by Anne Dayton
“Four.”
The milliseconds seem to creep by, and I can barely get enough air in my lungs.
“Cheerleader”—Christine stares at me—“you turned it in, right?”
“Three.”
And then as if a centrifugal force beyond my control is pulling me, I feel myself do it again. It’s only a nod, a small signal of assent, but they all seem to relax. And then, before I know what’s happening, it’s the new year.
The crowd around us breaks into cheers, and soon we’re hugging each other and screaming at the top of our lungs, and they seem to have forgotten my stupid essay topic, and applications, and Tom, and tomorrow, and forever. We sling our arms over each others’ shoulders and huddle close against the damp night air as the fireworks burst over our heads.
I have the incredible urge to hide my face from the girls. Lying to your parents is one thing. Lying to your adopted sisters, the best friends you’ve ever had, is definitely another.
“This is our best New Year’s Eve yet!” Zoe tears up, and I make a decision. I’ll go home and get my applications done, and no one will ever have to know that I lied. I’ll do the USC one first. No, the Ivies are all due tomorrow, so I’ll do Harvard first. Those are the only two that have to get done. The rest are icing on the cake. I’ll bet I can knock out four tonight alone, and there’s still all day tomorrow. It’ll be no sweat if I stay focused.
A loud, fast firework screeches through the air, and we all turn our eyes up to the heavens in time to see a tiny spark explode into a million golden points of light.
27
“Hey, Mom?” My feet slide across the floorboards as I head down the hall. She’s been on the computer all day looking into different homeschooling curriculums for Michael. I have my own computer in my room, so I can work on my applications anyway, thank goodness, but I ran into a snag. A small setback.
“In here,” Mom calls from the office, her voice muffled.
Okay, I’m panicking. Transcripts. I was supposed to have my school send transcripts. And there’s this whole part of the Harvard application that I was supposed to have my school counselor fill out. The transcripts I can maybe get sent out first-thing tomorrow, and I could probably make it look like the school forgot to mail them or something. But the counselor thing . . . My guidance counselor is Mrs. Canning, and she’s hated me ever since we broke into the school last year. Plus, she’s clearly not Guidance Counselor of the Year. Isn’t her job to tell me about stuff like this?
“I have a question.” Okay, I have to be honest. I have to tell her I lied. Then she’ll know how to make it better. Moms always know what to do.
“Mmm-hmm?” Mom doesn’t look up from the computer screen. The room is dark. The sun set an hour ago, but apparently she didn’t notice. I wait for her to acknowledge me, but she doesn’t.
“I had a question . . .” My voice trails off, and Mom doesn’t look away from the screen. “About my applications.”
“I thought they were done?” She leans in closer to the screen.
“They are. Almost. There’s a . . . a tiny thing I could use your help with.”
“Sure.” Mom’s usually perfect hair is plastered to the side of her head. “I’m almost done here.”
“Um . . .” I press one foot down on top of the other and try to keep the panic out of my voice. “If you could come now, that would be—”
“While you’re here . . .” She clicks the mouse a few times and opens her e-mail inbox. “Are you close with Asha Nayar? She’s younger than you, right?”
“What?” A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. “I know her. Why?”
Mom smoothes her forehead with her thumb and forefinger. “Oh, I don’t know. Mrs. Vandecamp is organizing some meeting or something about her.” She clicks the screen closed and sighs. “Honestly I don’t know where these women find the time. It’s like I’m the only mother who—”
Mom’s new timer goes off in the kitchen, and Michael shrieks. He’s not used to the sound, and it’s freaked him out every time it’s gone off since Christmas.
“That’s it! That stupid piece of junk goes in the garbage!” Mom stands up and rushes to the doorway. “I’m sorry, Riley,” she calls as she brushes past me into the hall. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, okay?” She reaches Michael in the living room as the noise gets to earsplitting decibels.
I stand still, staring at the empty spot where my mom used to be. I know she didn’t mean to shove me aside like that, to choose Michael over me, but for the first time since I was a kid, I really need her help.
I try to fight the panic rising in me. She’ll be back. Mom will help me figure out what to do. But as I stand there in the hallway, waiting for my brother’s shrieks to die down, it doesn’t feel true. If I can’t even get her attention now, in a real-life emergency, will I ever be able to? I’m way too young to not need my parents. But the longer I stare at the empty chair, the more clear it becomes that as far as family goes, I’m on my own. There’s only one adult who can help me now.
She’s a counselor at school, so that counts. And she already offered to help. I know if I called her right now, she’d drop everything to come over and fill out the forms Harvard needs. She’d do it for me.
I head back to my room to call Ms. Moore. At least there is one person I can count on.
28
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I grumble into my backpack. I forgot my cheerleading sneakers at home, so I’m going to be cheering on the men’s basketball team in—I look down—knee-high suede boots. I roll my eyes, zip the stupid backpack closed, and trudge to the door. I think there might be a pair of beat-up sneakers somewhere in the back of my car. I’ll have to go check.
“Riley!”
