This is not a personal s.., p.1
This Is Not a Personal Statement, page 1
Dedication
For my parents and grandmothers
(This isn’t about you at all)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Tracy Badua
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
A low current of joy and despair from the latest college admittances and rejections hums through Monte Verde High.
Once the last bell rings, the entire senior class whips out their phones for news. Conversations crackle around me on the parking lot curb. I pretend to focus on spotting Dad’s Lexus among the dozen other luxury cars in the distance, but it’s hard not to react to the bursts of happiness and heartbreak around me.
Two other seniors, Edie Anderson from my PE class and Camilla Kang-Jansen, the daughter of one of Dad’s law firm partners, pause near me on their way to their cars.
“Did you hear? Wendy got into Stanford, but Gabriel didn’t. You think they’ll break up over this?”
Hard-earned futures are being made and broken this very second, and people chatter about them like they’re reality show bombshells.
I adjust my backpack straps as an excuse to angle toward the murmured conversation. Edie and Camilla don’t seem to notice or, if they do, care. Being the lone sixteen-year-old senior at Monte Verde and a tad well-known for my overachievement—my mom sent a press release to the local paper when I started high school at twelve—means that I’m blocked out of the social scene and its related whisper networks. But I do like to stay informed.
At most schools, gossip would center around who’s dating whom, who has the most expensive this, the flashiest that. At Monte Verde High? I attend one of the most academically competitive high schools in California. People spend their life savings on tiny, dilapidated houses in this school district so their kids can come here because our grads go on to be governors, CEOs, and all manner of brag-worthy intellectuals and notables.
Everyone talks about the record-shattering achievements of the Monte Verde student body.
No one talks about the intense competition, the unhealthy lack of sleep, the grueling lineup of forced extracurriculars, the expensive standardized test prep classes, or the underground market of cheat sheets and pills.
But I don’t care about any of those right now: they’re as much a fixture in my school life as my creaky locker and my wobbly chair in AP Comp Sci. I don’t even really care about Wendy or Gabriel.
I care about which schools’ acceptances are out.
Three others join the girls chatting a few feet away from me. I’m in at least one class with each person in that group, but they barely acknowledge my proximity. Through Dad, I’ve known Camilla for ages. Aside from the way our parents seem to play us against each other to make us work harder, we tend to get along outside of school. She’s often the one friendly face at firm picnics and award dinners, but she keeps her distance on campus and I don’t force it.
At least I don’t have to hide my eavesdropping if I’m functionally invisible here.
I peer at them through the curtain of long, straight black hair on either side of my face and act like I’m scrolling through the latest PicLine posts on my phone. The group compares notes. Two people in my physics class got their MIT acceptances today. Tennis star Arnell eyes Columbia: eir first choice, but not eir parents’. Oscar faked a rejection to Duke just so he wouldn’t have to explain to his parents that his dream school is here in California. Edie dabs at her teary blue eyes as she gripes to her friends that she’s wait-listed at two Ivy Leagues.
I try not to roll my eyes as Camilla comforts her. Edie is the debate team captain who introduced some of the seniors to her sister’s Adderall-prescription-happy doctor friend in exchange for a hefty, under-the-table referral fee. I’ve been cut enough by Monte Verde’s ruthless streak to recognize that Edie’s tears are a cover for her rage. She must be livid that underground Adderall went to those same kids who likely edged her out of those Ivies’ incoming classes.
“What about Little Miss Perfect? Where do you think she’s going?” Edie’s voice drifts over to me, a hint of amusement in her voice, like the mere mention of me is a joke. My body tenses. My thumb continues to mindlessly scroll so I can keep up the ruse that I don’t hear them.
A harsh shush from Camilla. “Edie, quit it. She’s right there.”
A snort from Edie. “So?”
So they do know that I’m standing right here, listening. They just ignore it, like they ignored me for the past four years. I barely feel the pinch of sadness about it now. Perfect Perlie Perez—a nickname that I obviously didn’t come up with myself and haven’t managed to fight off—is better than this. Better than them and their pettiness.
I only have to endure a couple more months of high school before I can escape with my diploma. Then it’s on to Delmont University, the shining light at the end of the tunnel. It’s number one on the list of universities curated by my parents and me. That list is the first page of Perlie’s Academic Plan, a dog-eared red plastic binder crammed full of report cards, standardized test scores, articles about college prep, and everything needed to click my PhD path into place. The plan serves as a road map for the life my parents and I have planned.
It helps that we all want the same thing: for me to graduate from this prestigious university, attend a top med school, and go on to be successful and scandal-free. Be as perfect as the world sees me. The goal may reek of elitism to some, but there’s generations’ worth of trauma alive and well in the fact that we hold certain professions as the mark of success and belonging.
A brown woman? The table’s full, sorry.
