Right.
“Well, come on, let me in,” I say, flapping a hand at the knob.
He raises an eyebrow, cheeks still flushed from practice. “Need it that bad, huh? I’m a little wiped, but my stroke game is probably still on point.” That cocky grin of his disappears the instant I hold up the bundle of letters. He swipes them from my hand flipping through, realizing. “Chicago came.”
I confirm. “Chicago came.”
He stares down at the stack, eyes jumping up to me. “So, we’re going to do this?”
“We’re going to do this.”
“Are you going to just keep repeating everything I say?”
I push his shoulder. “Open the door!”
“Alright, geez. So much for patience being a virtue.” Despite his grumbling, I can tell from the way he fumbles with his keys that he’s just as anxious as I am.
We get into his suite, which is thankfully nice and tidy. I’ve discovered that the state of Sebastian’s living space holds a direct correlation to his mood. I turn around in the room, watching him dump his things off, holding the letters carefully out of the way.
When he’s done, he says, “Okay,” and drops down on the couch. “Which first. SCAD, right?”
I frown at the way he says it, like it should be obvious. “Why SCAD?”
“Because,” he explains, giving me a quick, guilty look. “Save the best ones for last, right? Not that SCAD isn’t a good school, or that I don’t want you to get in, or that I wouldn’t—”
I drop into the space at his side, stopping him. “No, I get it. Three-hour drive between there and Emory.” It was the closest school his dad approved of.
He hands me one envelope and plucks another from the stack. “You first.”
I nod, taking a breath before jamming my nail between the—
“Fuck, wait,” he says, jolting forward. “Hold on.” I watch in confusion as he crosses the room, toeing his shoes off and kicking them aside. He bends to grab another, darting back to the couch to put them on.
Baffled, I ask, “What are you doing?”
He shoots me a glance as he tightens the laces, a lock of hair falling in his eyes. “They’re my lucky shoes.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, you have lucky shoes?”
“Laugh all you want, but these babies,” He sinks back into the couch, kicking a foot up on the table, “have won me many fights.”
“You know what? I’m not even going to comment on that.” I rip open the envelope, stomach fluttering as I pull out the letter and unfold it. I scan it quickly, not feeling any less full of nerves when I realize, “I got in.”
“Good,” he says, like it was never even in question. He rips open the one from Emory, eyes sliding over the page. “Me, too.”
We both pause, looking at each other.
“They’re good schools.”
He agrees, “Some of the best.”
I nod, eyes straying to the other letters, “But I’m sure we got into others.”
He tosses his letter aside. “I’m gonna be real here. Emory would never let me live it down if I went to Emory.”
“That would get confusing.” I’m not sure why anyone would name their kids after their alma maters, but that’s the Halls.
I fold my legs beneath me to contain my bouncing knee. “Chicago next.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Not feeling the Chi-town, huh.”
I hurry to add, “Not that Northwestern isn’t an amazing school! Of course, I mean, obviously that’s a fine option.”
“Better than Emory and SCAD,” he volleys back.
“Exactly.” He hands me the envelope to Chicago and we tear into them at the same time, the room quiet as we read the letters. I exhale slowly. “I got in.”
Sebastian frowns at his. “Waitlisted? The fuck?” He turns it over, like maybe he’s expecting an explanation.
“It’s not a rejection,” I say, trying to sound excited.
But he just snatches the letter from my hand and throws them both aside. “Fuck Chicago.”
Trying for a rueful smile, I reach for the next two. “Okay, Rhode Island and Brown!”
Easily distracted, he tears open the envelope while I rip into mine. “Well,” he says, “Brown at least knows what’s good.” He turns the letter, showing me his acceptance.
My stomach sinks when I read mine. “Oh. I didn’t get in.”
“What?!” He rips the letter out of my hand. “That’s bullshit!”
I shrug, trying to shake it off. “Come on, two out of four? That’s really good, considering. And SCAD and Chicago are really good schools, so it’s not like I don’t have options.”
He’s still seething at my rejection letter. “Well if you’re good enough for SCAD and Chicago, then you’re good enough for Rhode fucking Island. What’s so great about Rhode Island anyway? The world’s largest bug?”
I reluctantly point out, “I actually still want to see that.”
“Nah.” He tosses both letters aside with the rest. “Fuck Rhode Island. We’re not going there, we’re boycotting. Let’s open Yale.” He hands me one of the last two envelopes, and he looks so casual about opening it that I don’t have the heart to tell him that’s it for me.
It was the only really big-league school I applied to, and even that was mostly a lark. I was already well aware it’d take a miracle, but if I couldn’t get into Rhode Island, then I have absolutely no shot at a place like Yale.
Somehow oblivious to this very simple fact, Sebastian rips right into his, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as he reads. I know from the slow smile that curves his mouth that it’s good news. His eyes rise to mine. “Got in.” And then he turns to the discarded Northwestern letter, flipping it a middle finger. “Suck on that, bitches.”
I roll my eyes, but inside, my chest aches. Yale is such an amazing school and now he’s going to have to choose between it and me. “Bass...”
“Don’t give me that look.” He nudges the letter in my hand. “Open it before you admit defeat.”
My face feels warm as I open it, knowing that I’m going to have to be rejected twice in front of him. And then he’ll get mad. He’ll say a bunch of bullshit about how it’s their loss. He’ll say he won’t even want to go to Yale anymore, not if they don’t want—
I shoot to my feet. “Oh my god, I got in!” I don’t actually believe it, even after reading it three times, hand clutched to my chest. How the fuck does Cliff trash get into Yale motherfucking University? I look at Sebastian, eyes wide. “Did you have something to do with this?”
He’s halfway up himself, expression caught somewhere between celebration and confusion. “What am I, the mob? I got waitlisted at fucking Northwestern. If I had that kind of pull, I think I could have gotten you into Rhode Island, don’t you think?”
“So this is just…”
“Just you,” he says, gently plucking the letter from my hand. He folds it carefully with his own, blue eyes shining back at me. “Because you’re fucking awesome Sugar Voss.”