“So, is there a girl in your life?” Christine asked.
“Well, not really. There is a girl in school I like, and I have liked her for years, but she’s out of my league,” I said.
“Out of your league? Is she on the Yankees? Are you on the Mets? Just ask her out or ask someone else,” Christine said.
“You need a date?” I asked.
“No, but you do,” she smirked.
We ate for a while and then I paid the bill for both of us. She smiled and said, “I thought we weren’t dating.”
“Don’t consider it a date; consider it a loan.” We both giggled. Christine loved to flirt.
At home, my father asked where I had been. I told him I ate sushi. He lectured me about getting sick eating raw fish. I told him that Japanese people don’t get sick eating sushi. My father reminded me that I wasn’t Japanese. “Certain things are built up for generations.”
I studied for six hours that night, and felt I made progress on the verbal part of the SATs.
At school, I needed to talk to Mr. Zoose about Mike the Manager’s comments. Mr. Zoose confirmed that in Europe they do a lot of things differently. “The SAT’s are a big deal, but they are not an indication of how much money you will make or how happy you will be or if you will be a good person. Not everyone fails in life, and not everyone succeeds in life,” he said. “Most people settle in the middle. The middle can be pretty good. And you are only at a disadvantage if you see yourself that way.”
I really didn’t want to be in the middle. “Do you think the SAT’s are easier for people from educated families?”
“There are students whose parents are professors, but if they don’t study for the SAT’s then they won’t do well. If their parents were taking the tests for them, they would be at an advantage,” he said. “Besides, if you go into a field that you are really good at and passionate about, you will be the cream of the crop, in that field.”
“I am not really sure of what to major in, or what career path I want to take, or anything. I just tell people I’m going to study business because I don’t want to seem indecisive,” I confessed to Mr. Zoose.
“Many kids are in your shoes. Until you try something out, you may never know if it’s for you. I once had a job for an airline. I quit after two months, realizing it was not for me. Since you don’t know what direction you want to take, do this instead. Write down how you want your life to be in twenty years, and then figure out how to get there. Call it a Life Map.” I thought it was a good idea.
“By the way, please do the school play. I wrote it myself.” He was pleading with me.
“I won’t do
Ave Maria
.”
“You have the right voice for it, and you are the best guitar player I have ever seen at this school.”
“I’ll do another song,” I tried to compromise.
“I only need you for
Ave Maria
,” Mr. Zoose said.
“No deal.” Mr. Zoose smiled. As I was walking out, I bumped into his desk, causing the apple to roll off. I picked it up before it could hit the floor and placed it perfectly in its previous position.
Throughout the school, even at lunch, everyone was studying for the SATs. Test prep books were everywhere. In New York City, you know it is SAT season when kids are studying the prep books on the subways.
The anticipation of the test is worse than the test itself. So much rides on one test; so much of the future is influenced by the scores of the SATs. If I did well, I’d get into the college of my choice. College could determine my future career opportunities, not to mention the impact on my personal growth because it would determine the people I would meet in college.
Sam wasn’t worried about the SAT. He was taking a private study course in the city and was acing his practice tests. This is one of the benefits of having a father who was a doctor. But he had a different philosophy as to why he would do well.
“Don’t forget I went to school in England before I came here. The British education system is way more advanced than the American system. Any junior high school student in England could take the SATs and do well. And before that I went to school in Iran, and their schools were much more difficult than Stanton or any other American high school.”
Once Sam started bashing the American education system, he would bash the rest of America as well. He felt crime in America was too high. “People in Europe and other countries are much more civilized than people in America.”
He remarked, “I’ll never buy an American car when I’m older. The Americans can’t make cars the way the Germans or the Japanese can.” Sam slammed the subway system. “In London, the metros are so clean, with no graffiti. And the people are much more civilized than the animals that ride the New York subways.” I was sick of listening to Sam.
It was hard to argue about the subways. The F-Train was covered in garbage and graffiti. There were panhandlers and the omnipresent smell of urine. He definitely was right about the trains. Sam frequently complained that Americans were deliberately trying to ruin tea. “The rest of the world actually brews tea leaves. You guys stick a tea bag in hot water and call it tea.” I told him that he should move to another country.
Sam complained just to complain, like a grumpy old man. He complained about Israel, but complained equally about the Palestinians and Arabic nations. Overall, I did not think of Sam as a bad person. He was adjusting to a new country and his goal was to return to Europe after college.
I fully understood why people who didn’t know him strongly disliked him. Sam was hard to take and hard to listen to if you were the type of person that believed what you heard. But half the time he was smiling when he spewed his venom. Sam looked different from American kids. He had short curly hair, tanned skin, and his bushy eyebrows nearly connected in the middle. He had a large nose, and was often mistaken for being an Arab or an Israeli. This would really light his fire. He wore sweater vests and Oxford shirts, not to mention penny loafers. No one in high school – anywhere, with the exception of the suburbs of London, dressed like Sam.
He busted my chops about my proposed career of entering into business. He’d say, “Business, what business? Are you going to sell Coca Cola, Pepsi, or McDonalds? Because that is all this country is going to be left with one day.”
Then he’d go on about how America doesn’t manufacture anything anymore that anyone wants to buy, except Levis jeans.
Sam’s college essay was going to be centered on his sister’s death, and how this motivated him to want to treat cancer patients. Sam said colleges loved this sappy stuff, but I knew that he really meant it. His grades were the most important thing in the world to him. Sam often said that a student who doesn’t do well in school is like a person who goes to a job and performs poorly. “Like a doctor killing patients,” he would say.
