I never thought I’d say this, but I wish I could hang out with Maurice tonight. Instead, I’m hiding in my dad’s car at the back of the church parking lot, contemplating my chances of skipping the essay workshop and getting away with it.
The evening sun casts a golden glow over the church campus, stretching long shadows across the grass and the gravel parking lot.
Yasmin’s car is in the closest spot not reserved for accessible parking. She probably got here first, likely fifteen minutes early so that she could help set up. And she probably did it just because, not to get a leg up in front of administrators for the church scholarships. She can be nice like that… just not to me anymore.
I glance at the clock. Five minutes until the workshop starts.
At the beginning of camp, Yasmin and I often found excuses to be paired together for group activities. One afternoon, we decided to gather the little kids for a game of capture the flag in hopes they’d go right to sleep at bedtime. A couple other counselors brought their groups and we divided into girls versus boys. Yasmin and I led the girls while Jameson and another guy counselor were in charge of the boys.
I remember the way Yasmin threw her arms around me in a sweaty hug when we won, and the way Jameson’s eyes lit up when he smiled at me.
“You only won because you were sneaky,” Jameson accused us later when we were catching our breath on the steps to the mess hall, enjoying a secret stash of Italian ice just for counselors.
“Sneaky or just smarter than you?” Yasmin laughed, nudging him with her shoulder.
“Andyou,” Jameson said, turning his attention to me. We locked eyes, and whatever had been building behind his tone faded for a moment. His smile softened, and I wondered if maybe he did see me as more than just a friend, after all these years. “The way you just snatched the flag and took off? I thought you said you aren’t athletic.”
“I’m not,” I said, blushing a little. “But I can whip out a sprint when necessary.”
Jameson shook his head, still smiling, his eyes glistening like honey in the afternoon sun. I glanced away.
Hannah and I had already had our first kiss by then. I wasn’t interested in Jameson the way I used to be. His comment made me think about Hannah, how I wished she could’ve seen me sprint across the field with the flag. She was leading a yoga class for some of the older campers.
Now, she’s at home, doing her homework and probably waiting for me to text with an ETA for our FaceTime tonight. Honestly, the thought of our nightly chat makes my stomach twist.
Ever since our fight about Rowena, I’ve been wondering ifour relationship is worth the trouble I put us through. Is it more work than a relationship should be?
She made a fair point, that being in a relationship and not being allowed to talk toanyoneabout it is hard, maybe even unrealistic. I thought keeping us apart was unfair, but what if being together like this is equally so?
As I head inside, I see volunteers and students mingling, gathering snacks, paper, and pens before finding their seats. I scan the room for an open table, hopefully toward the back where I can fold myself into a corner. But my eyes land on Jameson and Yasmin sitting together near the front. They’re bent toward each other in conversation. Yasmin’s back is to me and all I can read between them is the smile that spreads across Jameson’s face at whatever she said, followed by a quiet laugh. I know that laugh. It’s conspiratorial, a laugh that makes you feel like you’re funny like a stand-up comedian and wraps you in the warm intimacy of sharing an inside joke. I used to be on the inside.
Jameson’s eyes meet mine. The way his attention stops me cold makes me realize I’ve already started across the room toward them, as if muscle memory was guiding me to my usual seat next to Yasmin. But then Yasmin turns around to see what stopped Jameson’s laugh, only to find me. She utters a mix between a groan and a huff before turning back around. I guess ignoring me is better than one of her snide rejections.
I scramble to find an empty seat far away from them, but as I look around the room, I notice a few other seniors who went to Camp Refuge. Breathless, I take the first seat I can get to, onethat’s unfortunately close to Jameson and Yasmin’s table.
They know my secret.I was dreading seeing my old friends so much I didn’t even consider that there would be other people here from camp. At least I’m at a table with two other kids I don’t know.
Everyone quiets down when the workshop leader steps to the front of the room.
“Welcome to the College Essay Workshop. My name is Ms. Kiesha. I’m a high school guidance counselor and this is my fifth year leading the essay-writing workshop. I and my lovely team of volunteers are here to help you.
“I know the college application process might seem daunting, but trust me, you’re more prepared for this than you think.” She pauses, taking the time to lock eyes around the room, sharing a kind smile. “Writing a compelling essay means telling a story about yourself in a way that will show admissions who you are beyond your grades and your test scores.”
Ms. Kiesha goes on about the components of a compelling essay and writes this year’s Common App prompt on the board:What’s a meaningful experience that has shaped you?
I sink into my seat, noticing Yasmin shift in hers. She leans back with her legs crossed, at ease. She probably doesn’t even need to be here. I bet she already has a draft of her essay, either in her purse or memorized. She’s going to write smooth, easy, and engaging sentences about her involvement in the Boys & Girls Club, or about the summer she spent in Ecuador at a young environmentalists’ program saving trees.
“But what’s most important is to remain authentic.” Ms. Kiesha’s words cut through my thoughts. That word, “authentic,” is the cousin of “honest” and “genuine.” All the things I’m not, especially right now, sitting here in church. “Genuine essays stand out because they have a real voice behind them.”
How am I supposed to be genuine when there are peoplein this roomwho have already decided they don’t want to know the real me?
“… and it’s not just about the struggle,” Ms. Kiesha continues. “It’s about how you’ve responded to it. Resilience, determination, empathy—these are qualities that admissions committees look for.”
I catch movement underneath Jameson and Yasmin’s table. Their ankles are tangled together, Yasmin stroking his calf in the smallest motion.
My breath hitches.Are they together?Jameson doesn’t react. He doesn’t necessarily reciprocate, but the fact that he’s not surprised means the gesture is normal…
Why do I care?I’m in a relationship. Jameson isn’t mine. He technically was never mine.