Cindy Liang

Kevin was accepted into MIT. My mother said those five words to me that morning in the kitchen. Casually, in an offhand way, as she was doing her morning check of WeChat. Ears pounding, blood roaring, those five words had made me gasp for breath. Staggering back as if punched, the terror that ripped through me at the moment quickly solidified into anger.

I silently clenched my fists underneath my desk. I wasn’t even surprised. At nine years old, sitting wedged between my parents at his house, I knew we were destined to be mortal enemies. He had played Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu with such angelic virtuosity that it brought tears to my parents’ eyes. To think that once I had thought we could be friends was laughable. As our parents chatted in the dining room I stole glances at his stupid collared shirt and vowed to bring about his downfall.

In middle school I tolerated his insufferable feats of intellectualism. The thing that really tested my patience, though, was his unflinching politeness. He held open doors for teachers. He poured the tea without being asked. Every time my mother lauded him for being “such a nice child!” my resolve stiffened further. I was biding my time, ready to pounce at any sign of weakness.

The game changed in high school. Everything was more high-stakes and risky. If anything would expose Kevin’s prodigious facade, it was taking four AP classes as a freshman. He was every counselor’s worst nightmare and Collegeboard’s most devoted acolyte. With Kevin earning fives on all fifteen of his AP exams, being a three-time AIME qualifier, the local youth symphony’s concertmaster and a volunteer at a university physics laboratory, I could no longer look him in the eye. My own accomplishments paled in comparison to his. When Kevin offered a consoling tissue for my pathetic 116% on a math test, I punched him in the face.

Now, with the imminent departure of my greatest adversary, part of me felt like I could finally relax. What was I thinking? Had I forgotten what it felt like to walk in glory? I had one last chance to best this infernal man, and it was by beating him at his own game.

Applying to any other school was out of the question. My personal dignity was on the line. I frantically searched the MIT admissions website. Be honest and authentic? My feud with Kevin was the most honest thing about me. Inventing the right extracurriculars wasn’t a problem; I had performed a thorough background check on all the individuals in an alumnus Facebook group. I read all of the group’s posts and comments to emulate their writing style in my essays.

Remembering that colleges often search an applicant’s social media accounts, I created Reddit, LinkedIn, and Art of Problem Solving accounts filled with fictitious accolades and accomplishments. I spent the afternoon making more profiles to populate the comment sections with glowing commendations.

My letters of recommendation illustrated what no friend or family member would admit. I was a student worthy of recognition, a student whose talents were beyond comprehension. I would be the favorite child, not that big-headed, bumbling beanpole of a boy. My essays painted a glowing portrait; I was the picture of youthful virtue— a humble yet daring scholar. All that was left to do was complete some community service.

I picked the role of an assistant at a senior home, something of negligible responsibility as I planned my next move. Usually I lounged around in the lobby grinding for primos to pull for Scaramouche, but one day it occurred to me that I would actually need money to pay for college tuition. And so my brilliant scheme began.

“Hello? Is this Microsoft tech support?”

“Yes, how may I help you?”

It definitely wasn’t the most original strategy, but as they say, good students copy, great students steal. This entire stealing business was originally Kevin’s fault anyways— if he wasn’t so good at math, I wouldn’t have to extort innocent people of their life savings! A surprising amount of my customers ended up being residents at the senior home where I volunteered, so I graciously offered to investigate. It took me a bit of effort to get to the bottom of it, but in the end I reported the culprit to the Fair Trade Commission. It says a lot about society that the perpetrator, the second-best student at our school, no less, was never brought to justice for his despicable actions.

I had spent all of Winter Break taking care of the elderly and had 70 community service hours to show for it. The head of the residence couldn’t express her gratitude with words as she signed my form and letter of recommendation, so I took that as an invitation to discreetly change the number of hours from 70 to 170 when she wasn’t looking.

I felt the metamorphizing ennui of the new year descending upon me as the application deadline approached. It was as if some sort of invisible armor shielded me from Kevin’s corrosive presence. I even deigned to smile at him when our families gathered for a New Year’s celebration. But I should never have been so naïve as to rest on my laurels. That night I woke up in a cold sweat. My application was spotless, pristine, but what if the admissions officers decided to call my teachers for verification? I mentally listed all the teachers I’ve had in my entire high school career and calmed down once I concluded that most of them either didn’t know me that well or could be placated with a late holiday gift of PayPal transfers. All of them except for one.

