Chapter 4
Auggie
“SO, I HAVE A FEW STORIES I’VE BEEN THINKING OF USING,” I SAY. “BUT I’m having a hard time picking between them.”
Mrs. Yun, my guidance counselor, leans forward, hands clasped on her desk.
“Is there one that you feel represents you more than the others? I think that’s important to consider when choosing a writing sample like this.
Which one will show the program who you are and what you would bring to their school, to their community? ”
I think over the three stories I’m trying to choose between.
“Winter’s Teeth” is about a man in New York who’s trying to make a living as a writer but ends up starving in his apartment when he can’t afford food. It happens in the winter, hence the title.
“Georgio” is about a man in New York who’s trying to make a living as a writer and finds a stray dog he names Georgio after the main character in his novel… which is also about a man living in New York and finding a dog. Georgio dies at the end and the writer is so sad that he loses his apartment.
“Nicotine” is about a man in New York who’s trying to make a living as a writer but he ends up developing an addiction to cigarettes that causes him to start smoking weed, which causes him to try meth once, and then he can’t find the motivation to be a writer anymore because of all the drugs, so he just becomes an accountant instead.
I’m thinking of not including “Nicotine” because my mom said it’s not super believable and sounds like I’m trashing both drug addicts and accountants, which wasn’t my intention.
“I don’t know. I guess they all kind of represent me.”
“What about the schools?” Mrs. Yun looks down at her notes. “Brown, Columbia, Emory, Carnegie Mellon, Northwestern. Which one has a program that you think best fits with your style of writing?”
“Um, probably Emory,” I say.
But to be frank, I have no idea what Emory’s creative writing program is like.
To be really frank, I googled “best creative writing bachelor’s degrees” and then narrowed my lists down from the ones that appeared on most lists.
Emory has the highest acceptance rate of my top five.
I know that’s kind of an irresponsible way to determine who I’m going to be giving a bazillion dollars to over the next four years, but I’ve never had a dream college or anything.
I just want to write. And I want to write with the best of the best. Or at least the people who everyone says are the best of the best.
“And of the stories you’re thinking of, which would fit best with Emory?”
My eyes dart around the room. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about Emory’s Creative Writing program.
“I’d say probably ‘Winter’s Teeth’ and ‘Georgio.’”
Mrs. Yun raises her eyebrows. “Ooh, ‘Georgio’ sounds fancy.”
“He’s a dog,” I say.
“And of the two?”
“I don’t really know.”
Mrs. Yun wheels her chair so she’s in front of her keyboard.
She looks over her glasses and types, then begins to read: “It is the writer’s privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The writer’s voice needs not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
” She rolls back over to me and pushes her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose.
“Faulkner. Right smack-dab on the front of the Emory Creative Writing program home page.”
“Hmm,” I say, nodding. I don’t know exactly what she’s trying to get at.
“‘Georgio.’ ‘Winter’s Teeth.’ Which one reminds man of courage and honor and hope? Which one lifts man’s heart? Which one helps him to endure? To prevail?”
“Um…” I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t really know if either of them does.”
“Do you think maybe you should write something new?” She rolls back over to the computer and types something in. “You still have about a month until the early decision deadline.”
“So, you think it has to be about hope and honor and stuff? I feel like a lot of my writing is a bit dark.”
“Darkness can still lead to hope, Augustine.”
“Yeah, I get that—”
“Have you met with Mr. Ashwood about your stories?” Mrs. Yun asks. “He may have a better idea of what these specific types of programs are looking for.”
Mr. Ashwood is our school’s Creative Writing teacher.
When he turned thirty, he had a flash fiction piece about a couple getting divorced published in The New Yorker, and he makes sure every person he meets knows this.
I don’t know how old he is now, but it’s a lot older than thirty.
We’ve never gotten along particularly well.
Freshman year, I took Creative Writing and decided not to edit my final portfolio according to his revision ideas, citing “creative liberties and artistic license,” which he couldn’t technically argue with.
Sophomore year, I was in his class running the school’s literary journal and unintentionally voted to accept every piece he vetoed and to veto every piece he adored.
Junior year, I went to one after-school Creative Writing Club that he led and then refused to go back after he spent fifteen minutes critiquing my description of New York City because it was “obvious I’d never been there. ”
“I haven’t,” I say.
