I quicken my steps to cross campus in time to pick up my essay. The College and Career Center pairs up seniors to read and review each other’s college essays. It’s mandatory, unfortunately, given the utter disinterest I have in my classmates’ opinions on my college prospects. I was paired with Paige Rosenfeld, who’s outstandingly weird, but luckily I don’t have to talk to her. Her essay was about feeling like she couldn’t help a classmate who was being bullied, and I gave her only a couple comments. Learning about Paige’s personal life isn’t exactly item number one on my priority list.
I have my essay to worry about. It needs to be perfect. I worked for the entire summer on the draft I submitted to the CCC. Writing, rewriting, reviewing. I even had Morgan’s boyfriend, Brad, who’s on track to follow in his dad’s footsteps to Harvard, edit it with permission to be harsh, or as harsh as Brad’s capable of.
Because I need it ready, polished, and perfect by November 1. The deadline for the Early Decision application for the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School.
It’s my dad’s alma mater. Even though we’ve never lived together, even though our relationship is admittedly dysfunctional, I’ve long wanted to go where he went. If I got in, he’d know I could. If I got in, we’d have Penn to share.
I walk into the College and Career Center with minutes left in lunch. It’s empty, and I cross the carpeted, overly clean room to the student mailboxes. I drop Paige’s essay off, then head to my box. The envelope with Paige’s comments on my essay sits on top. Hurriedly, I slide the pages loose and start scanning the red ink in the margins.
Which . . . there’s plenty of. I feel my heart drop, then race. I didn’t plan on particularly caring what Paige Rosenfeld had to say about my essay, but faced with this treatment, it’s hard to ignore.
I flip to the final page, where I find Paige has written a closing note. I force myself to focus on each sentence, even when I want to ignore every word.
This just reads as really, really inauthentic. Anyone could write this with a couple Google searches on UPenn. There’s no “you” in here. Whatever reason you want to go there, tell them. Try to find a little passion—and then start over.
I frown. Who is Paige to tell me what’s “authentic”? She doesn’t know me. It’s not like her essay was brilliant either. If I’d cared, I could have written her a note criticizing her trite choice of topic and overdramatic descriptions. Beaumont hardly has a bullying problem.
It’s embarrassing, reading feedback like this on writing I was proud of. The worst thing is, though, I know she’s right. I was so wrapped up in being professional that I didn’t get to anything personal.
But I refuse to be discouraged. I’m not like Bethany. If I could be broken by harsh words, I would have given up a long time ago. I will rewrite this essay, and I will get in to UPenn.
Inside my bag, my phone buzzes. I pull it out on reflex and find a text from Morgan.
The soccer team will be there. Looking forward to whatever you’re planning . . .
With half a grin, I flip my essay closed. I drop it into my bag, my thoughts turning to tonight.
Two
I’M LATE TO SKĀRA BECAUSE FRIDAY-NIGHT TRAFFIC on Highland is horrendous, and I had to hunt for half an hour for parking because I didn’t want to pay seventeen dollars for the garage. The club is on the top floor of a huge mall on Hollywood Boulevard, between tall apartment complexes and art deco movie theaters. I have to dodge tourists clogging the curb chatting in languages I don’t recognize and taking photos of the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
I finally reach the door, and the bouncer waves me in. The club is typically twenty-one and up, but tonight Rebecca Dorsey’s dad rented the place out for her birthday. They won’t serve us drinks, obviously, but people find creative ways to raise their blood alcohol content.
Under the erratic lighting, I spot him immediately.
He’s leaning on the velvet couch near the edge of the dance floor, laughing with the rest of the soccer team. He’s the picture of perfect carelessness. The picture of perfect hotness, too. He’s tall, built like the varsity athlete he is, and his smile stands out in his corner of the club. I watch him reach up with one arm to rub the back of his neck, pulling up the hem of his Beaumont soccer polo, exposing the strip of dark skin above his belt. It’s a nice strip, a really inviting strip.
This is my moment. I just have to walk up to him, join the conversation, and then lead him to a place where it’s just the two of us.
But I can’t.
The music pounds uncomfortably in my ears. I can’t even walk past the kitschy sculpture by the door.
I’ve wanted this for a year. I’ve planned for it. Why can’t I do this? It’s possible I’ve forgotten how to flirt. I’ve been rejecting guys for two years while developing this crush in secret. What if I’ve forgotten how this particular game is played?
I watch him roll his eyes at whatever idiotic thing Patrick Todd’s saying, and I know what’s coming next. His eyebrows twitch the way they do every time he’s preparing one of his effortless comebacks. He’s wonderfully no-bullshit.
It’s the first thing I ever loved about Andrew Richmond. Even when he was new to Beaumont, I noticed his quick and imperturbable humor. Our friendship deepened because we both felt out of place among our wealthy, glamorous classmates. Andrew had the added difficulty of being black in our predominately white school. For one reason or other, we both entered Beaumont feeling like outsiders.
I’ve talked to him countless times, but never in this context. Not even crappy pickup lines are coming to mind. I need help.
Feeling my heart race with frustration, I sweep the dance floor for my friends. People I know and people I don’t fill the crowded, darkened room. Morgan, dressed like a hipster on a Beverly Hills budget in a strappy gold dress with a beaded headband, perches on one of the L-shaped white couches near the balcony. She’s eyeing Brad with that eagerness I’ve learned to recognize—and avoid. I know where their night’s headed, and I won’t be interrupting that.
But in front of the bar, Elle’s running a finger down the arm of Jason Reid. Ugh. I have no problem interrupting Elle’s completely indefensible hookup plans. Before she can pull Jason into a dark corner, I cross the room and grab her by the elbow.
“Cameron!” she protests.
I ignore her and usher us both into the ladies’ restroom. I close the door, and Elle walks past me. I give the restroom a once-over. It’s filthy, and the dimmed lights don’t hide the spilled drinks and littered tissues on the floor. In one stall a girl in a sequined dress holds her friend’s hair while she dry-heaves over the toilet.
“I hope there’s a very good reason you pulled me away from Jason,” Elle says, raising an expectant eyebrow.