Personal Statement (6 page)

“Really?” he says with a hopeful smile.

“Yeah, my friend was also gonna stay maybe. So I could stick around. I’m sure there’s more to do, right? Able-bodied teenagers and all?”

“Right on. Lemme, uh… lemme get these guys on the train and… I can give you a ride back to town?”

“Oh no, it’s fine—I can walk.”

“No, no. It’s no trouble. Just give me two minutes.”

“Okay. Cool, thanks,” I say, trying to contain my excitement. He grabs the two small bags by his bench and escorts his sister and grandmother out to the platform. The grandmother smiles at me and holds my gaze so long that I feel like she’s trying to tell me something with her wise old eyes.
Yes, my dear, this was meant to be. All the stars are aligning so you could meet your future husband. Go forth and procreate.
Either that or she’s in the early stages of dementia and thinks I’m Princess Anastasia. I smile and nod and watch them exit through the old-fashioned doors.

What the hell am I doing? Sticking around a possibly deadly natural disaster for a
guy
? This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life. And the
second
craziest was walking out of the hotel room while Emily was in the shower. Either I’m completely insane and making a series of rash decisions based on hunger, hormones, and a lack of sleep… or maybe I’m finally growing up. Maybe I’m finally living my life for me. Doing things that I want to do, without checking with my parents or teachers or Emily. And that’s why it’s so scary and exhilarating. And it’s why I
have
to do this. Why I have to stay in Cawdor and volunteer. Not just for Tyler. This is the first time in my life that I’ve done something without thinking about it—without thinking about consequences or college or other people’s feelings. The first time I’ve done something just for me.

My phone buzzes.

I peck back as fast as I can.

The train sounds its horn. I look up to see Tyler waving at the slowly moving cars as they begin to pull away. Once the train is out of sight, he heads back inside, smiling shyly at me. My phone buzzes again.

I discreetly read the text and then slip the phone in my back pocket.

“Everything okay?” Tyler asks.

“Yep. Good to go.”

§

There are literally hundreds of volunteers all up and down Church Street.

“What’d I tell you?” Emily says as we stand on the second-floor balcony outside our hotel room. “Oversexed half-wits all looking for their fifteen minutes.”

Emily and I watch as a small army of teenagers makes its way toward the town center—here not because the spirit of compassion and helping their fellow man kicked in overnight, but because they’re all gunning for the governor’s top prize. And who could blame them? I mean it’s not like
we
arrived with completely altruistic intentions.

But Emily is still pissed about it.

“Hijacked, Rani. Completely hijacked.”

Emily closes the hotel room door in a huff and I follow her toward the stairwell. She has no idea about my impromptu escape-and-return last night.

Just past 11:30, when Tyler dropped me at the Hampton Inn, we exchanged our info (with a cell phone “bump”—vaguely erotic, subliminally sexual) and he promised to find me in the morning. I would have stayed and talked longer with him, our silhouettes the only things moving in the quiet hotel parking lot, but my phone kept buzzing with texts from my mom, plus I was anxious to get inside and deal with the wrath of Emily. Luckily, when I crept back into the room she was still in the shower, singing. Two minutes later and the jig might have been up about my little train station adventure. I sat on the edge of the bed and texted my mom a more complete explanation—a lie about the people here saying they had more than enough volunteers and were sending some of us home for safety, then miraculously finding other jobs that needed to be attended to and begging us to stay. I can’t believe she bought it! It was a terrible lie, made possible only by the lateness of the hour causing that perfect storm in my mother of tired-plus-white-wine-drunk, a state I’ve taken advantage of throughout high school. It’s just as well I didn’t have to explain myself to Emily, too, who was neither tired nor drunk. I hadn’t even planned out a lie for her. More of this new unthinking Rani, just going with the flow.

In the hazy morning light, Emily and I walk across the hotel parking lot and wade into the mass of bodies marching west. We don’t ask questions, just follow the mob.

Though obscured by a mass of clouds, the sun (not even up for two hours) is already raising the temperature in town. I can tell it’s going to be a hot one. There isn’t breath of wind. The trees are still, the flags by the post office are completely limp. Is this what they call the calm before the storm?

The crowd assembles around a statue in Duffy Square. It reminds me of the statue that the bullies are decapitating in the opening credits of
The Simpsons
. In fact, the whole area reminds me of that fictional Springfield with its small “everytown” kind of appeal, the only difference being Cawdor’s proximity to water and the smell of fish and saltwater in the air.

