by Teresa Hill
From the way he looked today, whatever hold she has over him, it’s far from finished and so much scarier than I ever imagined. And I didn’t know anything about it.
* * *
Dana
School starts. Senior year.
I should have been excited. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, and I have a plan for where I’m going and how I’m going to get there. I’ll ace my SATs, get accepted at Stanford, get a great scholarship and head off to California in a year.
At least, I thought I wanted that. Now that it’s moving closer all the time, I’m wavering.
What do I know about California? Not much. Sunshine, the ocean, cute college boys. It seemed great when I was there last spring. But now I keep thinking, it’s so far away, and I won’t know anyone there. No one else in my class is even applying to Stanford.
Could I be happy there if I didn’t know another soul?
It used to sound like exactly what college should be, a grand adventure, far away in a brand new place, where I knew I’d learn a ton and be challenged every day.
But it sounds a little scary now, and like it will last forever. Four years of undergrad, and if I go to law school, three years of grad school.
Seven years.
That seems like an eternity. Seven years so far from my whole family? It sounds like torture. In the seven years I’d be gone, Lizzie will turn into an eleven-year-old. Jamie will be in high school, Tricia in college. I might even miss Tricia over the course of seven years.
And Peter ...
I am so not that girl who picks a college based on where her boyfriend goes. And Peter’s not even my boyfriend, which makes it even more ridiculous to consider him and where he’ll be.
But me in California, and him back here? That would be giving up on us. At the same time, it’s even crazier to not go to California in the hope that, if I stay here, Peter and I might eventually end up together.
I don’t like either option.
Very soon, I’ll have to make some decisions. Early application deadlines are as soon as Nov. 1. The first day the applications are released, I’ll start working on them. Which means, I have to decide where I’m applying.
Things get crazy-busy right away after school starts. There’s Student Council, Student Court, Dance Team, my AP classes, some tutoring I do, the time I spend watching Jamie and Lizzie for Mom ... It all seems to fly by.
Before I know it, it’s the beginning of October. I take my SATs on the first fall test date. I feel okay about them, even though I always come out of something like that feeling brain-dead. I couldn’t tell you what questions were on the test, which ones I felt good about and which ones I might have missed.
I see Peter as I’m leaving. He smiles and asks how I think I did. Then, I ask if he’s decided where he’s applying. He’s smart enough to get into some really good schools, but he doesn’t seem to believe me when I tell him that. I know the money worries him. Zach and Julie have offered to do what they can to help, but he doesn’t think they should have to. He doesn’t want to rack up a lot of debt, especially when he doesn’t even know what he’d like to major in. I have heard him wondering how much of his expenses he could cover by taking it away from all the rich college boys in poker games with them, but as plans go, it’s not much of one.
I can’t tell him I’m just as confused about the whole thing, and that part of the reason is being so far away from him. So the whole conversation between us is painfully awkward.
I still see him with Andie all the time. Every chance that girl gets, she’s draped all over him. Not that I have any right to complain. I’m still flirting with Tripp, but only when Peter’s around, or other people who I think might tell Peter about it. I’ve refused every time Tripp’s asked me to come over to his house and hang out. I won’t be alone with him.
Tripp seems to think we’re playing a little game, and in the end, he’ll get what he wants. He thinks he’s reeling me in, and he doesn’t mind how long it takes. While he’s waiting for me, he’ll be with someone else. He seems to think he’s that attractive or irresistible. I don’t see it.
I feel like I’m going through the motions, like I’m on the outside watching myself going to class, talking to my friends, practicing, doing homework, playing with Lizzie and Jamie. I try to soak in the feeling of being in my house on an ordinary day, sitting at the dinner table with the smells of my favorite foods in the air, hearing my parents laughing and talking to each other, reading Lizzie a story or answering a dozen questions about the simplest of things she has to understand right that minute. I try to take in the way my room looks and my bed feels, the buzz of the house in the morning when everyone’s scrambling to get ready, big family dinners at my grandparents’ house, being at one of Jamie’s soccer games, hanging out with Becca.
