Personal Statement (7 page)

“Ugh,” I say to Mac, “I’m so bloated after gorging on those stupid Duffy Square muffins.” I’m hoping to elicit a sympathetic response or a backhanded compliment about what great shape I’m in, but he just nods absently.

Hurricane Calliope is set to make landfall in twenty-seven hours. Mac and I make our way from the governor’s remarks—with surprise guest Richard Gains (boring)—down to Church Street, where the mass exodus seems to be migrating.

“And seriously,” I continue, “do the people of Cawdor not know that the name ‘Duffy Square’ is totally ripped off the one in New York? I bet there are some ‘friends of Dorothy’ in this town who named it as an homage to the Great White Way.”

“Friends of Dorothy?” Mac asks.

“Aren’t you sweet.” And then I whisper, “It means gay.”

“Oh… Cool.”

I glance at Mac to see if there’s a flicker of fear in his eyes or some other indication that he may still have one foot in the closet… but nothing. He’s as un-self-conscious as they come. A lovably naïve (and gorgeous) boy who I’m cursed to be in love with until I the day I die. Or graduate, whichever comes first.

We arrive at Church Street, a narrow two-block stretch that has, you guessed it, a church at the end. But the cobblestoned road has been transformed into a kind of street fair or a Christmas bazaar, with dozens of little stations lining the entire road. Each station has painted signs around it, tables spread with clipboards, cups filled with pens, and organizers fanning out from behind the booths, wooing potential volunteers:
Come join our pack, we’re doing the most good—and having the most fun while doing it!

I have no idea how these people got this together so quickly, but it’s pretty impressive. Or maybe it’s sad. Why do they have so much free time? Are they all out-of-work crackpots clinging to the first thing in months to give them a reason to get out of bed? I try not to think about it as I look around at the booth options: There’s “Sandbag Prep” (self explanatory), “When the Levee
Doesn’t
Break” (re-enforcing the levees upriver), “Water Water Everywhere” (getting clean drinking water and other essential supplies to the shelters and people in low-income areas that can’t evacuate… which obviously wouldn’t fit on the sign), “This Old House” (boarding up windows on houses, commercial stores, and public buildings), “Pets Are People Too” (helping people and their pets evacuate), and an intriguing one called “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys,” which disappointingly turns out to be a groovy reference to some 1970s band called Traffic. Those volunteers are going to help direct traffic along the evacuation routes (shoot me now).

Mac turns to me, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “They all look so great. Where should we start?”

“Um. Which one do
you
like?”

“I’m kinda thinking the one with levees or the one where we board up windows. My dad’s in construction, so I’m pretty good with my hands.”

I bet you are.
But I don’t say that. Instead I scrunch up my forehead and give a curious, “Hm. I was leaning more toward the one with the pets?”

“We can do both! Start off with the houses and then take a breather with the pets. Sound good, partner?”

“…Sounds great… partner.” But I’m secretly dreading the manual labor. The only screwdriver I know how to use comes with freshly squeezed OJ and Ketel One. But the upside of boarding up windows is getting to see Mac in action. Sweaty. Out of breath. Muscles bulging… Hm. Maintaining my focus might be a
skosh
more difficult than I thought. I need to keep my eye on the prize: winning that scholarship, writing a kickass personal statement, securing admission to La Sorbonne. Then it’ll be,
Bonjour, la Seine. You’re looking très beau in the moonlight.

Waiting on line at the “This Old House” booth, I eavesdrop on some of the other groups around us. To our left, not really in any line, just kind of taking up space in the street, a Buddhist/drum circle/Pilates instructor-looking guy is talking animatedly to his friends about what I assume is their most excellent proposal.

“Dudes, I got it. We call it RELIEF JAM.” (The others chime in on cue:
right on; epic, bra; killer idea, Rors.
) “It’ll be a benefit concert,” the seeming leader of the group continues. “Ya know. For the victims.”

A few more mumble words of agreement but an attractive biracial girl with green eyes and dreads asks, “Isn’t that exactly what they did after Sandy? The 12.12.12 concert?”

The leader freezes, temporarily stymied. But then a small light bulb goes off behind his slightly stoned eyes and he presses on. “Totally. One hundred percent. This… is an
homage.
To all those great benefit concerts that came before us. But what makes ours unique is… this concert will not only raise
money
for the victims of the storm… it will also raise
aware
ness. To prevent future disasters like this one.”

