Teen Angst? Naaah ... (17 page)

I could have been angular, no question about it. I could have written for the school newspaper, been an active member of whatever literary clubs Stuyvesant had, or attended readings in the library.
But I never had time. I was doing far more important things:

At the beginning of my junior year, I was dragged along with eight hundred other juniors to the Stuyvesant theater, to hear our college advisor tell us how to get into college. I remember very little about the event because I was reading
Rising Sun
.
^*
But I do remember scrunching in my seat, jotting notes on the book's inside cover, and thinking, “Here you are, Ned. This is the last race. If you were in a sitcom, you'd be going all sappy and moralistic before the final laughs. You are finally, truly, going to get out of high school, and if you work hard enough and get into a Good College, you'll end up with a sweatshirt, a bumper sticker, and a fulfilling life.”

That evening, I approached Mom and Dad in the living room.

“Okay, guys,” I told them. “We need to talk about college.”

“Thank God,” Dad said. He was playing Tetris, and he didn't look up. “When are you leaving?”

“Jim!” Mom scolded. “What do we need to know, honey?”

I pulled out my comprehensive notes from the college meeting and read them off:

“That's all I have to do,” I added.

“Is this about money?” Dad asked. “How much money do you want?”

“Ignore him,” Mom told me. “Ned, as far as I can see, you have no problems. You'll take the SATs and do fine; you'll take the Achievements and do fine. And you can get teacher recommendations. What's an SSR?”

“Secondary School Recommendation. That's, like, a big departmental recommendation that they do for you.”

“Right! So you have everything covered! Do you want a tutor for the SATs?”

“Yeah.” I didn't want one, but I figured a tutor might motivate me for this whole muddy deal.

Dad actually paused Tetris and looked up. “Why are you going through this charade of applying to different schools?” he asked. “Don't you only want to go to Harvard?”

“Uh …” I didn't like it that Dad knew me so well.

“Oh yes, I know. I was once like you. You have to go to the
best
school, don't you?”

“Jim!” Mom exclaimed. “Leave him alone! Harvard is
not
‘the best school,' for goodness' sake.”

“You want that grand intellectual—what do they call it?—bitch slap, don't you, Ned? You want to prove that you're smarter than not just 90, not just 99, but
99.9
percent of your generation.”

“I guess.” He had me there.

“Well, then.” Dad returned to Tetris. “Apply to Harvard. You apply, you get in, and it's all settled. You don't need a tutor. I took the GREs cold and got eight hundred on the math part. And that was before all this grade-curving.”

That winter the mail started coming. University of Oklahoma, Pitzer, Albany … brochures, postcards, “inside looks,” newspaper clippings, excerpts from
U.S. News & World Report
 … papers from schools clogged our apartment every day. That's not to mention the secondary mail: letters from test-prep centers, scholarship search services, tutors, seminars, and “college agents” who would handle the whole process for me as if it were taxes.

That spring, I had my first meeting with my personal college advisor, Dr. Arnold. Stuyvesant gave every student an advisor to ease us through the
college process. Dr. Arnold was tall, bearded, kind-hearted, and quiet.

“Well, Ned,” he said as I sat in his office after class. He put his index fingers together and wiggled them under his nose, like the Grinch. “Where would you like to go to school?”

There was a prevailing notion in American high schools at the time that students must apply to seven colleges: two “dream schools” (the ones you want to go to), three “middle-of-the-road schools” (the ones you wouldn't mind going to), and two “safety schools” (at least you're going to college). The idea of applying to just a couple of schools you're interested in was long dead. It's easy to understand why. With the seven-school system, the colleges received thousands of dollars more in application fees. And the high schools could maneuver even the least promising kids into safety schools, boasting a higher percentage of students who “move to pursue their education.”

I gave him my list, with Harvard at the top.

“Okay,” Dr. Arnold nodded, taking notes. “What have you done that you would like me to mention in your SSR?”

I began to list my accomplishments and found them lacking. Dr. Arnold wasn't fazed. “I'll emphasize the things that will help you and ignore the
things that won't,” he said, dismissing me from his office. “Just worry about the SATs—and see if you can do something over the summer.”

Right, the SATs.
^*
On May 15, I took them, which brings me to the final demon of the application process: the College Board. See, the SATs, Achievements, and whatnot are created and administered by a private organization that makes gobs of money off the misery of high school students. The College Board schedules the tests, tells you where to take them, and proceeds to charge fees. First, you pay a fee for taking the exams. Then you pay a fee if you register “late” for the exams (late being an abstract period determined by the College Board). Once you've taken your tests, you pay a fee for sending your scores to the appropriate colleges, and, of course, if you send these “late,” you pay an additional “rush” fee. Want to change your test date? Fee. Cancel your scores? Fee. I'd say the College Board sucked three hundred dollars out of my family. I'm waiting for the IPO.

