Auggie
I CRACK MY KNUCKLES. SET MY HANDS ON THE KEYBOARD. TAKE A breath. Begin typing.
“I said you’re not supposed to be here. Didn’t you see the signs?” the lifeguard exclaimed, getting in Mayte’s face.
But Mayte looked beyond him. It was a shark.
She knew it was a shark. Everyone was screaming about sharks, but maybe it didn’t have to be.
She saw the flip of the fin as it took the boat down with it.
Maybe it was Aida. Maybe it had to be Aida.
Because how could she live with herself knowing that it wasn’t, that her sister was gone.
It was Aida.
And that was enough for her to take another step forward.
I lean back in my chair and shake my hands out. Then, knowing that I will eventually delete it, but also wanting to bathe in my own pride, I type out the words:
The End.
I sigh. I’m proud of it. I’m so unbelievably proud of this story and I don’t remember the last time I’ve felt this way about something I’ve finished. Maybe as a seven-year-old finishing his first “book” on stapled printer paper with crayon-scrawled illustrations.
I’m so glad I talked to Mr. Ashwood about my story, even though I know he still hates me and even though I still don’t like him much either.
I actually understand what that whole “courage and honor and hope” quote on the Emory website was talking about now that I have something here that represents it.
I’m so glad I wrote something new. I’m so glad I met Mayte.
I’m glad I met Mayte because she inspired this story, but I’m also just glad she’s my friend.
And after talking with Janko last weekend, I’m realizing I do have a shot at being more than friends with her.
As horrified as I am to take it, part of me is kind of looking forward to how it could turn out.
To telling her how I feel about her. To maybe kissing her, and not just because our friends told us to—because we want to.
To maybe dating one of the most incredible girls I’ve ever known.
And, like, who knows what the future could look like after that?
I know I’m only seventeen and I know I’m getting ahead of myself before she’s even confirmed that she likes me, too, but I feel like every time I imagined my future before Mayte, it was me, alone, with books, and thunder outside, and now I’m fantasizing about this future with Mayte and books, and in it we’re both laughing.
In it we’re wide-mouthed and talking, we’re moving forward, and we’re not hiding anything from each other.
I look up at my computer screen and feel a lump settle in my throat.
Obviously, I’m not going to hide the story from her forever.
That’s not the point of having written it.
Not the whole point, anyway. It has a dual purpose, which I’m pretty sure is the point of all professional writing, right?
We write to make a living and we write to change the world.
I wrote this story to help Mayte process her grief and I wrote this story to get into college.
The point is, eventually I’ll let her read it, so it’s not really hiding anything from her.
It’s more like just waiting for the right time.
I give myself a couple of slaps on my cheeks.
This is not the time to get all worked up.
I can and probably will do that later tonight.
Now is the time for celebration and relief and realizing that not only do I have a chance to end up with the girl of my dreams, but I also have a chance to get into the college of my dreams. Or at least some college where the great writers go, which basically means it’s my dream.
I throw open my bedroom door and fly down the stairs, sliding onto the kitchen floor in my socks. “Your boy’s going to college!” I announce.
“I thought applications weren’t even due yet,” Dad says from the living room.
I jump on the couch, stretching my legs out onto Kate’s lap.
“Okay, so I’m technically not accepted or anything.
Well, I technically haven’t sent any applications in, either, but I did finish my story for the Creative Writing programs, and not to pat myself on the back or anything, but I’m feeling kind of great about it. ”
Kate shoves my legs off her. “What do you want us to do about it?”
I put my legs back. “Not be a jerk.”
“Great job, buddy,” Dad says, walking over and rustling my hair. “I can’t wait to read it.”
I gulp audibly and Kate stares at me.
“This isn’t the New York one, is it?” Mom asks.
“Which one?” I ask.
“There’s a dog and—”
“No,” I say. “This is… um… this is something different.”
“What’s it about?” Dad asks.
“Nothing,” I say, and Kate’s eyebrows raise.
“Wow, a story about nothing. That sounds thrilling,” she says.
“It’s not about nothing,” I say. “It’s just… I don’t know. Kind of hard to completely explain without reading it and—”
“Then just read it,” Kate says.
“No!” I yell.
“What the hell, Auggie? Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not,” I say.
“Why are you gonna come downstairs going off about how great your story is and then just not tell us anything about it? You hiding something? Is it about something weird?” She lowers her voice so only I can hear. “Are you writing Fifty Shades stuff?”
