by Jacob Allen
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I hadn’t exactly planned it all out, but when I heard Malia Obama was taking a gap year, I decided to take one too. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not some kind of stalker or anything. It’s just ever since seeing her take the stage at the Democratic Convention in 2008, I knew she had to be mine. I remember so clearly, that night after the convention, as I lay in my bed, cellphone clutched in my hand, feverishly Googling her and finding out, to my astonishment, that her 13th birthday was the same day as my bar mitzvah. I knew then it was fate: we were meant to be together.
The first thing I had to do was find out where she was going. That part was easy; Buzzfeed had written an article about her internship for the American ambassador in Madrid. I booked my ticket and flew over, landing a little job volunteering at an orphanage down the street from the embassy. I made sure to walk past the entrance four or five times a day, hoping she would emerge, so I could profess my love, or ask her out for some tapas.
One day, while I was pretending to read The Audacity of Hope on the bench outside the embassy, two black SUV’s pulled up. A bodyguard emerged from the first vehicle, walked to the second, and opened the door. Out stepped Malia, looking incredible in a peach tank top and jeans. I jumped to my feet. This was my moment!
“Malia!” I yelled. She turned. “Do you want to do something sometime?”
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I replied, “But you probably don’t remember…I was sitting in the third row second from the aisle on the stage in Cleveland when your dad made a speech there in 2010. I thought we might have made eye contact…”
“Ms. Obama, let’s go, this guy is a weird,” said one of her bodyguards.
And just like that they walked away, and I sat back on the bench with tears running down my cheeks. But it was not the end, I would not give up that easily.
A month passed and Malia did not show up in front of the embassy again. I grew to suspect she may be using a back entrance. I was growing desperate, and the orphanage was growing tiresome. I had chosen the job because I knew it would impress Malia. But the orphans demanded endless attention and were always asking annoying questions like “Where is my mother?” and “Does anyone love me?” to which I would respond “dead” and “probably not”. I felt my situation would not improve unless I resorted to bolder strokes. So, I tore up my passport and made an appointment to get a new one at the embassy.
In the days before the appointment, I readied myself. I knew it would be difficult. I Googled, trying to find out where the ambassador’s office was, finally finding a nice man on Reddit willing to sell me blueprints of the embassy. It ended up being a pain getting them from him: I had to buy a disposable phone and meet him in a crowded nightclub. It was suspicious, but kind of fun! Spaniards are crazy, and what partygoers!
On that morning, I readied myself. The blueprints stuffed in my backpack, I donned my best shirt, applied copious amounts of deodorant and stuffed my Hillary pin into my pocket.
I entered the embassy and made a b-line to the bathroom. Spreading the map out on the baby-changing station, I oriented myself to the ambassador’s office. It was on the second floor above the gardens. I exited the bathroom and walked hurriedly into the gardens. After a quick glance around, I began to climb the red brick wall. Clutching onto the edge of the window, I was able to pull myself up and sit precariously on the windowsill. I heaved at the window. It was shut tight. Dammit! Oh Malia! You tease me so!
I went home, new passport in hand. I would have traded it in a second for one more look into Malia’s eyes.
I found the back entrance. ☺
For six days I waited, and on the seventh two SUVs pulled up and let her off.
“Malia!” I cried out for the second time.
Once again she turned. I fumbled in my jacket pocket for the poetry I had written for her and looked up. Her bodyguard was barreling towards me, arms outstretched. I stumbled backwards, tripping. I fell, my head cracking on the cold Spanish cobblestones. A vision of her face surrounded by shimmering stars hovered before my eyes. Then everything went black.
I woke up, eyes fuzzy and bandages wrapped around my head. I groaned in pain. Then a woman’s voice spoke from by bedside:
“I liked your poetry,” it said.
“I love you,” I replied.
Critique
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This piece is clearly meant to be funny. Your sense of humor had me chuckling. It’s not in my face—it’s sarcastic and quippy, and I got a kick out of reading this. Here are a few points I’d recommend going back over to improve. Since this story isn’t as focused on aesthetic quality I’m not going to spend much time discussing description and imagery. We’ll just stick with the good old basics.
Some thoughts I had as I read:
1st paragraph: “I remember so clearly…” This sentence is a run-on and left me breathless. I’d cut it up—maybe after “feverishly Googling her”? Also if you rephrase the beginning of the sentence to “I remember the night after the convention so clearly: laying in bed, cellphone…”, it’ll flow a lot better.
I love how nonchalantly your MC discusses moving to Madrid, as if it’s no big deal. Small note: the semicolon after “That part was easy” should be a colon.
“…so I could profess my love, or ask her out for some tapas.” You don’t need a comma here. On another note, I love the regional flare with the touch of tapas! Great discrete sense of setting!
“…two black SUV’s pulled up.” Typo: “SUV’s” should be “SUVs”. Plural, not possessive.
“Out stepped Malia, looking incredible…” It’s nitpick-y, but “looking incredible” could be replaced with some stronger word choice. Try “dazzling” or “a picture of perfection”.
This whole exchange with Malia (and his response) is overdramatic and I love it. Typo: “But it was not the end, I would not give up…”—the comma should be a period.
“I grew to suspect…I was growing desperate…” Watch your repetition of “grow”. You can replace one of these.
His interactions with the orphans is a touch of dark humor that perfectly characterizes him. We’re really getting to know your main character in so few words.
“On that morning, I readied myself.” Watch your repetition—you already said “I readied myself” in the previous paragraph.
“I found the back entrance :) “ Is this a text? Do you have a reason for including it? It’s not wrong by any means—I’m just curious.
Your ending is quirky and clever, just like the rest of the story. It matches well.
Now that we’ve got my first-read thoughts out of the way, here are a few more generalized tidbits:
Your verbs are all functional. But I’d encourage you to go through and find some more descriptive ones. Not to necessarily make your writing more formal or stiff—I like the easy tone and casualness of your narrator. But “sat back on the bench” can be “plopped…”, “entered the embassy” can be “slunk into…”, “exited the bathroom” can be “scurried out”, etc.
I pointed it out a few times up above, but watch your repetition of word choice. Oftentimes reading your piece out loud can help you catch what a simple proofread won’t.
Your voice and characters are strong, as are your tiny touches of time and place (the tapas, the Hillary pin, the crowded nightclub in Madrid). This is a well-crafted little tale. Thank you for sharing!
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