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"SO LET ME get this straight," Evan begins. "You just ... lied?"
"It's not my fault," I protest. "It was like a self-defense mechanism kicked in and the next thing I knew, I was insisting that I could only be attracted to a mathlete."
"A mathlete?" Sharice questions blankly. "Like Lucas Drew mathlete?"
The three of us are having brunch at the diner near Evan's house, an emergency Saturday morning meeting I called the minute I got home last night.
Joe's Kitchen & Coffee is probably one of the most beloved places in town, so much so that you can never get a table without waiting at least thirty minutes. But the guy who runs the diner, Mark, always manages to squeeze us in because Evan has been babysitting his son for the past three years.
It's a testament to how god-awfully boring this town is that one of the perpetual topics of conversation is how a restaurant called Joe's Kitchen & Coffee came to be run by a guy named Mark. This is what constitutes cosmic irony around here.
"Lucas is cute," I mumble weakly. "He's got that, you know, bookish-geeky vibe going for him. Lots of people are into that."
"Look," Sharice says, turning to me. She chews thoughtfully on a piece of her french toast before proceeding. "I feel like you should think of this Izzie situation as an opportunity."
"I am thinking of it as an opportunity," I insist. "It's an opportunity to drop out of school and relocate to a weakly populated desert in the Pacific Southwest."
"No," Sharice argues. She adopts this motivational speaker tone and I envision an American flag billowing behind her as the national anthem plays. "Its an opportunity to laugh off something that was a little bit embarrassing and realize that when you don't take your screw-ups seriously, no one else will either. It's an opportunity to be honest with Izzie, for once, instead of playing everything off like a joke. It's an opportunity to be vulnerable."
"I don't like this advice," I say. "Can I resubmit my request and get a new piece of wisdom instead?"
"No. That's my advice and that's what you get. And we all know I'm right."
"I don't want to be vulnerable," I whine. "Being vulnerable opens yourself to being-oh, I don't know-vuln-ed."
"My friendship," Sharice announces solemnly, "is wasted on you.
I roll my eyes. "Well, thank God you still have Evan."
Evan clears his throat, and raises his glass of water with a nod.
"I have Evan for ten more months," Sharice says, "before he runs off to Hudson and abandons us for members of the psychology field, who all have logical opinions about dream theories."
Evan clears his throat again.
"Yes, Evan?" I turn to him. "Is there something you'd like to share with us?"
"I have news."
Sharice drops her fork with a clang. "We figured with all the ahem-ing. What's the news bud?"
He clears his throat one last time for dramatic effect.
"The news," Evan announces, "is I finally figured out what I really want to write for my common application essay. Like, for real this time."
"Thought you were writing it on the genius of 1984," I say.
"I was writing it on the genius of 1984," he clarifies. "But every single draft ended up being over twelve hundred words. And the limit is six hundred and fifty. And they all sounded like academic papers. College essays are supposed to be about you, not about a long-dead author, and especially not about a long-dead author who didn't even go to the university you're applying to. They're supposed to be personal. So ..."
He pauses dramatically.
"So?" Sharice says.
"So I am writing about a deeply important relationship that has shaped me into the man I am today."
Evan has obviously rehearsed this declaration in front of a mirror a few times.
"You're sure you're not still writing about George Orwell?" I ask.
"I am writing," Evan continues, "about my relationship with two people who have always supported me, even if they insist on getting in six million unnecessary sarcastic comments while doing so. I'm writing about you guys."
Sharice's mouth drops into a comically perfect O.
"Wow," Evan deflates. "Glad you guys are so touched at being the topic of the most important essay I have ever written."
It's Sharice who regains her senses first. "Oh-my-God-Evan-of-course-we're-touched! Aren't we, Casey?"
"So touched," I insist. "But, Evan-are you sure this is a good idea? Sharice and I aren't very interesting. In fact, we're so uninteresting that it seems like we should be the last people you'd write about in such an important essay. I mean, I just dragged you guys out of bed at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning because I'm having girl problems. Please don't tell Hudson that I once called an emergency Saturday morning brunch for girl problems. In fact, don't tell Hudson anything about me. Write about-write about your dyslexia! Didn't you come into school struggling with reading and test-taking and now you're a genius, going on to major is psychology. And then go on to help other kids who struggled with your same battles. That's much more inspiring than Sharice and I could ever be."
"Yes," Evan agrees. "The story of my dyslexia is pretty inspiring, but when I suggested that to my counselor, she said, and I quote, 'It's a nice idea, but it runs the risk of coming off as generic or overdone.' Which I'm pretty sure is just a polite way that guidance counselors tell dyslexic kids that every other dyslexic kid is also going to write a sappy essay about their dyslexia and overcoming obstacles. Plus, I don't want to write an essay about that. I want to write an essay about me-the real me. And I think my relationship with you guys says a lot more about the real me than my dyslexia."
Evan smiles, as if the matter is now closed. "So yeah. I'll send you guys a copy when I'm done."
Sharice raises her glass of orange juice, teary-eyed and announces, "To Casey finding vulnerability and to Evan getting into Hudson with his bomb-ass essay that only he could possibly write." And then, simply: "To us."
Evan picks up his glass and clinks it with Sharice's. They both turn to me expectantly.
"It's just-we're being so cheesy," I cringe.
Sharice rolls her eyes, picks up my glass, and clinks it herself.
"To us," she repeats. And while I do find this whole situation cheesy, I can't help but smile at the two people who mean the world to me.
