Home > The Ivies(8)

The Ivies(8)
Author: Alexa Donne

       I let it sink in for a moment that she’s essentially saying I cannot go to Harvard, period. Defiance curls in my gut, but then I push it down, like always. That can’t be what she means. A friend would never expect me to give up on my dream for, what? Avery’s pride? Before I can ask for clarification, my phone screeches, dances across the desk surface. Sierra’s chimes from her bag. We both have the same text from Avery:

                     Emergency strategy session, my room, NOW!

 

 

   “I think we’re out of time,” I say, swallowing thickly. When Avery calls the Ivies to assembly, we don’t keep her waiting.

 

* * *

 

   —

   We meet in Avery’s dorm room. She has a single, of course, the best money can buy, and she also has a state-of-the-art projection system so we can watch movies—or whatever else—on a giant screen. Avery’s room is boarding-school-catalog perfect: lavender Kate Spade carnation comforter piled high with a gaggle of decorative pillows, whimsical vinyl wall decals, a cascade of fairy-light picture clips, and even custom royal-purple curtains. Plus, a Harvard pennant next to a poster of Lexa from The 100, Avery’s sole basic-bitch piece of décor. We got it at Hot Topic sophomore year. The faculty in residence ignore the contraband espresso maker atop the dresser, as well as the wine fridge in the closet. All Ivies group hangs happen here, the nicest room on the floor.

   When Sierra and I arrive, the lights are down and the List is projected onto the wall across from Avery’s bed. Margot controls the laptop, creating a new subsection of the Google Docs spreadsheet under the headline Regular Decision.

       “Good, you’re here,” Avery greets us. “Have a seat.”

   We do, on a love seat Avery brought with her to “fill out the room.” Margot is in the desk chair, which is springy and ergonomic, not Claflin issue, and Avery takes the bed as we wait for our final member, Emma.

   My eyes scan the top part of the List. There are twelve names of our marks—I mean, classmates—whose GPAs, class ranks, clubs and leadership positions, test scores, and finally ED application plans we’ve meticulously tracked. A few we targeted specifically, a bit of manipulation here and there to increase our own odds. Not a lot, in the grand scheme of things, but enough.

   My own name jumps out at me from the Ivy assigned column, and my stomach turns, though I remind myself that nothing we’ve done is that bad. Avery always knows what tiny ripples will create the biggest waves, pushing us to the top. I asked her once where she came up with her ideas, and she answered darkly, “Big Pharma is a fascinating business.”

   Between my office access and Sierra’s computer skills, we ensured that the Ivies always got the best teachers and spots in coveted AP classes. I planted a story or two in the Ledger, while Margot stirred the rumor mill as needed. Avery “accidentally” passed on incorrect notes when someone missed class for being sick, while Sierra and I were always good for innocently remarking to an RA that we’d seen Rebecca Ito or Diana Klein sneaking in just shy of 5:00 a.m., indicating an off-limits overnight in the boys’ dorm. With enough demerits for illegal fraternization, students were docked club hours. Miss too many and there went your president title or lead role in the musical. Crafty stuff.

       I never minded when we exposed a plagiarist or cheater, and we were always careful to send in our most charming members, Margot and Emma, to merely plant the idea of suspicion in the teachers’ minds so that it never traced back to us. And once, in our coup de grâce, we set off the fire alarm in Whitley the night before a big chemistry exam to give Avery and Margot an edge over, well, all the senior boys.

   None of it was good, exactly, but nothing was too terrible, either. It got me into Harvard, after all, didn’t it?

   Not that I’m telling Avery that.

   Emma breezes in five minutes late with kiss-swollen lips that announce precisely the reason for her tardiness. Avery shoots her a Look, then checks that Margot is ready to go as Emma shimmies her tiny body between Sierra and me on the love seat. Margot poises her fingers over the keyboard, ready to type. And we jump right in.

   “We have two jobs.” Avery holds up two fingers, paces the floor in front of us. “One, find out who took my spot at Harvard. I want to know who got in.”

   My stomach somersaults, and Sierra darts a glance my way. Lucky for me, Emma starts coughing loudly, drawing Avery’s attention. “Do you need a cough drop?”

   Emma shakes her head, now clearing her throat gently.

   “What happens to the person, or people, who got in?” I ask, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice.

   Avery scoffs, my question beneath her. My mind conjures up all manner of worst-case scenarios, from Avery pulling a Tonya Harding to slipping Nair into someone’s shampoo. Once she swapped a girl’s fifty-dollar foundation for a nine-dollar bottle of CoverGirl just because the girl bragged about scoring higher on a test than Avery. She’s someone who favors raw, unmitigated revenge. Unconsciously I touch my hair, smooth it down against my skull.

       “Two, I need a regular-decision school list,” Avery keeps going. “Then we’re going to find out who else is left for RD round, and we develop our new List. Mostly for me, but this goes for anyone else who doesn’t get in ED.”

   I swear to god, Avery looks to me for a microsecond. Fire licks at my insides. I have half a mind to tell her, I got in, you smug bitch, but no. I have to swallow my pride and let Avery and everyone else believe that I’ve been deferred at Penn. But I can’t play that fiction until tomorrow.

   “Ugh, I thought we were done with this shit,” Sierra groans. “Can’t we enjoy things for once? It’s only a few weeks until apps are due, and there’s not much we can do. We should leave it.”

   “That’s easy for you to say, since you’re going to Yale.” Avery throws her a glare. But I notice the way Aves is playing with her fingernails, something she does when she’s feeling nervous. Or hurt. This is what we do for each other, the basis of our friendship. Sabotage. If Sierra isn’t interested, how does she fit with us?

   She doesn’t need us anymore. My gut pangs as I contemplate whether our friendship could really mean that little to her.

   “Obviously, we’ll help.” Emma cuts through the tension, as she is wont to do. “You tell us your school list, and we’ll figure out who to target. We’ll do what we can.”

   “Yes, Aves. You know we will.” Margot opens a new tab and labels it Avery RD Schools.

   I nod, because this is how I fit. By going along.

   Sierra huffs, shoulders slumping in surrender. Of course she won’t abandon us now. We’re not supposed to question the lasting quality of our friendships until much closer to graduation.

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