I march into the thick hallway traffic and make a beeline for the parking lot. If I hurry, I’ll have a few minutes to sit there and collect my thoughts. I exit the breezeway and walk out into the cold January day.
“Riley McGee.”
I grit my teeth. Well if it isn’t Little Miss Never Calls Back. Just great. Exactly what I need right now.
“There you are!” Ms. Moore trots up to my side, out of breath. “I’ve been chasing you for five minutes. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
I keep my eyes trained ahead, scanning the lot for my car. “No, I didn’t hear you calling me. In fact, I didn’t hear you calling me last night either.”
Ms. Moore’s eyes go dull and hard. “I went to a reading in San Francisco and didn’t get home until late.” She draws her mouth into a thin line. “Tell me something, Riley. What do you think it means when a student calls you hours before their applications are due?”
I pick out the teal top of the RealMobile in the parking lot.
“I ask because last night I stayed up, tossing and turning, thinking about what that could mean.” She plants her hands on her hips, and her face goes red. “You know, the only thing I could think of was: she didn’t get her applications done.” Ms. Moore puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s a tight pinching grip.
I finally turn back to her, my eyes watering. “Can’t you do something?” I whisper. She’s the one with all those connections at Harvard.
Her nostrils flare slightly. “I can’t.”
I roll my eyes up to the ceiling and feel them fill with tears. My nose stings.
“Life is not always served up on a silver platter, but I hate that you had to learn it this way.” She releases my shoulder and looks for a moment like she’s going to hug me. “Even you, even someone as talented and blessed as you, have to work hard at the things you want.”
I turn on my heels, ignoring her calls, and dart through the crowd. The January wind stings my nose and rushes past my ears with a high-pitched whine. I’ve been trying to bite back the tears, trying to ignore the truth, but here in this busy parking lot, I can no longer ignore it: I failed.
I’m crying by the time I get to my turquoise monstrosity, blinded by the tears streaming from my eyes. I
grasp the door handle and pull. The heavy door creaks open. Before you can drive, you look forward to a car as a way to get from one place to another. After you get a car, you realize it’s so much more than that. Your car is a locker, a hangout, a sanctuary. I throw my backpack onto the floor, pull the door shut, and wipe the tears away with the sleeve of my sweater. I rest my head against the steering wheel and reach down, feeling around on the carpeted floor. There’s a box of tissues around here somewhere. I knock a cardboard party hat from New Year’s out of the way and find the box wedged under the seat.
I tried to make it right. I really did. I tried to get the applications in, just like they wanted me to. But when Ms. Moore didn’t call me back, I realized there was nothing I could do. Without her help, my applications would be incomplete—no matter how hard I worked on the other sections.
And in a weird way, knowing that it’s too late now almost feels like a relief. Somehow, by refusing to make a choice, I finally decided. I’m not going to Harvard—or Princeton or USC or anywhere else. Those schools were never my dream anyway. Tom saw that all along. They were always about someone else. No matter what my parents wanted for me, it’s out of their hands now. There are probably some colleges that are still accepting applications, but I’m not really interested in finding out. College isn’t for everyone, after all.
A girl from my math class walks by, talking into her cell phone, but she doesn’t notice me slumped over the wheel of the car, and a moment later she’s climbed into her car and is driving away. I let out a breath when she’s gone.
I’m not really sad about not going to Harvard or USC, but knowing that I failed the people who were counting on me most, that’s what kills. I pull a tissue out of the box and run it under my nose. I can’t go home. I can’t go to Ana’s house or call up Christine and see what she’s up to. I can’t face them. Maybe I’ll sit here in the parking lot all night. I could maybe stretch out on the backseat and sleep there, and . . .
Someone raps on the window, and I freeze. There is no one I want to talk to right now. The noise comes again, a light knock on the passenger-side window, and I keep my face squashed up against the steering wheel, but turn it to the right. Under my arm, I can barely make out a face, pressed up against the glass. I turn my head back and reach for the door-lock button, but it’s too late. The door opens, and a rush of cool air comes into the car.
Ben settles into the passenger seat without a word. I peek up at him out of the corner of my eye. He swings his bag around so it rests on his lap, and then he slides down in the seat and props his feet up on the dashboard. His dusty old Vans have a couple new holes in them. He folds his hands in his lap and closes his eyes.
“Are you okay?” His words are nice enough, but he feels distant for some reason.
I gulp for air, trying to stifle my tears, and keep my head down. I didn’t invite him in, and no way am I going to let this guy see my puffy swollen face. The only sound is the hard, empty thump of a basketball hitting the pavement on the courts by the gym.
“I wanted to let you know I have some new decal designs,” Ben says finally. He clicks a plastic buckle, and there’s a rustling sound while he digs around in his bag. He pulls a sticker out of his messenger bag and holds it out to me. I reach for it, and from here it looks like . . . I lift my head up a few inches, careful to let my long hair drape down in a curtain between me and Ben. It’s a girl in a short skirt and a cape, long blond hair streaming behind her, one arm raised triumphantly. The word Supergirl is spelled out in funky type across the bottom. He peels the slick paper backing off and carefully presses it to the dashboard, just above the glove compartment. Supergirl is smiling and happy. Something about this is so completely off base that it makes me laugh.