A brown woman wielding a PhD from an illustrious school? We’ll find an extra chair, ma’am.
My parents and their parents left friends, family, and livelihoods to cross the ocean and settle in Monte Verde. Calling this place home didn’t come easily. They found themselves separated from others here by their faces, their tongues, their skin. For them, making a home was trickier than just finding shelter and sustenance: it was proving that they belonged here.
And I’m supposed to be part of that proof.
Sometimes, with all this pressure on me, I think of myself as a tree growing on the side of a cliff. People say a seed should’ve never landed, taken root, and thrived there all by itself. But I found a way. I grew sideways to get my share of the sun, letting my roots claw into the unwelcoming rock.
Withering is not an option.
The familiar silver glint in the distance is a beacon through this storm of social awkwardness. Dad’s car approaches. He’s speaking, his black eyebrows as furrowed as they can get with all the filler Mom injects him with. His youthful appearance is part our Filipino heritage, part religious sunscreen usage, and part perk of Mom’s boutique aesthetic clinic. He shakes his head at something, and his neatly gelled black hair doesn’t even move. He must still be on a work call.
I step closer toward the curb, ready to leap into the car when Dad stops.
I’ve had enough of the other seniors whispering and staring at me. They must have the same idea, because Camilla suddenly shrieks, waving her phone in the air.
“I just got a text from my mom. The UC’s admissions portals are up! And I’ve got mail from Delmont too. We’re going to check it all together when I get home.”
The mention of Delmont hits me straight in the chest.
“Delmont did actual paper letters?” Edie asks.
Camilla isn’t fazed by the incredulous note in Edie’s voice. “Still old-fashioned, I guess. They opted out of electronic notifications entirely. Paper’s prettier for PicLine pics though.”
I bite back a smile. My ticket out of this dreadful, hypercompetitive high school and into my bright future might be burning a hole in our mailbox as we speak. I wonder if Camilla has the same big envelope, stuffed with welcome materials and deposit deadlines, and how long it will take for our parents to compare.
I try to shake the nerves off, but it’s hard to unload stress that’s been riding on my shoulders for sixteen whole years. In accordance with Perlie’s Academic Plan, I applied to nine schools, and half already sent me their boilerplate regret-to-inform-you rejections. My parents chalked it up to me being on the younger side of the applying class, but I doubt the admissions people had my birth certificate next to my personal stateme nt. When my second-grade teacher hinted that I was advanced academically enough to skip a grade or two, my parents were initially thrilled at the suggestion. So was I, because this external proof that I am exceptional brought a whirlwind of praise and an impromptu ice cream stop. But then my parents and school administrators questioned whether I was mature enough to handle this leap forward. The thought of going back to being a regular, ice-creamless second grader left a bitter taste in my mouth. I pleaded with them that I was ready, and because I truly am exceptional, I won.
Now, every day that I bring home a stellar test grade or a compliment on an assignment, I prove that being the youngest isn’t holding me back academically at all. These college rejections aren’t helping my case, but they hadn’t stung much; those weren’t the schools I was destined for anyway.
Delmont is where I’m headed. It features one of the most highly rated undergraduate premed programs among all American universities and therefore serves as one of the best feeders into the top medical schools in the nation. It’s an almost-guaranteed ticket into a successful career, a lifetime of respectability, and my name being whispered with a hint of awe when strangers meet my parents.
Dad’s car slows to a stop in front of me.
I slide in as he’s saying his goodbyes to whoever’s on the phone. He taps a button on his steering wheel, hanging up the call, before turning to me with his usual greeting.
“How was school?”
I open my mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by a racking sob from Edie on the sidewalk. Camilla rubs her back. Edie must’ve gotten another rejection. My stomach flutters as I imagine the Delmont acceptance letter in our mailbox.
“Good.” My usual answer, if you forget about the strained group project in Spanish class and mispronunciation of my name by the physics substitute. I know not to bring up the not-so-perfect details with him and Mom. They’d accuse me of complaining, of being ungrateful after all they’ve done to get me to where I am.
All that aside, today actually was a good day.
And I have a feeling it’s about to get even better.
Two
Dad glances into his side mirror before sending the car gliding out of the school parking lot.
“Was that Camilla?” he asks, his eyes on the road. “I wasn’t sure because of the haircut.” A lie. She and I have both had our black hair waist-length since freshman year.
I fish my water bottle out of my backpack to delay an answer. I sense a trap. My parents rarely ask about Camilla unless it’s to make some pointed comparison between us. Dad and one of Camilla’s moms, Jan Kang, jockeyed for top spots at their law school together and impose that sense of rivalry on their children.