In June, I resolved to clear up all my college stuff: fill out the forms, register for the tests, apply for scholarships. None of that happened, though. I was too busy playing dominoes in the street and inhaling noxious fumes as an apprentice housepainter. The
only thing I did do was buy the Princeton Review's
Best 311 Colleges
, which informed me that Harvard was really, really hard to get into. By then, it was time to go back to school.

Now, as I was beginning senior year, I had one important decision to make. Should I apply early? Early admission allows a student to commit to a “dream school” and avoid the hassle of applying elsewhere. Here's how it works: in November of your senior year, you apply to your favorite college. The admissions office reviews your application quickly, handing down its decision within a month. The school does one of three things: accepts you, in which case you're legally obligated to attend; rejects you; or defers you, putting off the question of your admission until the following April.

I wanted to apply early to Harvard. I didn't even want to go there anymore—when I visited the school I saw too many eyebrow rings and not enough human activity. But, oh man, I wanted to get in. I wanted that grand intellectual bitch slap, like Dad said. Besides, Harvard had a special clause: I could refuse the school even after getting in early. That's what I
really
wanted.

I filled out the Harvard forms the night before they were due. There were two parts, inspiringly titled Part I and Part II. Part I was basic information:
age, gender, intended major—it was easy to complete. Part II, however, requested an essay and more detailed personal information—it was a killer. Part II had a whole page for extracurricular activities, which I was hard-pressed to fill, and at the bottom of the page it suggested: “If you have participated in other activities that you would like us to know about, feel free to attach another sheet.” Right.

By 6:00
A.M
. I'd written in two different-colored pens and smudged Whiteout everywhere, but I'd finished the form. I showed it to Mom. She had a fit.

“You
cannot
send this to
Harvard!
” We were in the kitchen, huddled over the application as if it were an eviction notice. “Ned, it looks like it was written on a moving train!”

“I know, sorry.”

“And you didn't even mention church! How could you not say that you were
president
of your
church youth group?
”

“Mom, that was in
eighth grade!
”

“Oh, they don't care. Gimme that Whiteout.” Within an hour, Mom had completely redone the application. There were now
two
kinds of handwriting on it, in
three
different colors of ink, and, apparently, I was a volunteer in the Parks Department and a student coordinator for Meals on Wheels.
^*

“There,” she summed up, “
that's
how you fill out an application.”

I mailed it on my way to school.

Two weeks later, I got a letter.

I showed the letter to Mom, and she delivered her usual words of encouragement, “My goodness, Ned, we've really done it this time, huh? We sent in an application that looked like the handiwork of a six-year-old,
and
we forgot to include the check. Harvard won't even
look
at you.”

But they did. Two weeks later, I had the interview.

It was an utter disaster. I showed up an hour late because I thought it was on Thirty-fourth Street
instead of Forty-fourth.
^*
My interviewers, two young women named Suzie and Ann, sat me down in a plush room, introduced themselves as Harvard grads, and grilled me gently for an hour. Mostly, we talked about stocks, but near the end of the interview, I made the grave error of pulling out the
Uncle Tumba
comic.

Uncle Tumba
, my foray into self-publishing, was a comic book about an elderly vagrant from ancient Tibet who roamed the countryside seeking adventure. I had started it with a friend, Adam, and we'd sold nearly two hundred copies at our school.

“Cool, I love comics!” Suzie said, when I told her about it. “May I see?”
^**

I handed over issue number one. She began to read it. Her face immediately clouded.

“There are curses in here.”

“Well, yeah,” I explained. “I could always tone down the cursing, though. In future issues.”

“Can we keep copies?” Ann asked.

“Sure,” I said. “One dollar each.”

Suzie and Ann gaped at me. “You're going to charge us?”

“Well, uh, I wouldn't want it to seem like I was trying to bribe my way into Harvard!” It was a lame
joke, but there was no way I was giving away those issues for free. I needed the money for orange Hostess cupcakes on the way home.

From that moment on, the college process moved pretty quickly. In December, Harvard deferred me. I applied to my other schools—with a bit more care—in January. The final tally came in April: rejected by Harvard and Yale, accepted everywhere else.

There must have been a moment where I kissed the big schools good-bye—a split second spent watching late-night television, instead of studying, that pushed me into rejection territory. Who knows when it was? I'd like to think I spent it doing something fun.