I have to absorb it all now, for the time when it’s not here. When I’m not here.
We have to wait nineteen days after the SAT for our scores. The College Board gives us a date and says scores will pop in online at some point within the following twenty-four hours. No one knows exactly when.
As soon as the clock strikes midnight on that day, people start checking like crazy. I do. A lot of my friends do. No scores yet.
I check again first thing after I wake up. Still no scores.
Fine, I mutter at the screen of my laptop. It’s going to be that kind of day. I have to go to school and wait it out, grateful I can get on the Internet through my phone. We’re not supposed to use cell phones on school property until the bell rings at the end of the day. Violating that rule will usually get your phone confiscated.
Not today. I’ve seen more cell phones being used at school than ever before. The teachers know what day it is. They let us check, refreshing and refreshing the webpage where our scores will show up. At this rate, we’ll crash the site.
I saw Andie kissing Peter, her body draped all over his outside AP U.S. History and wanted to hurl my phone into the lockers right above her head. But if I did, I’d have to borrow someone else’s phone to check my scores.
Yeah, I get it. She likes him. If she’s all over him like this in school, imagine what they do in private. I do. Imagine it. Can’t help it.
I’d get a rubber band and snap it against my wrist every time my thoughts go there, but I seem odd enough already, and it probably wouldn’t work anyway. What’s the pain of a rubber band next to seeing her kiss him?
Peter walks down the row of desks and slides into the seat behind me. “Nothing yet?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
“It’ll be fine,” he says. “I know you got it.”
“What do you have in the family pool?” I ask, trying to get that image of him and Andie out of my mind.
“Double-800s,” he says. “I’d never bet against you.”
It takes my breath away, not just what he said but the way he said it, that low, husky, slightly amused tone in his voice, the way he always has so much confidence in me.
That mean little voice inside my head says he may think I’m smart, but he doesn’t want me. He wants Andie, who giggles and hangs all over him, probably takes her clothes off for him, not the nerd-girl who plays SAT word games with him.
“Stanford, here you come,” Becca says.
I haven’t told her I’m getting the jitters about Stanford. I haven’t told anyone. It freaks me out too much. I’m the girl who knows what she wants. I’m the one who always has a plan, a good plan, for getting it.
Now, I’m playing stupid girl games and questioning everything.
“Dana, come on. You can’t be worried,” Becca says.
“Just realistic,” I say and start spouting off numbers. It’s something I do when I get nervous. I have all the virgin statistics and the ones about how selective Stanford is. “Do you know how many applications Stanford received last year?”
“Not off the top of my head,” Becca says. “But I’m sure you do.”
“About 39,000 for 2,200 slots in t
he Freshman class.”
“So? You’ll get perfect SAT scores, and that will be that,” she says.
“No, it won’t. Perfect scores are rare among college students, but they’re not unusual for Stanford’s Freshman class. They don’t tell you exactly how many have perfect scores, but they do say that twenty-five percent of the Freshman class this year had scores of 1570 or higher, which means at worst, they missed one question on the test. Think about that. One in every four kids who got in scored between 1570 and 1600. Perfect scores are no guarantee.”
“No shit?” Peter says.
I nod.
“That’s crazy,” he says.
“I know.”
“Still, you’ll do it. I know you will,” he says.
Is he happy about me going away? Maybe he knows everything I feel for him, and it’s awkward, and he doesn’t want to tell me that he really likes me, but not that way. Me going away would make things a lot easier. He won’t have to tell me all that. I won’t be here all the time, trying not to look at him in that way that tells him exactly how I feel. He won’t have to pretend not to know.
How did I not think about that before? I feel so stupid, and it’s hard to breathe. What a horrifying idea.