As we face the empty stone steps of the library, the buzz around us is that the governor will be speaking soon—along with “a special guest.” Some are guessing that it’s a local celebrity or athlete. Others predict that “we” are the special guest, the same way “we” were the
Time
magazine Person of the Year in 2006. I silently note the irony that one of the most coddled and selfish generations ever is here “to volunteer” while simultaneously assuming “they” are the story—that “they” are the most important part of this equation, not the fact that a major hurricane is bearing down on the East Coast yet again, and, according to every weather forecast, this town will take a direct hit.

As I look around the crowd of 16- to 18-year-olds—the kid that Emily knows from HOBY and his Abercrombie & Fitch-like partner, a large group of crunchy kids (six guys and four girls) wearing Birkenstocks and “Occupy Life” T-shirts, some sort of Amish-looking brother and sister team that have not stopped praying since we arrived—I can’t help but think that perhaps all of our parents were
too
loving and supportive. We never wanted for anything. We were supported and encouraged and enriched and taken care of every step of the way. None of us had a chance to build up healthy insecurities or neuroses. Just ego and an insane drive to be the best.

Emily gives me a slight jab in the ribs with her elbow and a head nod toward the odd brother-sister duo.

“If that’s our competition,” she whispers slyly, “we got this in the bag.”

I give a nod and a half-smile back, but I’m secretly horrified. Emily truly sees everyone as a rival. The whole world is an Olympic event and she must win the gold or face shame from the coaches in her homeland.

Emily points to a craft services table behind us. “I need coffee. You want something?”

“I’m good,” I say.

While Emily ducks under the temporary tent, perusing the muffins, bagels, and fruit, I scan the crowd for Tyler. He must be here somewhere. I’m instantly upset with myself for being so anxious to find him. I’ve got butterflies. I’m adjusting and readjusting my hair every five seconds. I’m discreetly touching my butt, hoping it looks okay in these jeans I haven’t washed in a week. After several furtive minutes I finally spot him near the front by the library steps. He’s with a bunch of theatre-hipster types wearing knit beanies (in August!) and hip European sneakers. I watch him, hoping he’ll notice me, willing him to find me in the crowd. Then, for no apparent reason other than perhaps my mystical mind-powers, Tyler turns and locks eyes with me. It’s too arresting to look away. I’m sure I’m blushing, but I try not to betray my nerves. I give a little wave and a smile. Tyler does an ironic salute-twirling-gesture with two fingers a la Conan O’Brien. It’s hopelessly dorky and cute. He gently jerks his head as if to say, Come on over, meet my friends, and without thinking (as seems to be my MO of late) I start toward him, but I’m thwarted by Emily, who’s suddenly mid-bitch, thrusting a cranberry muffin that I didn’t ask for into my hands.

“So I was just grabbing some breakfast stuff for us,” a more-than-usually irritated Emily says, “and sort of offered up the plate to some people around me—like totally polite—like, ‘do you want to grab one first,’ you know. Totally in the spirit of camaraderie and good will and all this volunteer crap. Not forcing anything on anyone, right? And you know what that queer little farmer girl just said to me? She asked if I would ‘kindly remove the processed toxins’ from her face because she doesn’t eat anything that has more than five ingredients! She and her creepy twin brother are homeschooled locavores—so like everything they eat has to come from their own garden. I was like, whatever, Little House on the Prairie. A muffin from Starbucks is not going to kill you.” Emily takes a big swig of her coffee and launches right back in. “Like, what was she even doing by the craft service table if she can’t
eat
anything in there?”

“I don’t know. They can probably eat fruit. Or water.”

“Jesus, Rani. Whose side are you on?”

“No one’s. I’m just saying—”

“Whatever. I’m over it.”

Emily gulps her coffee again and before things can get too tense, the crowd breaks into polite applause. I glance up to see the governor making his way to the podium. I look at Tyler, who I guess was watching the exchange between Emily and I. He gives a bemused shrug and then holds up his phone and points to it. I look down at my phone and see a new text.

I look back at him but he’s already turned around, facing the governor.

“What’s that?” Emily asks, looking at my phone, nosy as ever.

“Nothing,” I say, offering no further explanation.

“…Ugh. I wish this hurricane would just get here already so we can win that scholarship. Mother Nature is sooo slooow.”

Times like this make me really question our friendship. Before I can think too much about it, Governor Watson addresses the crowd.