Carlos and Sam had a symbiotic relationship. Sam needed Carlos to do the things that Sam couldn’t risk doing. Carlos always agreed with Sam’s suggestions. Carlos was banking on Sam becoming a rich doctor some day. Sam frequently said to Carlos (whenever Sam needed money) that “one day I’ll be a rich doctor and pay you back.” John and I often just laughed.
Carlos was an unusual character. He lived in Jamaica, Queens, and in a very tough neighborhood. His mother was Hispanic, and his father looked Indian or Pakistani. As a result, Carlos looked like a gypsy cab driver. He rarely spoke of his father. He dressed poor, and spoke with a strong Queens accent. I once asked him how a Hispanic woman came to marry a South Asian and he replied, “someone needed a green card.”
I asked Carlos if he had fired the gunshot on Halloween. He said that his gun didn’t have bullets. “What were you going to do with a gun without bullets?” I asked him.
“You were plenty nervous when all you knew was that I had a gun. Besides, the gun cost $50. Sam made $150 from collecting money from the other students. He spent the other hundred on himself. For a guy likely to be valedictorian…he didn’t have the brains to save a little money for bullets.”
We both laughed. “Academic smarts is not street smarts,” said Carlos. I agreed.
“Besides, this is a girl’s gun. It’s got jewels on the handle. He couldn’t even buy a masculine gun.” Carlos laughed again.
A college fair had been organized at the school gym. Everyone was attending, except John. He remarked he was too smart for a college fair, that it was for kids who needed a sales pitch. I knew John wanted to go, but had to work at his family’s store. I agreed to bring back some brochures for him.
“And posters of the schools,” John reminded me. “Something I can daydream about.”
At the college fair, Harvard had the center table. Harvard admitted two kids from Stanton every year. That was their limit, and their tradition. Harvard was the goal for Stanton kids; everything else was second place or worse. Harvard would definitely admit the valedictorian. The second admission was up in the air. It was a big deal, not because Harvard was the best, but for bragging rights.
It’s an understatement to say that Sam really, really, wanted get into Harvard. It would have guaranteed him admission to a top medical school. If Sam was accepted to Harvard, he’d be keeping pace with his older brother, who was already pre-med at Harvard. Intelligence ran in the family, as did the lack of it.
I asked the Harvard representative about the cost of the application fee. I couldn’t afford it, so I didn’t bother asking about admission requirements. The rest of the day felt like the wind had been taken out of my sails. It would have been nice just to apply to Harvard, and have delusions of grandeur that I might be miraculously accepted.
Delancey was speaking to reps from small private colleges located in towns hard to find on a map. The reps from these small private colleges all looked like Delancey, all spoke with the same flare, with the same expressions. From a distance, Delancey looked like she belonged to the colleges, not to our high school. When I asked her if she was interested in Harvard, she laughed, covering her mouth to avoid a loud guffaw.
“Harvard is not for me. I just wouldn’t be happy there. My father has been pushing me to apply; he has contacts that can get me in Harvard for sure. But there is no way I would feel comfortable in that kind of an environment. I’m looking for a liberal arts school where I can fit in.” I guess Harvard was not the goal for everyone.
All Sam could talk about was getting into Harvard. Sam was really juiced up from meeting the Harvard rep.
“If you are, in fact, the valedictorian this year, then you are definitely going to Harvard. Stanton will know who the valedictorian is going to be by the end of June,” I said sarcastically.
“And what if I’m not? Then it’s up in the air and I can’t take that chance,” Sam whined. Carlos sat listening, not contributing much to the conversation.
“Well, who else from Stanton has what it takes to get into Harvard?” asked John.
We were all silent.
“There’s always Doreen,” I blurted out the first name that came into mind. John agreed. If anyone could get into Harvard, it would be Doreen.
“Does anyone know Doreen?” Sam asked.
“She’s chief editor of the school paper,” I said.
Doreen was a five foot little powder keg, and a super over achievers, even by Stanton standards. She had been junior class president, and on the debate team as well. She was one of the best debaters in the state. But that year, she was also editor in chief of the school paper and had very high grades. She had also spoken with the Harvard rep at the college fair.
Sam became intrigued with the idea of meeting Doreen. I suggested that he stop by the school newspaper office. It was a foolish mistake that I would come to regret.
After school, Sam, with Carlos in tow, came to the office and I introduced him to Doreen. He talked to her about the school paper, and mentioned how he had always seen her around school. What a load of horse manure. Sam seemed friendly and downright cordial toward Doreen. It was an act to anyone familiar with Sam’s maleficent personality.
Doreen was not gregarious at first, but toned down her usual abrasive personality. Sam complimented her on her clothes and on her looks. The color on her face changed, as did her gait. She was clearly warming up to him. I was completely in shock when, three minutes later, Sam asked her out on a date. First and foremost, Doreen was not exactly attractive, and second, she was definitely not Sam’s type. It was not that Doreen was especially unattractive; she just did not put any effort into her appearance. I suppose if she had put a little effort into make up and hair, and wore nice clothes, she would be quite pretty. Also it would help if she showered before school once in a while. I think the word is unkempt, but I’m probably being kind.
Sam was up to something. Doreen was a smart girl, and I thought she could fend for herself. She and Sam were both ranked next to each other in the top ten of all Stanton students.
It was well after five o’clock, and I headed for the subway, passing the psychic outside her store front. She asked me if I needed a free palm reading. She wore a tight black dress, which placed her chubby hips and breasts on display. She was quite the marketing executive; her outfit was clearly designed to market her services. She didn’t lack clients; after all, this was Brooklyn, home of the desperate.
My friendly neighborhood psychic again offered her services. Once again I declined and kept walking. She flashed her sexy smile and asked if I needed anything else, “other than a psychic.” I kept walking.