Again, most of the group nods and mumbles its approval. But this time a guy with a wispy blond beard puts down his devil sticks and balks. “Wait, Rory—I don’t mean to kill the buzz, but… how can you
prevent
future hurricanes?”

Rory quickly loses his easygoing vibe, and lashes out. “By flippin’ reducing your carbon footprint, Josh! And ending global warming! That’s how! Like, just take two seconds to
think
before you slam someone’s vision, bra!”

This group will be zero competition. Even if they manage to not be stoned the entire time, infighting will surely tear them apart. Based on my experience with the HOBY Leadership program, groups larger than three don’t tend to work in these situations. (Have you
seen
Vegas Week on “American Idol?” The smaller groups
always
do better!) And these eventual-granola farmers number almost a dozen. But maybe a little gas on the flames will help crush this team for good and send them back to the Ultimate Frisbee Tournament from whence they came.

“Hey, guys,” I butt in. “Pretty big group. Are you all on one team, or…?”

“Yeah,” Rory says proudly. “We’re the
Grateful Ten
.”

“The Grateful Ten. Okay. So you’re like… also a band?”

“No, we’re not a band! Jeez! Why does everyone think we’re a band?”

“Sorry, it… sounds like a tribute band or something,” I offer, but Rory isn’t amused.

“Tribute bands are the lowest form of entertainment. We’re a co-op. A group of like-minded students from the local public school trying to make a positive impact on our community, our country, and our planet.”

“Right on,” I say (trying not to ooze too much sarcasm) and turn back to the This Old House booth, confident that dissension within the Grateful Ten is nigh.

“Ya know, Rors,” I hear one of the uber-crunchy girls say, “it’s
that
kind of attitude that makes people not want to be part of our group.”

“Good!” Rory says indignantly. “We can’t take newbies anyway. It’d ruin our numbers and force us to change our name.”

“Unless we kick someone out,” the dreadlock girl adds.

“What’s
that
supposed to mean? Like seriously, do you even want to
be
in this group? Gah!”

Before I can overhear the imminent demise of the Grateful Ten, the team in front of us finishes up, making Mac and I first in line at our booth.

“Hey,” a peppy Anna Kendrick-type chirps at us. “I’m Lauren Hodges. What’s your name?”

“James MacKenzie. And this is Robert Clinton, III.”

I have no idea why we’re giving such formal introductions, but I roll with it and give a polite nod.

“You guys wanna board up some windows with us? It’s
super
fun!”

“I’m
super
excited,” I say ironically.

“Me too!” Mac says, without the slightest bit of irony. “This is awesome!”

When he high fives Lauren, I know I’m in for a fabulous day.

§

“Robert, hand me that box of nails, would ya?” Mac hasn’t stopped smiling since we started working two hours ago. We’re in a decaying neighborhood across from a sad little strip mall that looks as if no one has shopped there since before anyone had heard of Kim Kardashian. (Oh, how I wish we
still
hadn’t heard of her!) We’ve been going from house to house boarding up windows, though I honestly think half these homes are unoccupied or abandoned. But who am I to question the wisdom of a booth organized by over-zealous teenage volunteers?

Instead of handing Mac the box of nails, I sit down on the porch steps and say, “We’ve been working pretty hard, Mac. Maybe we could take a little break?”

“Good idea,” he says. “A rested worker is a productive worker.”

When did he turn into Kenneth from
30 Rock
? It doesn’t matter. I’m just happy he stopped pounding away on those nails. We’ve hardly talked at all this morning except about the task at hand. I was hoping for more gossip or insight into his backstory. But so far it’s just been, “Can you hand me that hammer” or “Does this board look straight?”

I grab two cold bottles of water out of a nearby cooler and hand one to Mac. “Maybe,” I suggest, “we can talk about our proposal for the governor.”

“Yeah. Totally!” He grabs a seat on the stair above me, holding the perspiring water against his forehead and neck. “What were you thinking?”

“Well, I kind of thought with
my
engineering skills and aesthetic design sense, along with
your
nuts and bolts knowledge from working at your dad’s construction company—we could design a mockup of, like, low-income sustainable green housing? Sort of piggybacking on what Brad Pitt is doing in NOLA. From rooftop solar panels, to energy efficient appliances, the houses could replace storm-ravaged coastal homes or take the place of already dilapidated homes in the area. I mean, just witness these creaking eyesores from the 1940s, right?” I pinch a bit of peeling paint off one of the crumbling porch columns as evidence. “We’d not only make stronger, longer lasting structures that can literally weather the next storm, but homes that have a smaller impact on the environment and give their owners a sense of pride and importance. We could make something practical that’s
also
an architectural breakthrough.”

