50 Harvard Essays

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was writing on Dutch painters, so I said that I wasn’t. I got in the truck with Wyatt, 
and we hit the road, heading to Barberton. 
“Why are we going to Barberton?” I asked Wyatt. 
“I got a plan,” he replied, sounding dark. I noticed that there was a funny odor in the 
car – it smelled like beer. Had Wyatt been drinking? I wondered. I didn’t say 
anything, though; I didn’t want to lose face in front of someone I respected. There 
was a pained silence in the car as we sped towards Barberton. As I kept a firm eye 
on the road, making sure that Wyatt wasn’t swerving or driving too fast, I 
recollected that Friday was the day of the Barberton football game. 
We pulled up in the lot of the Barberton high school. I remained silent. To this day, 
I wonder why I didn’t say something, why I couldn’t find words to stop him. We got 
out of the truck; Wyatt got a pair of lockcutters out from under his seat, and I 
followed him around the back of the high school. You could puncture the silence with 
a stiletto. 
I realized, too late, what was happening. Barberton was our high school rival; every 
year, people from our school talked about kidnapping the Barberton mascot, a male 
baboon named Heracles that they kept in a shed behind the school. Nobody actually 
did anything about it, though. Wyatt, though, seemed intent on changing that. I 
followed dumbly, my heart heavy with angst. 
“Wyatt, this is lunacy,” I told him. He said nothing, only smiled menacingly. I could 
smell the alcohol on his breath. I didn’t know what to do; I followed his directions 
when he told me to stand guard. Quickly and skillfully he cut the lock holding the 
door shut, then opened the door. It was pitch-black inside the shed; Heracles was 
evidently asleep. He called out the beast’s name; something stirred inside, there 
was a yawn, and Heracles came shambling out. I had never seen the monkey before; 
I was surprised at how friendly and well-mannered he was. He scrutinized us, 
looking for some kind of a handout I guess – how was he to know what Wyatt had in 
mind? Wyatt was impressed with Heracles’s friendliness: he told me that this was 
going to be easier than we had thought. The monkey good-naturedly followed us 
back to the parking lot. With a little work, we succeeded in getting him into the back 
of the pickup truck. Wyatt threw a tarp over him, we got in the cab, and we started 
off, my brain full of anxiety. 
Heracles, though, didn’t seem to like the back of the truck that much. Somehow, he 
managed to get out from under the tarp; with a bound, he had jumped from the 
truck to the parking lot. Something tripped in Wyatt right then; to this day, I’m not 
sure what it was. I suspect it was the alcohol. 
You have to draw the line somewhere. On that day, what started off as a simple high 
school prank went horribly wrong. It’s important to support your friends, but there 
are some things that are simply not allowed – and running over a monkey with a 
pickup truck is one of them. Wyatt was out of control that night. Rage took hold of 
him: he was no longer my friend, he had sunk lower than the ape crushed beneath 
the wheels of his truck. And so, on a chilly day in December, I found myself on the 
witness stand, forced to bear witness against my best friend. Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s 
words coursed through my blood that day: fate had taken the paths of our lives 

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