Elliot Allagash

by Simon Rich

  “I laughed.

  “‘For nothing? Good God, man, have some perspective! There are more important games in this world than chess.’”

  • • •

  “Yes, I know, I’ve heard it a million times. Protein diet. Very clever.”

  “You don’t like that story?”

  “What’s impressive about it?” Elliot said. “It’s vulgar on almost every possible level.”

  It was the day of the election. James had picked me up on the way to school so we could discuss my speech—which Elliot still hadn’t told me anything about.

  “There’s a rumor that Ashley has some kind of surprise for the end of her speech,” I said. “What do you think it is?”

  “Don’t worry about her speech,” Elliot said. “Just focus on memorizing your own.”

  He handed me a small slip of paper. There couldn’t have been more than fifty words typed on it.

  “What’s this? At the end?”

  “It’s a chant,” Elliot said. “Just repeat it over and over again, and everyone will join in.”

  “Are you sure that’ll work?”

  Elliot nodded.

  “Chanting is the most effective tool for controlling the masses. Along with propaganda.”

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  He handed me a Glendale hat, emblazoned with a lion, the school’s official mascot.

  “When you’re called up to the podium, put this on,” he said. “But don’t put it on until you’re about to start chanting.”

  The limo pulled up to the school.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  Elliot nodded.

  “That’s it.”

  • • •

  Elliot had vowed to “eliminate Ashley,” but on the morning of the election, she was still very much in the race. The hallways were lined with her tidy yellow flyers, touting her “Effort, Energy, and Efficiency.” She had handed out buttons a few days before the election, and when I shuffled into the auditorium I noticed that a few kids were wearing them.

  “I could easily get her disqualified before the race,” Elliot had explained. “But winning by forfeit is exactly the same as losing. A victory has no meaning unless you’ve defeated someone, and defeated them harshly.”

  I understood his logic. But I still didn’t see how I could defeat Ashley, no matter how well written Elliot’s speech was.

  My confidence waned even more when her name was called and she marched to the podium looking cautiously confident in a grown-up pantsuit. Her speech was loaded with facts and statistics and all sorts of big words. She was trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible and it made her French braid swing behind her, like a pendulum.

  “If we increase the number of bake sales by twenty percent,” she said, “and reallocate our funds, we could vastly increase the number of recreational events.”

  Most of her speech was hard for me to follow, since I knew nothing about student government. But my ears perked up when she got to the end.

  “There’s a rumor going around that I’ve planned a surprise for you all today. That rumor is true! In past years, lots of candidates have promised you a scoreboard. I always thought this was a really fun idea, and I’m super excited to announce that with the help of Mr. Hendricks and the generosity of Shamba Electronics, I was able to get us one!”

  A bald electrician in a green jumpsuit walked through the side door.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he whispered from the edge of the stage.

  “It’s okay,” Ashley said. “You made it just in time.”

  Ashley had been checking her watch repeatedly throughout the speech. I had assumed it was to make sure she didn’t exceed the five-minute time limit. Really, though, she had been waiting for her scoreboard to arrive. I couldn’t help but feel betrayed. I didn’t care if Mr. Hendricks was rooting for Ashley, but he didn’t have to help her find a scoreboard.

  The electrician wheeled a large black slab draped with a white sheet on stage and everyone burst into applause. The teachers tried to conceal their excitement, out of fairness, but within seconds they were clapping too, and I even think I heard one of them whistle. I scanned the audience for Elliot; he was sitting in the back, a stony expression on his face.

  I looked down at my speech. Thankfully, it was short. All I had to do was run up there, recite it, and leave. It would be embarrassing to lose, but there was no shame, I told myself, in getting crushed by someone like Ashley. She had worked so hard for so many months and she clearly wanted this more than I did. And she had probably put in a ton of hours to get that scoreboard, even though Mr. Hendricks had probably done most of the paperwork.

  I was already rehearsing how I would break the news to my parents when the electrician faced me—and nodded. He walked out the door before I could get a better look at his face. But even with the bald cap and mustache, I could tell: It was James.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ashley announced. “Without further ado, I present the new scoreboard for your Glendale Lions!”

  She yanked off the sheet and the applause gradually died down. I couldn’t see the scoreboard from where I was sitting, but I could see Ashley’s face: Her skin had turned pale and her eyes were round with horror. One or two boys began chuckling and the laughter spread like dominoes across the rows of the auditorium. Ashley looked around frantically for the electrician, but of course he had already left.

  I craned my neck and took a peek at the scoreboard. It was completely blank, except for a gigantic tiger and the words GO WEST SIDE PREP.

  Ashley mumbled something about it being a mix-up and slinked back to her seat. Then the principal banged his gavel, to stop the uproar, and announced my name. I read through the speech one more time, put it in my pocket and walked up to the podium.

  “I haven’t done as much research as my opponent,” I recited, “and I don’t have as much knowledge about school policy. But there’s one thing I do know: The Lions rule!”

  I put on the hat and awkwardly started chanting.

