I’ve always wanted to be able to tell people that I work in an aquarium.

Not because I like fish or anything. To be honest, I haven’t been to the aquarium since a class trip in fifth grade, and that started with a series of unfortunate hair-pullings between Amy Fildner and me and ended with gum in Amy Fildner’s hair. I did what I needed to clinch my rightful victory. Mr. Hasser disagreed.

I didn’t get to see much of the aquarium.

No, I don’t work in an aquarium. But I’d tell them about being flooded by light, light reflected through water, and serenity, and things I can control. I would tell them I wave to a whale when I get to work, and then maybe wave to a shark. I wouldn’t tell them I feed the shark, because I like to stay alive in my fantasies.

I would tell them I’m an astronaut if they’d believe me. I’d tell them I was the first woman on the moon, and I’d accuse them of being sexists when they don’t look that impressed. I would tell them that the night before my last trip, my husband intertwined his fingers in mine and said he would miss me.

“I’ll be back soon,” I would tell them I’d said. I would tell them I kissed him softly and whispered, “See that up there? If you just can’t make it, you know where to find me.” There would be a wink in there. I would tell them there was a handsome astronaut in the International Space Station that tried to woo me by giving me a flower, or a packet of space mashed potatoes, or something. But I stayed faithful because I love my author/dancer/doctor husband.

I would tell them all of that, but no one would believe it. I pant when I walk down the stairs, and, more often than not, I trip on my way down too. I also don’t have a wedding ring, or a tan line where a ring would have been.

Sometimes I want to tell them I’m the CEO—or CPO, or maybe even CPEFQO—of a business. It’s a hedge fund in New York, I’d say, one of the biggest hedge funds in the world. I would blush when I’d tell them that my cookbook, Balancing Success and Diets, just made it to the top of the New York Times bestseller list, to show how humbled I am. I would tell them that my assistant spilled coffee on my dry cleaning yesterday, but I forgave him because the mistakes I made built me up to be the person I am now.

I’d base the details of the spill on a stint last October when I accidentally poured a cup of coffee on a customer. The customer was a real asshole, and she wasn’t so happy about it. I would have responded better, especially if it was my assistant who spilled coffee on me, and if I was a CPEFQO.

“One day,” I’d tell them I told my assistant, “You’ll understand what I mean.”

I still remember the way James eyed me down last Monday as he moved the Kit Kat across the desk.

“What are you willing to offer?” He raised an eyebrow and squinted his eyes.

My hands were already sticky from the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had for lunch, and the moisture developing in my palms didn’t help. Don’t show him, I thought. You got this.

I glared into his dark blue eyes and refused to look at the chocolate bar. “How do I know I can trust you?” I asked.

James tilted his head back, cackled, then stopped abruptly and leaned in. “My product is some of the finest this class has ever seen. Heck, the finest this 4th grade has ever seen!” He paused. “So really, what choice do you have?”

“I have plenty,” I assured, though he and I knew I had none. I stole a glance at the rainbow clock on the wall. Recess was over and we both sensed it. Panting and chatty, our competitors filed into the room and took their seats.

“Well then,” he snickered as he sat back in his chair, “get back to me when those options run out.”

I dug my nails into the plastic baggie of cut up apples in my hand, took out my favorite Powerpuff Girls folder, and did my best not to show how upset I was when my nail polish came off or even look in his direction. With one last bit of guts, right as Mrs. Greener was about to start, I turned to him and whispered, “not gonna happen.”

I really hope he didn’t notice I clenched my apples into sauce.
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Slightly abridged version, written for a final paper, based on Lucian’s “The True History.”

Welcome to Barnard! My name is Tova, and I’ll be your tour guide today! It’s hard to believe that it’s been a whole two years since I’ve been in your place: eager to find an academic institution that would find me worthy, eager to find the perfect place to accumulate knowledge and experience. So eager, in fact, that I spent many a sleepless night studying for the SATs, working on supplementary essays, and staring at my computer screen in a stress coma. If I’m not mistaken, that young lady over there is falling asleep just as I talk! Don’t worry, bud. If you’re not up for this tour, please go and take a nap. There’s a really comfy couch on the third floor of that building over there.

In fact, I’m going to give all of you a break. Whether this is your first college tour or your fiftieth, I’m sure you’ve all heard the same El Dorado spiels of grassy lawns and peppy clubs. Some places even create their own unique forms of deceit! I won’t go on calling out other colleges, but I might as well mention the University of Pennsylvania, who told you that there’s plenty to do in the city of Philadelphia; or Boston University, who told you that despite the huge campus, everyone knows each other by name; or the University of Maryland, which claims it houses a bowling alley. Obviously, none of this is possible. But it makes for a hell of a tour, so Barnard followed suit. For the past sixty days, I’ve given countless tours spewing the same old bullshit you’ve all heard since you engaged in this downward spiral that is college apps. I’m not so shocked by the corruption of the tours as much as I am by the credulity of all the suckers I’ve brought around. So, you know what? I can use a break too! Let’s be honest with each other, shall we? I’m going to tell you, right here, right now, that I have no intention whatsoever of telling the truth throughout our time together. This should be fun. Let’s get started!
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