Chapter 37: Impostors

Sunday, October 3, 1982

We spent all of study group working on the PSAT. Tuesday would be more of the same. This should be easy stuff, but every last vocabulary word, analogy, or little math trick we could pick up might help.

I’d love nothing more than for every one of my friends to get a National Merit-qualifying score on the PSAT. It didn’t hurt at all that one of those friends was my girlfriend, and that she could use the confidence boost. Nor that another was Angie, who — however different she might be — needed it, too. College was going to be different this time for her. For me, too, but far more for her.

I chatted just a bit with Jas about Blue. After Jas had told her off several times, firmly (which I was pretty sure meant shouting), Blue had gone quiet. No phone calls, no mail, no nothing. I’d be happy if it stayed that way forever, but would it? Only time would tell.

Jasmine stopped me on the way into Debate. “Sam wants a rematch. With at least you, maybe both of us.”

“Um ... well, I have to check my social calendar.”

She giggled. “I knew you’d say that. Look, especially if we can sneak away from the game early — which we totally should be able to, the way Memorial’s kicking ass — and get some couple time Friday, then Saturday evening’s good. It’d be fun, after the test, and after your ... computer thing.” She wrinkled her nose at that, cutely. “Probably we all go out to dinner and then ... we’ll see. I could be up for some ... togetherness.”

“I don’t doubt that in the least. It works for me, if it works for you. I should be free around five or six on Saturday.”

“I’m not pushing this on you, right?”

“No. I promise. If I feel like that, I’ll say so. Sam’s cool and this has been around for a long time. Seriously, Jas, I’m not at all opposed to ... things. Things are fun.”

I grinned and wiggled my eyebrows, getting a giggle.

“The only time it’s been a problem was when there were good reasons to say no, and we both know what was really going on there. And there’ll be good reasons, and good times, to say no, again. But there are plenty of times to say ‘Hell, yes, can’t wait!’ as well. This is one of those.”

“Good. I just want to be a little more careful and ask things like that.”

“Thanks, honey.”

We smooched, then headed into class.

Monday, October 4, 1982

Meg had a few words for us at the start of class.

“Everyone! This was the first weekend — ever — that I’ve had a nearly equal split in the team like that. Oh, we split a little before — for instance, when most of us went to New Orleans and others stayed behind to qualify — but this was different. I’m just as proud of you whose accomplishments I wasn’t there to see as those I was. For the next trip, Steffie’s heading to Galveston, and I’m taking the Westchester group. I wish it were the other way around, but Westchester needs my help,” she said, sighing.

She cleared her throat, then continued. “I hope all of you are getting ready for Emory. I need final confirmations in one week.”

Angie and I, and Jas — and nearly everyone, really — were long since confirmed, of course, so that hardly mattered. Perhaps I should call Jeff, but otherwise, we were good. Now, if Laura turned up, we’d really be stretching coincidence. But that was unlikely. Wasn’t it?

Meg continued, “I do have one announcement. Our TBD is no longer TBD. It is out of town, and you will have to hit up your parents for money. Again. Much less money, though — the school’s springing for the bus. But the hotel and such is up to you, as always. Anyway ... our destination will be Grapevine High School. For those that don’t know, that’s between Dallas and Fort Worth. And, for those who don’t keep track...”

At this point I looked around. I knew what the big deal was. Lizzie and Janet obviously knew. Amit knew. Angie either knew or was picking up on the others’ excitement. Megan, surprisingly, seemed to know. Even more surprisingly, Bree was bouncing a little. On the other hand, Sue wasn’t reacting, nor was Cammie. Must not have been paying quite enough attention. This was a fairly big deal. Not by itself, but put a few things together...

“Grapevine’s tournament is a qualifier for Tournament of Champions.”

Minor pandemonium broke out. That gave us Emory, UT’s Invitational — which only some of us would attend, but it’d be those most likely to do well — and now Grapevine. ToC required two high finishes to qualify. With three tournaments to qualify, and given how we’d done in New Orleans, we could do this. We might send people to both ToC and Nationals this year. That would be pretty awesome.

It was especially awesome for me, the only one in the room who knew firsthand that — in some next-door universe — Memorial had gone to none of those three tournaments this season. Had not gone to Isidore Newman, either. Had not even had a chance to send someone to ToC. Heck, for that matter, we hadn’t gone to Bryan — that Meg had opted for Kingwood, since we didn’t really rate all these out-of-town trips. No Galveston, either. Different world, different results.

And then ... it hit me. I must have looked stunned. Cammie gave me a curious look. Angie, who probably had a better clue, gave me a worried look. I shook my head and smiled. She smiled back, still looking worried, but less so.

I’d loved Debate my first go-round. I could — did — still credit it for, well ... not quite saving my life, but rescuing it. My first-go-round wouldn’t have been Iceberg Steve, but I would’ve been ... lesser. I’d loved it, and it’d loved me back. I was never ‘awesome,’ but I was a valuable part of the team.

