Hey, how did ED go for you?
Did you get good news today?
Did you get into Harvard, or not?
Luckily, Rebecca does the job for me. “Avery sent you over here to ask me about Harvard, I’m guessing? You want to know if your sabotage paid off?”
“Uh—uh,” I stammer, and Rebecca rolls her eyes and huffs.
“I could never prove it, but we all know you guys are rotten. Milo was a low blow. But please reassure your queen that I didn’t even apply to Harvard. Changed my mind about attending school with her. I got into Stanford today.”
“Oh! Congratulations.” I mean it, because Stanford and also because she’s legit smart and talented. Game respects game. But Rebecca’s news is a sharp pinprick to my balloon as well. I am back at square one. Rebecca catches my crestfallen expression.
“She didn’t get in,” she hisses through her teeth. “You’re trying to find out who did. Oh, shit, that is hilarious.” Rebecca straight-up giggles. “I don’t know who else applied, sorry. What about you?”
“What?” My whole body washes cold.
“Where did you apply?”
It’s a normal question. She doesn’t know. I smile and practice my lies. “Penn. I saw speculation on the ApplyingToCollege subreddit that decisions will drop tomorrow.”
Rebecca nods politely. “Well, good luck. Hope you didn’t have to sleep with anyone to get there.” She makes her exit on that zinger, a bridge too far. No, I never had to sleep with someone for the Ivies. We’re not that bad. Although there was Ingrid…but I forget about her for now. Sophomore year was a million years ago.
Now alone, I lean against the window frame, surveying the room. Sierra has infiltrated the video-game clique, now talking animatedly with Diana. Across the room, I see Emma batting her eyelashes at Chris Hardin. The RD mission is in full swing. Margot now seems to be in deep conversation with Milo McNamara. Sierra was right. Guess she’s got a thing for him. Avery is nowhere to be seen.
I check the Google Doc on my phone. The ED/RD list is getting filled out. For RD, Jason Wang is applying to Carnegie Mellon as his top choice. Eden Hannon to Tulane and Tufts. Seth Feldstein to Cornell and Georgia Tech. Autumn Hollander got into Emory. Avery’s added a comment. Following her ex-girlfriend to college? Pathetic.
I input Rebecca’s Stanford information and check the second sheet. The Harvard tab is empty. I don’t even know who to talk to next, so instead I nurse my drink and watch the racing matches until a gurgling suck indicates I’m empty.
Back in the kitchen, I find Avery shoving Fritos into her mouth by the handful.
“Stress eating?” I ask, grabbing a refill. I’m generous with the vodka this time.
“Want to join me?”
She knows I do. This is what Avery and I have the most in common. Self-soothing through food. She has to be in a very bad place to carb load on junk food, though. Usually her version of stress eating is swapping out her light balsamic salad dressing for creamy ranch.
I tuck in with her, grabbing another slice of pizza for good measure. We nosh and sip for a good two minutes. I’m afraid if I speak first, I’ll blurt something stupid. Instead, she does.
“Where are you applying RD?” she asks. I bristle.
“Penn decisions aren’t out until tomorrow. I might get in.”
“I know.” I can hear the obvious doubt. She didn’t get into Harvard, so why would I get into Penn, right? “But if you don’t?”
“Northwestern. Boston University. Syracuse.”
“No Ivies?”
“They’ll have filled their spots with ED, don’t you think?” It is the cattiest, bitchiest thing I can say, and I know it. I’m mad at her for the Penn dig. “And I’m focusing on a journalism school strategy. The best ones aren’t the highest-ranked elites.”
“Sure.” What Avery really means: That’s what you tell yourself.
“Rebecca Ito’s going to Stanford.” I change the subject. Kind of. Shit-talking others’ college prospects feels comfortable.
“So she didn’t take my spot. Good.”
“I can’t figure out who else would have applied,” I say. Somehow I led myself right here, precisely to where I didn’t want to be. “Maybe Sierra will have more luck.” I nervously eye Emma across the room. I wish she’d drop the bomb already.
The music changes from a rap song to a country-pop crossover. Avery hops down from the barstool.
“I’m going to dance. You coming?”
“In a minute.” I decide to enjoy the rest of my drink first. The sooner I switch to water, the better.
“Hey, Olivia.” The familiar voice fills my stomach with butterflies. I turn inelegantly to find Ethan. He reaches past me to grab some chips. “Why are you by yourself?”
“No reason, why?”
“Hey, it wasn’t an accusation. Though it is odd to see you without your friends.”
I feel a pang of resentment. I am capable of operating alone. “What are you doing here?” I flip it back on him.
“I live here, remember? I’m always invited to parties as an anti-snitch measure.” I raise an eyebrow. He shrugs. “Everyone assumes that because I’m Canadian I’m a Goody Two-shoes.”
“Let me guess—you’re hiding some deep, dark secret that’ll shock us all? Some dastardly criminal enterprise?”
Ethan chuckles awkwardly. “I’m not that interesting,” he says, humoring me.
“That’s not true. Your dad’s an ambassador, and your mom works for MSNBC. That’s pretty cool.”
“You writing my biography?” Ethan’s eyes glint with amusement, but I feel my cheeks heat. Did I just blow my crush cover? I shrug it off, pouring myself another drink. Screw my two-drink limit. I’m fucking stressed. But I smile at Ethan, and we clink our drinks together in a cheers.
“I know a lot of things about a lot of people,” I say, attempting a save. “We’re journalists, remember?”
“Calm down, Ronan Farrow. I think we have to go to j-school before we’re really journalists. The Ledger doesn’t count.”
“Is that what you’re gonna study at Toronto?” I ask. “Do they have journalism schools in Canada?”
“Technically, you can major in anything and become a journalist. My mom studied economics. And I don’t know what I want to do yet. I like classics, poli-sci, maybe even sociology.”