Free Personal Statement by Jason Odell Williams Page B

idea? It’s pointless, unnecessary, and a total waste of time. We’re seventeen years old. It’s still August. We should be on a beach drinking flat beer and making out with dumb boys who smell like ChapStick and s’mores.
    But I don’t say any of that. Because she’s my best friend. And also because when she gets like this… I’m kind of afraid of her.
    “Of course,” I say. “Totally with you.”
    Emily hugs me super tight, with more desperation than affection, and then she’s off again, five paces ahead, beelining to her car, chattering all the way about how to strategize and brainstorm. I immediately regret staying.

    §

    The entire ride back to Cawdor, Emily doesn’t stop talking. She talks about where we should stay: “I have my mom’s Hampton Inn Rewards Card. We should stay at a Hampton Inn—we passed one on our way up to Hartford.” She talks about using social media to our advantage: “Not only integrate it into our plan for the governor but also tweet and update what we’re doing live… like document it and maybe cite the tweets and status updates in our personal statements!” She talks about her self ad nauseam: “I feel like there’s a big fat target on my back, ya know, like everyone either wants a piece of me or wants to take me down . I guess that’s the way all visionaries and trailblazers feel. I should read the Steve Jobs biography.” I listen in and out (mostly out), secretly wishing I could go back home and lay on my bed reading Horse and Rider .
    Then I realize: I can go home.
    It’ll be so easy. After we settle in at the hotel, I can wait until Emily is in the shower (she always showers before bed, it’s part of her O.C.D. about being super clean all the time). Then I can sneak out to the train station and catch the Northeast Regional back to Stamford. It’s the perfect plan. The only “rub” will be dealing with Emily at school for the next nine months before we go off to college. But it seems a small price to pay for my freedom at this precise moment.
    We make the fifty-five mile drive back to Cawdor in under an hour and get a room on the “top floor” of the Hampton Inn—which is the second floor. We drag our overnight bags up the stairs (no elevator) and walk along the outdoor balcony/hallway. Emily slides our key in the door and heads straight for the bathroom, still yammering.
    “Oh my God, we should enlist some celebrities to tweet about the hurricane prep and recovery effort! But, like, young celebrities. Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield. Ooo, what about Chloe Sevigny… isn’t she from Connecticut? And John Mayer is from Fairfield. Oh this is perfect! Can you Google those guys and try to find their, like, agent or manager info? I’m sure they’d totally be into helping out a good cause like this. Eek! Exciting!”
    And she’s off, closing the bathroom door behind her and turning on the shower. I give her a few minutes to make sure she’s not going to rush back out with another brilliant idea. When she starts singing John Mayer’s “All We Ever Do Is Say Goodbye,” I grab my stuff and head out the door.
    And it’s exhilarating. The night air seems fresher. The sounds crisper. My feet step in time with my pounding heart. My head is buzzing. I can hardly contain my excitement as I walk to the station. I bang off a quick text to my mom, who has been pestering me for updates every hour since we left.

    Then I realize there may not be another train until morning. Emily will figure out where I went and come find me and badger me with her oh-so-convincing-ways, forcing me to stay with her. I pick up my pace. For the last block and a half, I’m in a dead sprint. I bang through the doors of the tiny station house, breathless, and look up at the old-fashioned announcement board. A southbound train is scheduled to arrive in four minutes, departing for Stamford (only a ten-minute cab ride from home). I should be back in my own bed before 2 a.m. It couldn’t have