“I’d encourage you to have a chat with him before you and I meet again,” she says.
“Okay,” I reply. “Will do.”
Will not.
“Here, I’ll shoot him an email and let him know you’re going to reach out.”
Will do, I guess.
While the goal is to avoid Janko until he somehow forgets that he set me up on what I’m sure will forever be the worst date of my life (hopefully), he sends a text that’s finally not about Mayte and the date, which is what causes me to give in.
The roads are slick enough that I have to drive exactly the speed limit on my way to his house, but not slick enough that I have to brake-pump.
It’s not cold enough to need a hat but cold enough that I wonder if movie theaters serve hot chocolate or coffee.
When I get to Janko’s, he answers the door in just black sweatpants. I am certain he has more muscle in his abs than I have in my entire body.
I go inside and sit at the kitchen table. “So, are you going to get ready to go?” I ask. “Or what time does it start?”
“What time does what start?” he asks. He grabs a handful of peanuts from a plastic bin on the counter and stuffs them in his mouth.
“Uh, the movie,” I say.
“It’s on Netflix.” He offers me the peanut bin and I wave him away.
“But it just came out last week. There’s no way it’s streaming already.”
“Oh…” Janko drags. “You’re talking about the new one.”
“Of course I’m talking about the new one,” I say. “Did you think I was talking about the old one? Ones? I don’t know how many there are.”
“I don’t know. You just said Fast & Furious and there’s a bunch, so I assumed you were talking about the first one since you didn’t specify.” He nods at the TV in the living room. The first Fast & Furious movie is, in fact, pulled up.
“I’m supposed to write a review of the new one for the paper. I’m already late since I was supposed to go see it last weekend but—” I cut myself off. Don’t bring up last weekend, stupid. Hold out as long as you can so you don’t have to tell him that you called a girl a hat prostitute.
Unless he already knows. Maybe that’s why he stopped asking about the date. Maybe Mayte already told Leo and then Leo told him. I know they’ve been talking a lot lately. He didn’t seem pissed at me, but maybe I missed the cues. Does he think I’m a bad person? Am I a bad person?
“That makes more sense. I kept thinking, Doesn’t Auggie hate action movies?”
“I do,” I say. Say more, say more. Shift the conversation. Move it along. Move it out of here. “They’re kinda boring.”
“Hey, speaking of last weekend.” He grabs another peanut handful and washes it down with an entire glass of milk. “You never told me how the date went.”
I try to avoid eye contact, but when I feel like the silence has gone on way too long, I look at him. He’s staring straight at me. Into my soul. He knows.
“Did Leo tell you?”
“Tell me what?” he asks.
He doesn’t know?
Before either of us can say anything else, there’s a knock on the door. Janko’s face brightens and he tosses more peanuts into his mouth. “Speak of the devil.”
He opens the door. In walks Leo. And Claire.
And Mayte.
“No,” I say.
“Why?” she says.
Nobody pays us any attention. The girls take their shoes and coats off at the door, except for Mayte who lingers for a moment, staring at me in the kitchen. Then she follows suit, doing everything she can to not look at me again.
She looks, unsurprisingly, drop-dead gorgeous, wearing a red turtleneck and a short black skirt paired with knee-high black boots that she’s pulled off to reveal purple fuzzy socks. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail with strands left out framing her face.
Good thing I know now that she’s as hostile as she is beautiful so I can make my brain cancel it all out.
Leo jumps up to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter and Claire sits at the table with me. Mayte stands next to Leo, eyes darting around as if she’s on a scavenger hunt to find anything in the room that is not me. She’s doing very well at it.
“So,” Janko says, standing in the middle of the room and throwing his hands out. “You may be wondering why we brought you all here.”
Leo giggles. Mayte and Claire exchange confused glances. Claire looks at me and I shrug. Mayte is staring at the ceiling.
“Firstly, because Auggie wanted to watch Fast & Furious,” Janko says.
“That’s already streaming?” Claire asks. “I thought it just came out.”
“See,” I mutter at Janko.
“There was some confusion, yes,” he says. “But secondly—” He looks at Leo and shoots finger guns at her.
“Because it’s time to merge these friend groups!” Leo shouts. She jumps off the counter and grabs Janko’s hand. “We’re dating!”