Classes pass in a daze. I have no idea what our teachers said. The whole school day seems to last a year, at least.
When Dance Team practice is about to start, a low buzz of conversation starts and builds as it moves across the foyer. Then someone squeals and jumps up and down. I hear “SAT scores.” Almost every senior on Dance Team grabs for her phone, and it seems to take forever for the site to load, but finally, there they are, my scores!
* * *
9
I missed a question in the math section. A single question, which because of the weird way the scores are scaled, means a 770.
Okay.
It’s not perfect, but it’s close, in the top 1% of all the kids who took the test. I could take the test again to try for a perfect math score, but I worry I’d look like some kind of obsessive freak. I can let this go.
Once I decide that, I feel a rush of … It’s hard to say for sure. Joy. Relief. Excitement. Nerves.
I worked hard for this. Really hard. For years. I’m happy. Really, I am. I think.
Becca comes over, grabs my phone out of my hand and stares at the screen. She gets this huge grin on her face and hugs me. I hug her. I tell Dance Team we’re not going to start for five more minutes because so many of us have been waiting all day to see our scores. I call my mom and dad, who are so happy for me. I want to call Peter, but things are so weird between us that I don’t.
Dance Team has our worst practice of the year. So many of us are distracted. When you’re trying for the really tough schools, SATs can make you or break you. I finally call time. Practice is over.
Becca gives me a ride home. She sounds more excited than I am about Stanford, about coming to visit me in California and all the new people I’m going to meet, from the surfer-guys to the snowboarders. Skiing and snowboarding are team sports at Stanford, and they have a big surfing club, all things that are completely outside my experience. I wonder how I’m going to fit in. If I’ll fit in.
I’m so distracted I get inside before I realize my whole family’s at my house. It’s a surprise party, a little congratulations to Peter and me for our scores. Everybody hugs me, including Peter, who whispers that he’s so proud of me.
My Gram made one of my favorite dishes, her spicy chicken enchiladas, and a red velvet cake with cream cheese icing. Lizzie says she helped decorate the cake by adding sprinkles. A ton of sprinkles. I lift her up and hug her, and she gives me one of her baby-soft kisses, smacking her lips against my cheek. I love her kisses.
I catch a glimmer of tears in my mom’s eyes — she’s smiling, but I see the tears. Everyone in the family who’s been to California starts telling me what they know and like about it. I try to pretend to be as excited as I think I should be.
But really, I’m thinking about how happy it made me to walk into my house and find the whole family here, how often all of us are together, whether it’s for birthdays or holidays or cookouts or for no reason at all. I love them all so much.
Lizzie asks what California is, and we try to explain in a way that she can understand. She finally seems to get that it’s away. She understands away. Mommy goes away to work. Daddy does. Every now and then they take trips. She doesn’t like away.
“Dana go away?” she finally asks, looking like she’s ready to cry, and suddenly I am, too.
“Not now, Lizzie,” I tell her. “Not for a long time.”
But she still looks worried, clings to me, and I realize it’s not that long until I would go. Third week of September, next year. I looked at the academic calendar. I’d have a week at Thanksgiving, three weeks at Christmas, ten days at spring break. My stomach clenches at the thought. At least I’d be home for the summer at the beginning of June.
This is what I want, right?
I look up, and Peter is beside me. Lizzie holds out her arms to him, and he takes her. She tells him, “Dana go away!”
He looks from her to me, and I don’t know if I see him hating the idea or if that’s just what I want to see. I tell Lizzie again, “Not now, Lizzie, remember? Not for a long time.”
Peter kisses her forehead and then makes a loud chomping sound with his face against her belly, which distracts her and makes her laugh. Then she gets down and runs into the kitchen, and it’s just him and me.
“She doesn’t understand,” I say.
“I know,” he whispers.
“Hey, I didn’t even ask about your scores. What did you get?”
“Not bad. 690, 770.”