  “Lions! Lions! Lions!”

  “Lions!” Elliot shouted, muffling his voice with a handkerchief. “Lions!”

  A couple other boys joined in, including Lance, and before long, everyone was chanting. Everyone except for Ashley, of course. I kept on chanting as I watched her slip silently through the door and race toward the solitude of the bathroom.

  • • •

  “Congrats,” Lance said. “That speech was awesome.”

  He stuck out a fist and I awkwardly bumped it with my own.

  “I have a pretty sweet idea for basketball uniforms,” he said. “I’ll save you a seat tomorrow at lunch.”

  Elliot and I walked down the stairs, toward the lobby. I felt guilty about what had happened to Ashley, but there wasn’t time to give it much thought. Too many people were congratulating me on my victory.

  “How did you know that would work?” I asked Elliot.

  “Because people are animals,” he said. “All you have to do is treat them like—”

  “Hey Seymour!”

  I turned around and Jessica was in front of me, in yellow shorts and a low-cut tank top. A teacher had handed her a sweatshirt and track pants during the assembly, but evidently, she had never gotten around to changing into them. She laid the gym clothes on a nearby chair and threw her bare arms around me.

  “Congratulations!” she said. “I have some ideas for dances—let’s talk soon!”

  She scooped up her gym clothes and made her way to the bathroom, turning around once to smile at me.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  “Listen to me,” Elliot said. “Now that you’re sitting at Lance’s table, I’ll need to teach you some basic power moves.”

  “Did you see that?” I whispered.

  “Make sure to sit on Lance’s left. If you sit on his right, he’ll never consider you a real threat. That goes back to the days of hand-to
-hand combat. If you’re holding a sword in your right hand, you want your rivals on your left, to make it easier to slash them with your sword.”

  “I can’t believe she wants to talk to me about dances! Do you think that means she’ll call me on the phone?”

  “If Lance starts telling a story, stand up and go to the bathroom without saying anything. I know that doesn’t sound particularly aggressive, but trust me, it’ll send a message. And never turn your tray sidewise! The table is a piece of territory and you need to claim as much of it as possible.”

  That’s when it occurred to me: I would be leaving Elliot all alone at the third table.

  “Hey,” I said. “Why don’t you sit with us tomorrow?”

  Elliot stopped in his tracks.

  “What?”

  “Come on,” I said. “I bet they’ll let you squeeze in. I mean, if I tell them you’re my friend and all, I’m sure I could get you a spot.”

  Elliot’s eyes narrowed.

  “You…could get me…a spot?”

  “Sure?” I said. “Why not?”

  Elliot clenched his jaw and breathed tensely through his nose. I started to apologize, but before I could get any words out, he spun around and headed for the street. He was moving so fast that I doubt he noticed Ashley, who was standing by his limo, staring at the face in the driver’s seat window.

  • • •

  “I think it’s just wonderful,” my mom said. “Mr. Ninth-Grade President!”

  “You’re going to have a blast,” my father said. “Just remember—power corrupts!”

  He and my mother started to laugh, but were quickly interrupted by the ringing of the phone. My mother headed to the kitchen to answer it.

  “It might be Jessica,” I said.

  My father stared at me, in shock.

  “Who’s Jessica?”

  “Just a girl I know.”

  My father coughed—he had been drinking a glass of water.

  “You want to know something?” he said, after he had recovered. “I’m super proud of you. When I was your age, I never would have had the maturity to put myself out there like that. And now you’re meeting new people, making new friends.”

  “Lance said I could sit with him at lunch tomorrow,” I said.

  “That’s great,” my dad said. “Is he a cool guy?”

  I shrugged.

  “He’s probably the most powerful person in the grade.”

  He squinted at me. We didn’t say anything else until my mother returned and started to clear the dishes.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, forcing an odd laugh. “It was just…something crazy.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Ashley’s mother,” she said.

  “What did she have to say?” my father asked.

  “Oh, it’s just ridiculous. She thinks you and Elliot arranged some kind of…I can’t even say it, it’s so silly.”

  “Arranged some kind of what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “A conspiracy or something. Some people are just sore losers.”

  She smiled softly at me.

  “Seymour, you don’t have any idea what that woman’s talking about…do you?”

  My dad looked across the table at me.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  “No!” I said. “Of course not.”

  I grabbed another slice of brisket from the platter in an effort to act casual, but they kept staring at me while I sliced up the meat, with an expression I had never seen before. I didn’t realize until I was about to swallow that I had taken the last piece.

  PART TWO

  Go to Jail

  HARVARD APPLICATION

  Name: Seymour Herson

  Place of Birth: New York City

  Current Standing: Glendale Preparatory School, 12th Grade

  GPA: 4.0

  Ethnicity: Caucasian, Native American (see supplement, “Official Genezaro Indian Tribal Document”)

  Primary Household Earner’s Occupation: Associate Professor of Economics, Bishop House Author

  Please list your principal extracurricular activities and hobbies in the order of their interest to you. Include specific events and/or major accomplishments.

