Every time money comes up, I can’t stand the patronizing side glances, my friends’ clueless reassurances that I’ll be fine because schools just love to throw money at people like me. It’s a ridiculous myth that elite schools are full of the deserving poor on full rides. No, most students who matriculate are pretty damn wealthy. Financially needy students like me basically have to survive an application cage match for a shot at one of a few coveted full-ride spots. Heck, I’d be happy with full tuition; I can take loans for room and board. Why else have I been playing the Ivies’ game all these years? To survive.
Sierra and Emma might understand. They’re rich, but not “my parents have their own jet” rich (something both Margot and Avery can boast). Margot wouldn’t care, but she’d tell Avery, who would blow a gasket. So I didn’t tell any of the Ivies I applied.
“Olivia, are you okay?”
I feel Ethan’s warm, broad hand on my shoulder and look up into concerned hazel eyes behind those chunky plastic frames. They make him look like Harry Potter, and I find it so damn attractive.
He’s snapped me out of my spiral, and I manage a bright, if false, smile. “Definitely. Nisha’s gonna get shit-faced tonight at the ED day party. Will you be there?”
“Well, yeah. It’s in my dorm, remember?”
I ignore the heat in my cheeks. “Right! So, when do Canadian university decisions drop? You probably think we’re all insane.”
“Only a little unhinged.” His laugh could melt snow and cause blooms to sprout. “And sometime in early spring. I’m not worried about it.”
“Lucky,” I say as we get back to work, or at least pretend to. No one’s on task today.
Nisha goes out into the hallway to call her parents, and we can hear her screaming and crying for the next ten minutes. When she returns to her open laptop, I see her close a Word doc and go to College Confidential, where she stays for the rest of class. Because I am a glutton for punishment, I do the same, opening two tabs in my browser: one the Harvard SCEA thread on College Confidential, the other the Harvard Applicant Portal. I spend the next thirty minutes refreshing both every three minutes or so, like a normal person.
* * *
—
A spate of LACs—aka liberal arts colleges—drop their decisions during sixth period, which for me is AP Calculus, a class I’m taking even though I despise math and it’s my most challenging subject. Can’t be seen to have not taken the most challenging classes available to me, though. Sierra’s in this one with me, thank god, because she helps me with my work so I don’t have to suffer the shame of hiring a tutor. Not that I could afford one, anyway.
I’m trudging through a problem set when Colby, Hamilton, and Williams drop. We have an ecstatic Purple Cow (tragically, yes, that’s the Williams mascot) in our class, I get a group text from Margot about a Colby kid in AP Bio, and then Avery replies about a Hamilton in Drama (naturally). So far we’re only hearing about acceptances. Guess the kids who aren’t getting in aren’t crowing too loudly.
Then, with two minutes until the bell is supposed to ring, we hear the hiss of a litany of “shits” from Jason Wang in the front row. Oh well. Premed at WashU is very competitive. Maybe he’s lucky and got deferred. The bell rings, and so does his phone. Apparently, his parents were refreshing College Confidential religiously, too. I feel bad for him.
As I hurry from AP Calc to my final and favorite class of the day, AP Brit Lit, the mood in the halls has shifted. Now I can see the rejections as plain as day on so many faces. Eden Hannon’s mascara is streaked across her cheeks, and her watermelon lipstick is smudged. I know she applied ED to Northwestern, so she’s been rocking the look for over an hour.
Chris Hardin stops me just outside Brit Lit. “Hey, Olivia, have you seen Emma?”
“Uh, no, why?” He smells of weed, so we know how he’s dealing with the pressures of ED day.
Chris chuckles and says, “I owe her a big thank-you, is all. Catch you later.”
I don’t want to know what the glint in his eyes means. Are they hooking up? No, Emma wouldn’t go for a loser bro like Hardin. Probably buying weed off him or something.
Chris isn’t watching where he’s going, and his shoulder smacks hard into Seth Feldstein, who merely scowls and keeps going. His jaw is set so tight, I can practically hear his teeth grinding as he passes. That means MIT is out.
Fuck, when are the Ivies dropping? We’re expecting Yale and Harvard today, at least. It’s like someone’s inserted screws underneath my rib cage and is slowly drilling them tighter, tighter. My breath comes in short pants, though maybe it’s the rushing through the halls. I drop into my seat at the back of the class, next to Avery, who only had to walk one room over to get here. She’s cool as a cucumber. Avery’s mom is the heir to a massive pharmaceutical fortune, a triple Harvard legacy, and a devoted donor. I’m fairly certain there’s a wing named after the Montforts somewhere on campus.
Thomas Hardy does his best to distract me, and it’s the slow-building rage against all men ever that manages to keep my attention for a solid thirty-five-minute stretch. Angel Clare is a dick. And Hardy really liked trees.
My phone is resting on my thigh. I’ve been compulsively fingering the power button, willing myself not to press it, to illuminate the screen and angle it so I can see it. Finally, I give in. And I see the M-emblazoned envelope at the very top of the home screen. I have an email.
I suck in a breath. Steal a glance over at Avery, also looking at her phone. Shit. They send out decisions in waves. I know this. Acceptances first. Then deferrals. Finally rejections. How long has Avery been looking at her phone? Am I wait-listed or rejected?
“Olivia, what do you think Hardy is trying to say in contrasting Angel and Alec?”
Ms. Kaylor calls on me—her revenge, I’m sure, for looking at my phone. Screw the rules on a day like this! We’re all on our phones. But lucky for me, I didn’t have to pay attention to answer this one.
“All men let you down, both the obvious devils and the angels in disguise,” I say. “Alec is the devil, a rapist, but Angel is almost worse. He promises to love Tess and then betrays her at the first opportunity, because of some purity nonsense. Angel is a coward and a hypocrite.”
“Whoa, whoa, rapist? Isn’t that a bit much?” Tyler twists around in his seat. “It’s ambiguous in the text.”
“I didn’t find it ambiguous at all,” I huff. “It was pretty obvious to me.”
“What is it, Ty? See a bit of yourself in Alec?” Avery jumps in. She may be a viper, but I like when she spits venom on my behalf.