“Peter, those are great scores! Top five percent. Better than that, actually. Everybody says anything over 1,400 combined, and you can go practically anywhere you want.”
“Not quite Stanford,” he says. “But I’ll take ’em.”
“They’re great scores.” Not Stanford scores — he’s right about that. But they're still really good, good enough for anyplace except for the most competitive schools in the country.
Zach and Julie really want him to go. I think the whole family’s talking up the idea to him, and I’m not sure exactly what’s holding him back. Money, probably. Honestly, I’m worried about it, too. Stanford is outrageous, more than fifty grand a year. I know I’ll get scholarships and financial aid, but how much will have to come from loans and money from my family?
I know so many kids from last year’s Senior class who were blindsided once they saw how much money they’d have to come up with or how much they’d have to take out in loans to go to the school they really wanted. Financial aid isn’t nearly as good as a lot of kids think.
Mom and Dad keep telling me not to worry, that we’ll figure it out. We don’t live extravagantly. I think our house is nice, old but in great shape. My dad bought it cheap when it was nearly falling down and rebuilt it himself with Sam’s help years before I was born. My parents have never seemed to worry about money, but we’re not rich, either, and they have four of us to put through school.
I turn back to Peter. “Did you do the Ohio State application? University of Cincinnati? Miami of Ohio?”
He sighs. “It’s only October, Dana.”
“You’re doing them,” I say, as if it’s up to me, not him.
If he goes, he’ll stay in-state, because tuition is lower. Plus, he’s mentioned wanting to keep working with my dad and granddad to help pay for school. UC and Miami-Ohio are both close enough that he could probably do that. And Ohio State is a great school. I applied there, too.
“I bet you get into Ohio State,” I say. “And I know you’ll get into UC.”
He stands there, looking like he has no idea what to say.
“Is anything wrong?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “It’s a lot to figure out.”
But I think it’s more than that. I don’t know what.
<
br /> “You can talk to me about it,” I say. “The whole school thing.”
“It’s not that,” he says.
“Your mom?” I lean into him and whisper it, not knowing if he’s told anyone but me about seeing her.
“Seems to have crawled back into the woodwork.”
“Well, that’s great, right?”
He nods, still looking uneasy.
“Did something happen with you and Andie?”
“No,” he says, “but Dana, you and Tripp?”
“What about us?”
“You know I don’t like him, but this is not because I don’t like him. I’m telling you, you can’t trust him, and he has a temper.”
He sounds so sincere. I feel guiltier than ever about the game I’m playing.
“What are you doing with a guy like him?” Peter asks.
“Nothing. Not really.”
“I see you two together,” he says quietly. “I keep hearing about the two of you, together, at different places.”
“Yeah?” That’s what I wanted — for Peter to be jealous — so what can I say? I finally settle for telling him, “We just hang out together sometimes.”
Because I’m mad at myself and him, I use the same words Peter does about him and Andie. Hanging out. No big deal. She’s not his girlfriend. I’m certainly not Tripp’s girlfriend. I’m not clarifying any farther than that. Let him wonder what else that might be going on with me and Tripp. I certainly spend enough time wondering what else he and Andie are doing besides just spending time together.
“Really?” Peter still looks worried.
“Yes.” I feel like such an awful person. I don’t know how long I can keep doing this. Once again, I think about how bad I am at all this boy-girl stuff. Nearly perfect SAT scores, but I can’t decipher basic human relationships.
It seems like I either have to step up my game with Tripp or stop altogether, because what I’m doing now isn’t working. Peter’s not happy about whatever he thinks is going on between me and Tripp. He seems protective of me, but not like he’s ready to change our whole relationship. And the more I hang out with Tripp, the more it feels like Tripp’s toying with me. It’s starting to creep me out. He keeps showing me that if I won’t give him what he wants, so many other girls will. So, I’m supposed to get jealous or think I’m missing out on the fabulous experience of being Tripp’s girl for one whole night?