  Have you ever been found responsible for a disciplinary violation?

  No.

  Have you ever been convicted of any crime?

  No.

  Please write an essay on a topic of your choice. This personal essay helps us to become acquainted with you as a person, apart from courses, grades, and test scores.

  “Necklace of Hope”

  by Seymour Herson

  When people tell me that it’s impossible to make a difference, and that I should give up hope for this world, I just close my eyes and think about the greatest teacher I ever had. He didn’t teach me how to take integrations or write bibliographies. In fact, he couldn’t even read or write. But I learned enough from him to fill a thousand textbooks. His classroom was the street. And his subject? It was life.

  To most people, Hal Sagal was just a typical homeless person. A “bum” or “vagrant” to be ignored, spat on, and forgotten. But from the moment I first met him, under a bridge, I knew that a great wisdom lay behind his leathery, rubicund face.

  My classmates told me I was crazy.

  “Why do you spend so much time with that man?” they said. “He’s just a homeless person.”

  Just a homeless person. What did they know about the wars Hal had fought in? Or the animals he cared for, nursing them back to health under his bridge?

  It’s easy to grow cynical in this world. And there was a time when I would have listened to my classmates and turned my back on Hal. But that was before he got sick and taught me his most important lesson yet.

  I spent three months by his side during that cruel winter, bringing him food, blankets, and, perhaps most importantly, a hand to hold.

  “Please let me take you to the hospital!” I begged. “Or at least tell the authorities about you!”

  But he just shook his wise head and smiled. At first I didn’t understand. But now I realize: When you’ve lived a life as full as Hal’s, you have nothing to fear.

  Just before Hal passed, he took off his wooden necklace and pressed it into my hands. It may not be the most fashionable accessory. But I’ll wear it proudly for the rest of my life.

  That’s my diploma.

  Academic Recommendation

  In all my years of teaching French, I have never seen a student undergo a transformation as dramatic as Seymour’s. When he first entered my classroom, as a seventh-grader, he lagged so far behind the other students that I wrote a letter to his parents encouraging them to have him tested for learning disabilities. He consistently flunked his exams, including rudimentary vocabulary quizzes on common nouns.

  At some point in the eighth grade, though, Seymour “turned things around.” With an abruptness I still can’t fully understand, he transformed himself from a flunking student into an A-plus superstar.

  Seymour has a natural grasp of French that one rarely finds outside of France. It’s not just his test scores—which are immaculate. It’s his conversational instincts. In oral exams, he seems to know instinctively what I plan to ask him in advance. On several occasions this year, he cut me off with the correct answer before I even finished reading him my question! If that’s not fluency, I don’t know what is.

  Seymour is such a talented linguist that I worry sometimes that my class is stunting his progress. He has confessed to me in private that he feels uncomfortable speaking spontaneously in class, because he doesn’t want to embarrass his fellow students with a show of his superior fluency. I hope that at Harvard he will find an environment better suited to his gifts.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Hendricks

  Outside Recommendation

  I like this one.

  —T. Allagash

  I certify that all information submitted in the admission
process—including the application and the personal essay—is my own work, factually true, and honestly presented.

  Signature:

  Seymour Herson

  DECISION: ACCEPTED.

  • • •

  “Hey Elliot? What does rubicund mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a nonsense word.”

  “Come on. It’s got to mean something.”

  Elliot polished his cue and knocked in a bank shot.

  “You want to know what rubicund means?” Elliot said. “It means, ‘I know what rubicund means.’ That’s what it means!”

  “I can’t believe they fell for that essay. It couldn’t have been more ridiculous.”

  “What do you expect?” Elliot said. “The college application has become nothing more than an exercise in self-degradation! A groveling apology from a liberal middle class that feels guilty for a power they only think they possess! Anyway…congratulations.”

  I walked over to the dumbwaiter.

  “Want a drink?”

  “I already have several,” he said.

  I nodded and sent down for a Scotch, in a tall glass with lemon.

  “Hey, Elliot, can you get me a single next year? Those dorm rooms in the yard look tiny.”

  “I’m pretty sure they’re assigned randomly.”

  “Randomly?” I laughed. “Come on Elliot, there’s got to be an angle. What about disability? We could always say I have Crohn’s.”

  “I think they’d notice when you arrived at school without the disease.”

  “If I got caught, we could blame it on a faulty diagnosis! Pay some doctor to say he mixed up the tubes!”

  Elliot smiled proudly.

  “What’s the game count?” he asked.

  “I think we’re tied,” I said.

  “How about that?”

  The dumbwaiter creaked back up with my drink, as well as a large basket of pastries.

  “That damn chef,” Elliot muttered. “He’s the biggest bootlicker my father ever hired.”

  I grabbed a croissant and bit into its warm, flaky shell. A jet of malted fudge oozed into my mouth. It was so rich that I had to sit down. I’d known Elliot for four years, but I was still occasionally shocked by the luxuries that surrounded him.