“My mom is going to kill me for that.”
“No she isn’t.” He leans toward me and slowly, gently, reaches his hand out and rests it on my knee. “Tell her I gave it to you. Moms love me.”
I smile. He’s probably right. My imminent doom has nothing to do with this harmless sticker. I feel myself moving, inching toward him.
“Hey, Riley?”
I turn toward him, and before I know what he’s doing, he ducks his head and presses his lips against mine. I freeze, trying to figure out what to do, but he reaches behind me and gently rests his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me toward him. I start to pull away, but then let my lips part, and he lets out a small sigh. His lips are warm and soft, and I feel myself slipping closer to him. The air inside the car is still and quiet.
Suddenly Ben pulls back. My lips feel cold for a moment, and I want to keep kissing again, but when I lean forward, he unlatches his seat belt and throws the door open.
“That’s the other thing I came for,” Ben says, stepping out onto the blacktop. “To see if you felt that way too. Because I saw you at church. I saw you with that guy and saw that you don’t want to be with him. And then you called me on Christmas, as if you wanted to talk, so I wanted to check, because if you did like me”—he turns back and stares into my eyes—“and apparently you do”—he slips his bag over his shoulder—“you should choose me or leave me alone.”
I blink my eyes and watch through the open door as Ben dips his head against the wind, pulls his jacket tighter around him, and walks away across the parking lot.
I crumple against the steering wheel. “Hey, God, are you trying to kill me today?”
I reach over and pull the door shut. I don’t need the whole school knowing I’ve lost my mind on top of everything else.
29
“So, Dean, I hear you sailed the mighty seas last week.” I step around a puddle in the middle of the path and take a deep breath. The air smells clean and piney, especially after working in the barn all day. Zoe’s parents have always wanted to run a horseback-riding business in the woods in her backyard, and with the money from her brother Nick’s Christmas bonus this year, it looks like it may finally happen. It’s going to take a ton of elbow grease, though, which is why they organized a work day today. Ana and Christine left a while ago, and Mom is picking me up soon in the RealMobile. I wouldn’t be here at all if she knew about my college applications, but she doesn’t yet. I’m going to tell her, obviously. Soon. It’s just a timing thing.
“Yeah.” Dean laughs, then clears his throat. He holds aside a branch at the side of the path so Zoe can pass. “What about you? What’d you do over the break?”
“Oh—” I wave his question aside. “I really didn’t do much of anything.” That statement is truer than they realize. “But I don’t want to talk about my boring vacation. I want to hear about your trip. I can’t believe you sailed all the way to Mexico.”
“It sounded so cool,” Zoe says, picking up her pace. “His uncle’s boat is huge—like, twice as big as his mom’s—and they sailed down the coast and stopped at all these cool places on the way.” Zoe reaches for Dean’s hand and threads her fingers through his. “It sounds like a dream vacation to me, but Dean’s family does stuff like that all the time, right, Dean?”
“It was fun.” Dean glances at Zoe and smiles awkwardly at me. “But—yeah.” He presses his lips together and casts his eyes around. He’s obviously trying to change the subject, and my stomach sinks as I realize why. Dean’s family is quite well-off. I never really thought about how that might affect his relationship with Zoe.
“I can’t believe your parents are finally opening their horseback-riding company,” I say quickly.
“Yeah, it’s exciting.” She swings her hand, making Dean’s arm swing too. “But it’s not as cool as Mexico.” She laughs and elbows Dean, and I can’t tell whether she doesn’t realize that Dean is uncomfortable or whether she’s just putting on a really good show of pretending she doesn’t notice. It’s like she’s trying too hard to prove that the money doesn’t matter. As we walk, she tells me all about the luxurious accommodations Dean’s family enjoyed on the boat, and Dean nods a few times. I’m almost relieved when we get to the house.
“Hey there.” She waves the knife as a greeting. “What a day.” She shakes her head, and her long graying hair swishes around her shoulders.
“It’s exciting though,” I say and run my hands under the faucet.
Dreamy smiles, and her eyes get misty. “Ed and I have been talking about opening this business since before we were married.” She chuckles. “Isn’t it funny how life never quite works out the way you expect?”
I pull a paper towel off a roll next to the sink and think back over the last few months. I don’t know that I’d call it funny.
“So what schools did you end up applying to?” Dreamy smiles, and for a split second I wonder how she knows. But she seems to be genuinely curious, not actually probing into the depths of my mind, so I relax.
“Well,” I say slowly. The fine lines around Dreamy’s eyes crinkle as she focuses on me. How much can I really tell her? She’s a mom, so she’s obligated to freak out. But then again, she’s the one who convinced me that college might not be in the cards. “Do you remember what you said a few months ago about waiting? You know, to make sure you know what you’re doing before wasting money on school?”
Dreamy’s brow creases, and she lays her knife down. “I don’t think that’s what I said exactly. What happened?”
I bunch up the paper towel in my hand. “Remember how you were trying to convince Zoe to take some time off? Or to go to City College or whatever?” I barely register the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
