Real Americans by Rachel Khong

Author:Rachel Khong [Khong, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2024-04-29T00:00:00+00:00

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Timothy was letting his hair grow out and it suited him: It was wiry and wild, like Einstein’s. We were in Commons, the enormous dining hall lined with stained-glass windows. I hadn’t seen him since we’d arrived.

“I’m trying out vegetarianism,” Timothy said when he saw me glance at his plate.

It was all vegetable sides: roasted cauliflower and potatoes, a spinach salad, a little dish of cottage cheese and mandarin orange segments. A chicken leg sat grotesquely on mine.

“One of my roommates published a research paper in Science as a junior in high school. He was sixteen.”

“Damn. About what?”

“Something about fish pigment. And my other roommate, Mehmet—he tested out of Chinese. He learned it on his own, from YouTube and books. Now he’s starting Japanese.”

Timothy rambled on ecstatically. He was trying out for an a cappella group, and I tried to hide my hurt: I had never heard him sing.

“Are you going to take Cancer?” I asked.

“I can’t. Computer science is then.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to conceal my disappointment. We’d planned on taking Cancer together. We wouldn’t have any classes together if he didn’t.

“What are you going to do?” Timothy asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Like outside of classes.”

I started cutting into the chicken with my knife but stopped. The skin sagged, like loosened pants sliding to the ground. It had transformed into an unappealing thing that I didn’t want to eat anymore.

“I’m not sure yet.”

The truth was I couldn’t begin to think of extracurriculars. Though it had only been two weeks, shopping for classes, I already felt behind, like there weren’t enough hours in the day to study. The other kids, kids who’d gone to private school, seemed to already know what was being taught. I thought the point of classes was to learn, but for some of my classmates, it seemed the classroom was a place to show off what they already knew. I was envious of the ease with which Timothy fit in. I’d suspected it, but already it had become clear: I wasn’t smart enough to be here. I didn’t say any of this to Timothy—didn’t want to bring his mood down with my own challenges.

His excitement felt like a wall between us, distorting everything he said. I struggled to listen.

I’d thought transporting me to another setting was all that was needed to render me normal. I’d failed to consider that I might be the same person here.

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