’s snores audible through the wall, I searched my ego very carefully, poking and pricking to see if there was any soreness there, any discomfort at the thought of Aaron and Heather’s falling in love. But there wasn’t. Picturing the two of them together only made me feel happy. And a little relieved.

I knew that Heather would be a much better girlfriend for him than I ever could. She was sweet and easygoing and generous. I was too used to getting my own way and dominating everyone around me—just like Aaron. As a couple, we would have clashed constantly. But he and Heather would complement each other perfectly, and I would do everything I could to make them happen.

I squidged down into bed and waited to fall into the deep sleep of the virtuous and celibate.

Except I couldn’t.

Now that I felt settled about the Heather/Aaron situation, a far less serene memory bubbled up to the surface: my conversation with George about my grandmother. I never liked when people called me out on something I already felt guilty about, and I couldn’t get his last disappointed look out of my mind.

I wished he knew that he’d convinced me to include her. But sending a text that said, “Enjoyed the movie—my grandmother did, too,” seemed too embarrassingly transparent. Anyway, I kind of wanted to tell him face-to-face. I wanted to see him smile and nod, the way he did when he felt I’d done something right for once. Those moments were rare enough.

I flipped around in my bed. The house was too quiet. Usually I could hear someone moving around after I went to bed: Mom getting up and wandering along the hallway (she had insomnia issues); Jacob crying after a bad dream; Luke coming home late from work. . . . But tonight it was just Grandma and me, and the faint sounds of her rhythmic breaths made me feel even more alone: she was so deeply asleep and I was so awake. I wasn’t exactly scared—we really did have a ridiculously impressive security system and I had double-checked that it was set before going to bed—but I didn’t like the quiet. It made me glad Grandma had come after all. If I felt this isolated with her, the loneliness would have been unbearable without her.

I couldn’t fall asleep. I sat up and reached for my laptop. When I opened it, the screen was still filled with the Word document for my college essay. I skimmed it again and hated it even more. It was so boring. So . . . just okay. So upright and good citizen–y. So uninspired. So not really me in any way at all.

I opened up a blank page and started to write a response to the essay. Just to have something to do, something to take my mind off how empty the house felt.

I didn’t try to sound formal and smart. I just wrote down the sentences that came into my head.




I want to be exceptional. But my expectations of who I should be always run ahead of the reality of who I am. I see myself as a writer, a philanthropist, an athlete, a dancer. . . .

But I’m not any of those things. Not really. I’ve tried my hand at so many different activities, been enthusiastic and optimistic about each one until it turned challenging or repetitive, and then . . . stopped. I never make it to the next level, where I might actually get good. I’m strong with beginnings; it’s sticking to something that’s hard for me.

I used to dream about being really good at something and I’ve managed to convince myself that the reason it hasn’t happened yet is because I just haven’t found the right “thing.” So I keep trying new things, just waiting for the magic to happen.

But maybe you aren’t born with a talent that’s like a key that fits into a lock. Maybe it’s the sticking-to-something part that makes you outstanding—and that’s what I don’t have.

So now my dream has changed. Now instead of dreaming of being brilliant, I dream of being consistent. I dream of being dedicated. I dream of finding something I love so much that even someone like me—a mercurial, inconstant, lifelong dilettante—could honestly say, “This time, I’ll make myself proud.”



I sat back and looked at what I had written. It was way too short. It was probably too negative. It wasn’t particularly clever or well-written.

But it was honest.

I went back to bed and this time I fell asleep.

When I got home from school the next day, I worked on the essay some more, expanding it, making it funnier and adding in some examples. I talked about our trip to Haiti and how I had vowed to find a way to help—the stuff the other essay had been about—but this time I told the truth about how little I had followed through on my resolution.

When I finished rewriting it, I stayed in my seat for a while, staring absently at the keyboard and thinking.

I wasn’t actually sure I should use it as my college essay. In fact, I was pretty sure I shouldn’t. It made me sound like someone who couldn’t get her act together, which wasn’t exactly what colleges looked for in their students.

But if I didn’t think I could use it, why was I putting all this time into it?

Could I use it?

I needed George to help me figure it out, I decided.

So that night, after I had fiddled with the new essay some more and felt like maybe it was in decent shape, I sent it as an email attachment to him. In the subject line, I wrote, Possible new essay? And in the body of the email I wrote, I want to be a good person. I just get in the way sometimes.?

I deleted the smiley face and put it back in several times, finally leaving it in.