Camilla and I live in the same pressure cooker: a suffocating mix of aggressive parents, intellectually elite classmates, and microscope-eyed college admissions staff. Comparison to her has been inescapable all my life. You’d think it’d be enough that I’m keeping up with her academically even though I’m two years younger, but that doesn’t stop my parents from reminding me of her many, many accomplishments.
“Yeah, it was,” I reply, letting him slide. Sometimes it’s easier to let a little lie hang in the air than to reach for it and shake up trouble.
“You know, Ms. Kang told me the other day that Camilla’s heading for NYU in the fall.”
My shoulders tense despite Dad’s tone staying as easy as if he’d been talking about the weather. I know where Dad’s line of thinking is headed.
“That’s great for Camilla. She works really hard. I’m sure she earned it.” And I mean it. Not because she and I actually get along every once in a while and she’s the only person who can beat me at Mario Kart. The sheer fact that we’re academic rivals means she must work her tail off like I do.
I leave the Mario Kart compliment out of the conversation with Dad. I’ve loved video games since I could first swipe open an app on an unattended phone. I learned history through The Oregon Trail, soared daringly over dark alleys and rooftops as a superhero, reinvited myself in iteration after iteration of The Sims. When most of my week is spent in regimented academia and extracurriculars, games provide me a thrilling escape I can’t get elsewhere.
But for all the joy it brings me, my parents don’t see “the point” of it. To them, video games are not a serious academic pursuit, and they won’t make me money or win the admiration of friends and family, so why waste time? As long as I earn As, though, I get to keep this guilty pleasure hobby. Mom changed the password on my Origin and Steam accounts the last time I brought home a B-plus on a progress report.
I try to steer this conversation in a direction that doesn’t lead to a Hollywood-style spotlight on Camilla. “NYU wasn’t on our college list, remember?”
Dad purses his lips and lets out a short breath through his nose. He does this whenever he’s trying to keep in words that he worries will hurt my feelings, but I hear the disappointment in his exhale. He tries to cover it with a quick smile. “But why wasn’t it, again? It’s a great school.”
I shift in my seat, fighting back the tears that flow into my eyes whenever someone implies that I and all my efforts aren’t enough. I can’t cry now. Dad asked a simple, albeit loaded, question. My parents would judge the tears as a sign of my supposed emotional immaturity and not being ready for “the world,” which is not the case. I can’t control the direct line between my brain, heart, and tear ducts.
I untwist my water bottle cap—I’m even perfect at staying hydrated—and take a swig to buy myself a minute to stop the emotional spiral. “You’re the one with premium access to that college database. We even highlighted the rates of graduates specifically going to medical schools. Delmont’s at the top.”
I had dedicated extra time and effort on the Delmont application. This notoriously hard-to-get-into (and therefore more prestigious) university doesn’t use the Common App like almost all the other top schools. It demands your individual awe and attention the way an Oscar winner does on the red carpet. My parents had paid a recent Delmont grad to act as my application coach, and they took turns proofreading the personal statement that swore Delmont and I were a match made in premed heaven. It was smart, mature, Delmont-worthy.
“Ah, right. It would’ve been nice to have that NYU acceptance though.”
“And waste that time and application fee? Come on, Dad.”
My joking appeal to Dad’s priorities—time and money—makes him smile, almost dissipating the tension. The ring of his phone blares through the speakers in the car and cuts our talk short, which I’m perfectly fine with. I know he and Mom are just trying to push me to excel, but the moments immediately after a long day at school and before a draining night of homework are not my favorite times to have big, analytical discussions about my future. He puts a single finger up to shush me, then fumbles for his headset and starts talking to someone else about a big filing due today.
Dad adjusts his work hours as best he can to accommodate my school and extracurricular schedule, but there’s only so much generosity his hungrier law partners extend to him. He works from home or leaves the office early to be both my chauffeur and taskmaster. That time out of the office has cut into the career he thought he should have by now. We don’t talk much about the lucrative time-intensive business opportunities he’s had to pass along to another person at the firm just so he can maintain that flexibility to shuttle me from school to SAT class to volunteering at the church. I know better than to interrupt him right now.
I pull up PicLine and scroll, looking for connection but finding only content. I am more than ready to leave Monte Verde behind and start fresh.
Dad’s still on his call when we pull into the garage. He heads inside to continue his negotiations, away from the noise of lawn mowers and children and cars whizzing by way above the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit. I beeline for the mailbox.
I know I got in, but anxiety swirls in my stomach as I pad across our immaculate lawn anyway. I wipe my clammy hands off on my jeans and tug the metal mailbox door open with a creak. I pull out a handful of envelopes. Bill, bill, credit card offer, Delmont. My heart stumbles over its next beat.
The envelope is thin.
I blink to make sure I’d read the return address right. Yes, it’s there in neat, printed text, and yes, that’s the blue-and-green Delmont seal printed in the upper left. I bite my lip.