“Whoa,” Mac says, a little awestruck. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“A little,” I say modestly. “But just, you know, while we were working here this morning. The idea kind of… came to me. Do you like it?”

“
Like
it? It’s friggin’ awesome! We’re totally gonna win. Man! I knew it was a good call getting out of the car!”

I lock eyes with Mac, who sort of betrays his naiveté for a moment. As I suspected, his motives for volunteering were not completely selfless. But I don’t let him know that I’m ‘wise to his game.’ I just pretend like I didn’t hear that part.

“Cool. Glad you like it. Maybe we can sketch out some designs or…”

“Slackin’ on the job as usual, eh, Trip?”

I turn to see Emily Kim clacking down the sidewalk toward us. She’s wearing that ‘power shirt’ with the aggressive collar she wore like every single day at HOBY. (Did she have it dry cleaned at the hotel every night?) It’s her version of Tiger’s red shirt on Championship Sunday. (And yes I know that Tiger Woods wears red on Sunday! I haven’t been living under a rock the past seventeen years. Besides, as an African-American man, no matter what your political leanings, sport preferences, or taste in music, you are required to know the basics about Barack Obama, Tiger Woods, and Jay-Z. It’s like the Trinity for black boys growing up in America.)

“Hey, E.K. What’s the haps?” She hates being called E.K. almost as much as I hate being called Trip (as in ‘Triple,’ as in Robert Clinton the
third
).

“You know,” Emily says, “saving lives, making a difference. A day in the life.”

“Tell me about it,” I say wiping my brow dramatically. “This is like our fifth house of the day. We must have boarded up fifty windows by now.”

“Nice,” Emily says looking around aimlessly. “Rani and I boarded up about seventy-five. So we’re gonna bounce. Our services will be much more valuable at the levees, anyway. That’s where the
real
work needs to be done.”

“You sure it’s not because your little hands are too delicate for this work?”

“No, but thanks for your concern.”

“Wow,” Mac says, impressed. “You guys are going to the levees? Let us know how it goes!”

Emily turns to Mac, almost offended that he dared speak to her without being spoken to. “Um. Why?” she says flatly.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know…” Mac fumbles, thrown by Emily’s directness. “I just… hope it goes okay, ya know. Like, whatever needs to get done, uh… gets done? So there’s no flood or anything tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure, we’ll keep you posted. See ya ‘round, boys.”

“Yeah—back at the B&B.”

Emily stops. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” I say coyly, “Mac flagged Robert Gains down after his remarks this morning and he’s personally invited us to stay at his B&B, too. I know there’s a limited amount of space, but Mr. Gains assured us we’d have one of the ‘best rooms at the inn.’”

“Fantastic,” Emily spits out, barely hiding her contempt. “See you there.”

As she clacks away, the Indian girl who’s with her gives us a half-smile/half-wave, a gesture that’s equal parts courtesy and apology for her rude-ass friend.

Once the coast is clear, Mac asks, “Who is that scary Japanese chick?”

“First of all, she’s Korean-American. If you ever call her Japanese or Chinese or… Taiwanese, she’ll rip your freaking head off. Second of all. That. Is Emily Kim. My natural-born ‘frienemy.’”

I go on to tell Mac all about my time at HOBY—the four-day leadership program for promising sophomores around the country—and how Emily and I were placed in the same six-person mini-group and bonded about our tyrannical parents who made us the overachievers we are today. By the water cooler on a ten-minute break, she confessed that she hated her mom for being so hard on her but felt sorry for the losers in her school (and our mini-group) who had no direction or focus. We became instant friends. We both loved The Cure and fashion and bitching about stupid people. By the third day, however, our friendship turned competitive when we learned that just
one
student was going to be selected to give a speech on the final day. It wasn’t a real award or prize or anything. Just an honor. And something extra to put on the college application. But Emily and I still wanted it badly. And though we remained friendly for the rest of the weekend, there was an unspoken distrust. A fear that the other was one step ahead, one step closer to the success we both craved. And we coveted something neither of us had, yet viciously suspected the other was hiding: a leg up, an “in.”