So, when I came back, of course I did more of it, and it’d loved me back even more. But ... what if it hadn’t? What if first-go-round me had been to these amazing places and seen his friends go to Nationals, and this me had found us ... well, comparatively mediocre. No Coach of the Year, maybe only Ted’s Nationals.

What would I be thinking then? Probably: ‘Did I do this? Is it my fault that my friends aren’t living their dreams?’ And maybe it would be. Maybe it wouldn’t. But ... if there are infinite universes...

Nah. I had to assume it wasn’t just random, and that there wasn’t some universe where eager, earnest second-life Steve had walked into Debate and apparently pulled the whole thing down from the greatness it should have had. Thinking that was a possibility was ... depressing. Even ... unhealthy.

No way to ever know, but ... it mattered that I believed what seemed to be true: that I, and Angie, had between us shifted this corner of the world towards a better one for us and the people we cared about. It seemed obvious that was true. Certainly the teams that would have won, if not for us, might not agree that it was ‘better.’ But ... I could live with that. You roll the dice, you take your chances, even if some piece of fate has loaded them a bit. Or more than a bit.

When I pulled out of my little introspective trance, Meg was talking. “ ... know all of you will keep working hard and kicking butt, just like you have been. You’re all tired of it, but I’ll repeat — you are a terrific group of kids and it’s truly an honor to be your coach. You all make me so proud. Now ... let’s see how much damage we can do!”

Everyone cheered, and there was much hugging and back-clapping and handshaking. Then ... we all got to work. Because that’s what we do.

I thought about it on the drive, trying to not zone out too much. The thought that it was just alternate universes, just probability ... just ‘luck’ ... that route lead right towards one of my most pernicious pieces of baggage. One I’d fought off and on my whole first life — mostly winning the battle — and which obviously wasn’t done with me yet.

‘Impostor Syndrome’ is the official name. It’s particularly common in smart people, because things come easily to them that society says aren’t easy. When you’re told five hundred times that good grades require hours of study and reviewing your notes and doing all the sample problems, or that a solid paper requires several drafts, and you’re consistently making A’s or B’s while paying half attention in class and doing the assigned homework (during the previous class, on the day it’s due) and you’re turning in your unedited first drafts and getting A’s, then ... maybe you’re just lucky, right? The experts all say that it takes work, and you didn’t put in the work.

And you get done with high school, and the message intensifies. ‘Ah!’ they say, ‘Perhaps you got away with that in high school! Now, you’re in college! You should spend at least as many hours a week studying for a class as the number of credit hours you get! More! Nothing comes easy!’ Yet, there you are, still learning almost all of the material in class, still only rereading a bit of the textbook, still turning in those first drafts, and the grades keep coming.

Fraud! Impostor! Sooner or later they’ll catch you! And, when they do, everyone will know what you did!

Like I said: it’s common among smart people. I’d known at least a couple of dozen people who admitted to some level of it. It would sneak in and undermine you at every setback. ‘Here it is! The moment the world has waited for! Now you’ll be exposed!’

I’d fought it, and I’d mostly won. Or at least reached a comfortable draw.

If all our success was just a convenient, friendly universe, then we had Impostor Syndrome on a cosmic scale. It wasn’t our doing, it wasn’t our work, it was just convenient probability. And that was devastating, long-term. I couldn’t let myself believe that, because down that path led frustration and fear and maybe madness.

It’s one thing to have a syndrome that has a name and makes sense. It still sucks, but you can step outside yourself and say ‘Look, these other really incredible people have this, too, and they’re not ‘impostors’. It’s another when you think, even for a moment, that the whole damn universe is in on the joke.

Bad, bad, bad. Don’t think about it. Do not go there.

Angie finally let out the question she’d been holding back the instant we were alone in the car, just after dropping off Jasmine.

“What?!”

“All that ... it’s not what happened before. I mean, you know that.”

“No Grapevine?”

“No Grapevine, no Emory, no UT — no Bryan, for that matter. Kingwood, yeah. No Galveston, just Westchester. And U. Penn, which we’re not doing. And shouldn’t be, since I’m pretty sure it’s not ToC.”

“So, we rock. We know that.”

“Sis?”

“Yeah?”

“Imagine the opposite,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Imagine happy, earnest Steve comes back from dying and returns to what he loved the first time. He signs up for Debate, looking forward to seeing his friends go off to Nationals and ToC and who knows what all. And he finds himself going to U. Penn, and the team going ... well, a lot of places, but no place big.”

“What? Oh! Oh, that would... suck!”

“I convinced myself it’s not likely, because the alternative is ... unhealthy.”

She bit her lip. “I ... yeah. If it’s all random and we’re not making things better, if we could make things worse just as easily, maybe are ... yeah. That’s unhealthy.”

“It’s not just that. It’s ... it undermines the idea that the good things are meaningful. It makes them just luck. And, if they’re luck, maybe it’s all luck. Maybe our grades are luck. Maybe everything is luck. Maybe luck changes tomorrow and we suddenly look like frauds, because our grades suck, and everyone laughs at us and says ‘Look at them. They’re nothing but lucky idiots whose luck ran out.’”