* * *
• • •
On Tuesday night, the eve of the decision, I’m in my room scrolling through College Confidential. In the past days, I’ve found it hard not to obsess over the threads where people inquire about their chances, posting résumés of extracurriculars, grade point averages, service programs in other countries, or inspiring charitable work. I’m chewing my nail, reading the post of one Hailey in Ottawa, when my email chimes.
The message is from Adam Elliot. I open it without reading the opening lines of the notification in the right-hand corner of my computer screen. I’ve continued to send Adam comprehensive updates on the reunion planning—he continues to rarely if ever reply. I have my doubts he reads them, doubts the cursory opening of this one hardly remediates.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Fairview Reunion
Glad you’re managing to stay within budget.
I roll my eyes. Adam never misses a chance to condescend to a high school student.
I know Harvard decisions are tomorrow. I wish I could tell you something reassuring, but admissions are very competitive. While I put in a word for you and Ethan, it’s ultimately going to come down to how qualified the admissions officer finds you.
There’s nothing else. I close the email, wishing I hadn’t read the reminder of how difficult achieving my dream is. I don’t need reminding. In general, and especially when I’m with Ethan, it’s easy to tell myself I’m going to get into Harvard. Easy to outwit and out-reason the possibilities my college hopes won’t go the way I’ve planned, to knock them down before they grow fearsome. I’m not faking. I really am confident. Just . . . no one is confident all the time.
Alone in my room on the eve of decisions, I can acknowledge it’s entirely possible I could fail. And I’m not practiced at failing.
I close out of College Confidential and grab my homework. While my desk lamp casts slanted shadows on my floor, I inhale and exhale, forcing Harvard and Ethan and condescension and uncertainty from my head. I open my French folder and reach past the neat pile of notebooks on my desk for a pen.
Before I’ve had the chance to conjugate one verb into passé imparfait, my bedroom door flies open. Jamie barges in, holding the most recent issue of the Chronicle.
“What the hell, Alison?” She holds up the paper, displaying my front-page story.
I don’t react, stunned into silence. It’s the first time in a while I’ve seen my sister anything but perfectly upbeat. Pink splotches stain her cheeks, her eyes narrowed and accusatory. I put together she’s read my article, and she’s not happy. “I told you I was writing a feature on your band,” I say defensively.
“Yeah, you did,” Jamie replies. “I thought it was going to be about Fairview alums reconnecting. Not how pathetic and lost we all are.”
Instincts for debate, inherited from my mother and perfected on Ethan, rear up within me. “In fairness, I never used the word pathetic—”
“Is this what you really think?” she cuts me off, shaking the paper.
“Jamie,” I say delicately. “You moved back home with your parents. You’re not even applying for jobs. If you’re not a little lost right now, then . . . I don’t understand what’s going on with you.”
“You’re right. You don’t understand, because you didn’t ask. This piece is bad writing.” Her voice flattens, her indignation fading into what looks like disappointment. “You may have forgotten that I worked on a collegiate paper, but I can tell you this wouldn’t have made it to print in the real world. You didn’t ask us one question about how we felt to be living at home or why we’re doing this. You decided on the story you wanted to tell, and only included the reporting that fit your own ideas. Maybe one day you’ll want my perspective. Maybe you don’t care. I certainly don’t have to justify my life to someone who shows so little interest in it.”
She drops the paper on my desk and moves to leave without giving me a chance to reply. Then she pauses near the door, her eyes on my whiteboard, where the Harvard decision date is prominently written.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she says. “I hope everything works out exactly the way you want.”
I start to stand when she exits into the hall. Part of me wants to follow her. I regret hurting her feelings, I really do. It was never my intention. Truthfully, I didn’t think she’d ever read the story.
But I sit back down. While I didn’t mean to hurt her, I don’t think she’s right. She’s just upset I inadvertently forced her to confront the reality she’s living in. I wrote nothing judgmental in my story. I just wrote nothing untrue, either. If she’s uncomfortable facing the facts of her life, I don’t think it’s entirely my fault. When she’s cooled down a little, I hope we can have a conversation about the story. Right now, however, I have enough to deal with without hearing Jamie try to defend every choice making her insecure.
I find my eyes returning to the Harvard date on my whiteboard. If Jamie doesn’t know who she is by now, I certainly can’t help her.
Thirty-Nine
I’M HOLED UP IN my office the next day, computer on my desk with my email open, phone displaying Harvard’s Twitter account, thumb compulsively refreshing the page. It’s three forty-five. The latest tweet says decisions will be posted at seven p.m. eastern, four p.m. for us. I set an alarm on my phone, more out of wanting to feel proactive than fearing I could possibly miss it. The newsroom is empty, the hallway outside echoing faintly with the orchestra rehearsing for their upcoming concert. It’s like a movie score playing over my anticipation. I’m fifteen minutes from the biggest moment of my life, and yet I’m unable to fully focus.
When I glanced over to Ethan in government today, I found him already looking at me. I held his gaze. Neither of us had a reason to stare at each other—we weren’t checking each other’s progress on a quiz or glaring just because. We stared anyway. We’d done okay pretending nothing had happened between us, but in that moment, I could practically feel his lips on my skin, his hands on my hips.
I haven’t stopped feeling them since. It’s funny. I honestly wish I was entirely devoted to freaking out about the Harvard decision instead of replaying memories I should find nauseating.
I refresh my email, hoping I can refresh my thoughts with it. The strategy works, my fear creeping back in. What if I don’t get in? What if I did everything right just to fall short? Who will I be if I fail at my biggest goal, the truest test of my abilities?