I think for a second. “I want to make the anti-college essay. It’ll be exactly the opposite of that bullshit everyone writes, and instead of writing it, ’cause writing sucks, we will video it.”

“Cute but no. We need an A.”

“I’m serious! This is a good idea! And we can put it on YouTube or whatever, and college admissions people everywhere will have their minds freaking blown.”

“Cham! We have so much work to do—we don’t have time to make a video.”

I hop off the stool and kneel at her feet, clasping my hands together, my lower lip protruding. “Just one little video. I just want one true thing.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I realize how true it is. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t get myself to write this damn essay. “Look, we need your old dance costumes, okay? We have to get into the performance of it.”

“Cham…”

“Oh, come on! We made silly videos all the time freshman year, remember? There was that one where we put on black lipstick and pretended to haunt ourselves.”

She laughs. “Yeah, and the one where we cut masks out of cardboard boxes and just did the stupidest shit and put it on Instagram.”

“Yeah! The problem is that in the last year or two everyone’s been so caught up in their extracurriculars and college applications and stupid baloney grades that no one just fucks around anymore.”

I grab a wooden spoon off the counter and smack the steel pot. Its ringing reverberates off every metal surface in the kitchen: the toaster, the refrigerator, the oven, even the claddagh ring on Abigail’s finger with the heart always pointing out.

“I WANT TO FUCK AROUND!” I yell over my own ruckus. “AND THEN I WANT TO TELL THOSE BUTTMUNCH COLLEGE ADMISSIONS PEOPLE ALL ABOUT IT!”

Abigail laughs and shakes her head with her hands over her ears. “You’re a nut,” she yells. “Quit it before I go deaf.”

I put the spoon down. “Come on, we’re doing it.”

“We are not doing it.” She crosses her arms.

“Shut up and get the music,” I tell her. “Oh, and for props we need that black swan feather mask in your room and blue lipstick and cooked spaghetti.”

Her eyes widen. “Um, what the hell are we going to do with all of those things?”

“We’re gonna perform a damn good college essay. We’re gonna perform one with heart,” I say excitedly.

She goes upstairs and I swipe a little of that pinky-bluish-purple shade of iridescent marvelousness on my pinkie finger. I haven’t actually felt excited in a really long time. I was excited about prom and graduation, but that was more of a mental thing. And yeah, I got excited about Gene and hooking up with Gene, but that was a different kind of excitement. What I feel right now is potential: potential to say one true thing, to create one real thing. In a world where everything seems to be a long to-do list where the last thing to do is die, this is a tiny, tiny rebellion. To say what I am, to actually reflect. It’s kind of absolutely thrilling. It’s also an excellent way to procrastinate.