“Shut up!” I yell, hitting her with a pillow.
“Daddy, he hit me!” Kate calls.
I groan and get off the couch, making my way to the kitchen table instead. I put my elbows on the table and rest my chin in my hands. “What are you making?” I ask Mom.
“This soup Mayte sent me a recipe for. It’s a thing from her Colombian side of the family. It’s sanch… san… something. Let me unlock my phone to look again.” She wipes her hands on a towel and grabs her phone.
“What do you mean sent to you?” I ask. “Are you texting her?”
“Email. I’m not that embarrassing, Augustine.” She holds her phone up and smiles. “Oh, sancocho!” she says, with a pronunciation that seems mostly right with the spelling, but also so, so white coming from my mother’s mouth.
“Why are you doing this?” I put my face on the table.
“She offered!” Mom says, stirring the pot on the stove. “She said it’s a go-to dish for her abuelita but she hasn’t had it in a while. So I thought I’d learn to make it since she’s been coming around a lot more lately.”
I can’t help but smile at that.
“You’re so weird,” I say, but I stand up and wrap my arms around her, kissing her cheek. I hope she can translate my snark into the gratefulness I feel.
The sancocho is incredible and I think about what Mayte would think if she knew what my mom had done, and I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to taste her abuelita’s version.
It’s been awesome to have Mayte spending so much time at my house, and I know she probably needs a break from being in her own house, since I’m sure her family is very sad.
But I also know how much she loves them, how close she seems to be to them, and I’d like to meet her family too.
To know more about the bizarre but very sweet relationship she has with her abuelita. What her parents are like.
I talk with Mom and Dad a bit about college apps, and they try to have the FAFSA conversation again, which ends up failing because we can’t remember the username and password again.
Once I’ve helped Dad clear the table, I grab my phone and head up to my room. There are two messages from Mayte.
MAYTE: Wait for me after school tomorrow. Also can you bring these things and I’ll pay you back:
The second message reads:
—Starburst (but only bring the yellow and pink ones)
—Skittles (but only bring the red and orange ones)
—Chocolate lip balm (makeup aisle)
Feel free to eat the other colors out of the packs.
Weird but okay.
I text her back a Will do and then spend way too long on the staircase trying to figure out if I should also text her about Mom and the sancocho or wait to tell her in person. When I walk into my bedroom, I see Kate sitting in front of my computer.
With the screen lit.
And the story up.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell at her.
She whips around and looks at me with her jaw dropped. “I can’t believe you.”
“Get away from there,” I say, pushing the chair from my desk, hitting Save on the document, and closing out of it. “That’s a total invasion of privacy, Kate!”
“You’re writing about her?” Kate asks. “I thought you said it was a short story. As in fiction.”
“It is fiction,” I say. “And I’m not writing about her. Not exactly.”
“Then why is the main character a girl named Mayte whose sister dies unexpectedly?”
“I… I’m going to change her name.”
Kate stands up with her hands on her hips. “Does she know you’re doing this?” I don’t say anything, and Kate’s jaw drops again. “Auggie, that’s such a shitty thing to do.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “It’s not like I’m saying anything bad about her.
It’s… it’s about how strong she is and how incredible she is and how she’s…
or not really she but the character that’s kind of based on her…
is going to make it through the grief and be okay and how the darkness doesn’t always stay forever and—”
“And that’s not your story,” Kate says. “That’s hers.”
“It’s fiction. I can write fiction about whatever I want. I’m the one who makes it up.”
“But you didn’t make this up, Auggie. This is someone’s real life. Someone’s real trauma. And you’re turning it into a little story.”
“Art is healing. Stories are healing. It’s not just a little story.”
“So that’s why she doesn’t know about it?” she asks. “Hmm? If you’ve written this to help her heal, you’re going to show it to her, right?”
I sit on the edge of my bed. “I mean, eventually.”
“When?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. After I get into college with it or probably after we graduate.”
“You are so selfish,” she says.
“Shut up, Kate,” I say.
Kate looks at the floor. “You’re my brother, so of course I’m going to bust your ass and think you’re annoying, but I never ever thought you were selfish.”
We’re silent.
“I heard what Janko said the other night,” Kate says quietly, still not looking at me. “About Mayte having feelings for you.”
I don’t say anything. I stare at the floor, too, and after it’s far too quiet, I look back up and she’s looking at me.
“You’re about to fuck up something amazing.”