Mr. Kroger, or Mr. Mac and Cheese, as he was unanimously called by students behind his back, was the only Physics C teacher and had the misfortune of having Kevin in his class for three years in a row. The Kroger Mac and Cheese name was especially fitting since his lectures were dense with information but bland and unappealing except to my tryhard archnemesis. I had been foolish enough to sign his name at the end of my letter of recommendation, thinking that an alumnus’ signature could give me an advantage. He obviously disliked me, as he once had the nerve to tell me I could “benefit from some extra practice with simple harmonic motion” like he wasn’t the one with the fashion sense of a McDonald’s employee. I had to eliminate this extra variable.

The day back from the holidays, I took an extended bathroom break to sneak into Mac and Cheese’s classroom. I knew he usually spent his planning period in the staff room, so I was unlikely to be caught. After I stealthily entered the room, I tore apart his messy desk in search of a phone. I waded through piles of ungraded assignments but turned up empty-handed.

I opened his cabinet and immediately spotted a brick-sized phone. Just as I was reaching for it, the classroom door opened. I swiveled around and saw Mr. Mac and Cheese standing in the doorway. After a strained period of prolonged silence, I held up my hall pass to show that I was not breaking the school rules while rummaging through his personal effects.

He wasn’t convinced. “What are you doing?”

“Um, I think I left my water bottle here somewhere.” I quickly grabbed his phone and closed the cabinet door.

He started to say something else, but I quickly interrupted. “Wait, it’s under that desk right there.”

Mr. Mac and Cheese’s head turned away from me. Moving fast so I wouldn’t miss my chance, my fist connected with his jaw. Though only in contact for a short period of time, the extra mass of the phone and the velocity of my fist supplied enough force to push him backwards. My teacher accelerated away from me at a rate directly proportional to this force and inversely proportional to his mass. And then he passed out.

I stood there paralyzed, arm extended, for a few seconds. If he disliked me before, Mr. Mac and Cheese definitely didn’t like me now. But if I was caught, all of this would be for nothing. I picked up his arm and, with much effort, dragged him across the room. I wrenched open the cabinet door and put him in what I hoped to be a comfortable resting position. Then I closed the door. Then I did a little bit of organizing to make it seem like a crime did not just occur. Then I exited the room, phone securely tucked into my pocket. Then I returned to class and spent the rest of the period helping others with differentiation like a good future MIT student would do.

That afternoon, an ambulance arrived in the school parking lot. A student had peeked into an open cabinet, saw Mr. Mac and Cheese lying unconscious, and panicked. Rumors abounded; he had lain down for a quick nap, he had been hit on the head by a rogue circular motion flying pig. Being the honest person I am, I refrained from partaking in these slanderous exchanges and instead shook my head, decrying the current state of mental health resources for teachers.

An email from the principal was sent out that night about the incident. The police suspected foul play, and the school promised to “perform a thorough investigation to ensure the safety of our students and staff members alike.” Mr. Mac and Cheese had regained consciousness but was unable to recall the events leading up to his injury. The email assured us that he had not suffered any lasting damage and would be back to delivering skull-numbing lectures in no time. I was relieved to hear that he was alive and well, of course, because it would be quite damaging to my collegial prospects if the police linked the class sign-out sheets and the crime back to me.

My fears put to rest, I confidently submitted my application. For the next few weeks I felt like I was floating on air. The die had been cast; it was anyone’s guess where it would fall. My future had been set free. I no longer felt shackled to Kevin like some sort of marionette. I had obstinately resisted all of his overtures of friendship since elementary school, but now I talked to him as if we were the bestest of pals. Fueling me was the knowledge that I had bested him, that I had the solution to a problem he couldn’t solve.

I kept Mr. Mac and Cheese’s phone with me at all times. The one time it did ring, I took a deep breath and prepared to give my best middle-aged-man impression. It was not the admissions office, but Mr. Mac and Cheese’s mother.

“I thought you lost your old phone! And I didn’t want to pick up any unknown numbers because they could be a scam!” she told me breathlessly.

“Erm, sorry, wrong number.” I hung up and the phone’s plan expired soon after.

My acceptance letter was released in mid-March. I almost laughed out of incredulity, but stopped myself. Did I really think I wasn’t capable of anything Kevin could do?

My plan had worked perfectly. Well, mostly. The teachers that I had bribed grew suspicious when they found out about Mr. Mac and Cheese’s condition. I regrettably had to use a healthy portion of that year’s red envelope money to keep them quiet.

Still, my elation was uncontainable. When I saw Kevin the next day I could hardly keep from asking.

“So, have you started studying for APs yet?” he asked.

“Of course, I’ve been studying since January. By the way, aren’t you excited about going to MIT in the fall?”

“Oh, that.” Kevin paused. “I’ve decided to enroll in Carnegie Mellon instead.”