“Fuck you, Aves.”
“Hey!” Ms. Kaylor snaps. “That is unacceptable!” If it were any other pair of students, I’m sure she’d send them to Headmistress Fitzgerald’s office. But the Montforts and St. Clairs mean big money. Instead, she asks Eden to explain the importance of nature motifs in the text. With her attention drawn elsewhere, I go back to my phone. Slip my finger to the phone’s underside, press my fingertip to the scanner, and swipe up on the save screen, then down on my notifications bar. The email is from Harvard. Shit.
There’s a text from Sierra, too. The preview shows a row of fire emojis.
I decide to check on her. I’d rather prolong the inevitable. Avery’s barb at Tyler’s expense was the bravado of someone who just got in. I was a fool to think I could ever compete. My email can only contain a deferral or an outright rejection. I need a minute to prepare myself to smile and give Avery a big hug, congratulating her inevitable reign of superiority. She can never know I applied. I tap into the group text.
I GOT INTO YALE, BITCHES!!!!
Then Sierra sends a row of dog emojis—Yale’s mascot is a comely bulldog. A wave of genuine happiness for her blossoms in my chest. Sierra single-handedly organized the Claflin trip to the Women’s March and campaigned for Elizabeth Warren. Plus, she’s smart as shit and has worked her ass off, Ivies or no.
Avery squeaks next to me, and Tyler starts to laugh—silently but very clearly at his stepsister’s expense. Avery’s cheeks are mottled red, and her nostrils flare. For a second, I think it’s belated anger at Tyler for his clapback, but then I see the glint of tears in her eyes.
“Aves, what’s wrong?” I ask, leaning into the aisle, careful to keep my voice low so Ms. Kaylor doesn’t hear.
“They rejected me,” she hisses. “Those bastards.”
Avery. Got rejected. From Harvard.
My stomach plummets as time seems to slow. Whatever Ms. Kaylor is saying now is muffled in my ears. The Queen of Claflin, with valedictorian on lock, triple legacy, didn’t get in. I’m definitely fucked.
I reach across to touch her arm. “Avery, I’m so sor—” She doesn’t let me finish, jerking away from my fingers. As if Avery is made of stone, cold runs through me.
“I’m fine.” She wills her eyes to dry, tosses back her shoulders and her stupidly perfect curls, affecting a flawless, icy demeanor.
The bell rings shrilly, classes done for the day. Avery bolts from her seat. I move slowly, as if through water, practicing breathing exercises I picked up in a yoga class Margot dragged me to last year. Dread is a lead weight in my stomach, my heart is pounding, and I fear I might be sick. I’ve spent all day in spiraling misery, but that was nothing compared to this. That was anxious waiting, but this is certainty: Avery and I got our emails at the same time. Or maybe I got mine a bit before she did? That means mine is a deferral or a rejection. It is there, in my in-box, right now.
Anxiety pushes at my limbs, and I move quickly toward the school exit. Don’t want to keep still. I burst out into the crisp December air and savor the way my blood vessels constrict. Sensory distraction. It’s cold, the campus a mix of browns, reds, and grays; we’ve had one dusting so far this year, but we’re still in the stretch where your nose is nipped but nothing as pretty as snow deigns to fall.
Tears prick at my eyes. I haven’t even read the rejection and I’m already a mess. I can’t bear to open the email while I’m exposed in the quad, and I’m due in the admin office, anyway, for my work-study shift. It’s a favor they throw at all the scholarship kids, an after-school job that earns us spending money to cover extras, like Cougar Points for the convenience store, and school trips. I can’t miss my shift. I need every penny.
My phone is still in my pocket when I arrive at Austen Hall, breathless, waving at Cathy, the administrative assistant who mostly looks the other way while I use my job time to study. She’s a good egg, but at the moment she’s casting a tight smile at the pair from the parent tour I ran into earlier.
“I hope I answered all your questions! Have a wonderful day! Bye!”
Birkin bag and Rolex turn to leave, though I can tell they had more questions. Probably about how their precious angel will handle things like remembering to do their homework and laundry. Laundry service for freshmen comes on Mondays, I have memorized, and it flows off the tongue so easily. I’m sure they’ll have no trouble managing their own academics, less so, when what I want to say is, They’ll figure it the fuck out—they’re fifteen, not five! I duck my head as they pass so they can’t rope me into a Q and A. Cathy’s shoulders decline a good two inches as she greets me.
“Thank goodness you’re here. We’re already receiving the calls, and Headmistress Fitzgerald has locked herself in her office, not to be disturbed, as usual.”
I shrug out of my cold-weather gear and dump my backpack next to the spare desk where I sit. I know the drill after two years of ED days at Claflin. The irate calls from entitled helicopter parents roll in right after the early decisions.
Even without college rejections at hand, the parents routinely call to shout, I PAY SIXTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A YEAR FOR THIS SCHOOL! through the phone line when they are displeased. I have heard those exact words more than once. I’m often tempted to thank the apoplectic parents profusely for their tuition—their generosity helps in part to pay mine.
But I would never dare be so glib. Not today. The phone rings, shredding already-delicate nerves, and I jump into action. Yes, we understand you are upset; no, you cannot speak to the headmistress at this time. Kill them with kindness but remain firm. Promise to take down their details and Headmistress Fitzgerald will give them top priority as soon as possible. With each call, as I try to coax them off the line so I can gain a reprieve, I stare at my phone, lying facedown on the desk in front of me. I had to turn it over so I would stop fingering the power button and compulsively swiping at the email subject line. I missed what Mrs. Feldstein was yelling at me more than once and had to ask her to repeat herself, only making her more upset.
The calls come fast and thick for almost an hour, until finally there’s a break. Guess those moms are giving their lawyers a call about suing Claflin, as promised. In the lull, I finally grab my phone. I spy Cathy, still consoling someone in her soft, grandmotherly way. She’s a pro at talking people down. When she’s not paying attention to me, I slip into the faculty lounge and shut the door.
I tap into Gmail. It’s bold and screaming at me, the email from Harvard. I try not to look at the preview text; a part of me still wants to put this off as long as possible. I’ve already waited this long, right? But my traitorous eyes flick across the screen.