Admission

by Julie Buxbaum

  “You’re going to be okay, Chloe,” Kenny says, and I take him at his word, as if his words mean something. I will be okay.

  Only hours later, when I’m wide awake at three a.m., do I realize he never answered my question.

  And so, alone in the dark, I ask Siri: Is Chloe Berringer going to jail? but she doesn’t answer. Apparently I need to unlock my iPhone for that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Then

  “Please tell me you did not just say you are jealous of Levi because he had cancer and gets to write an essay about it,” Shola says before school the following Monday while she reapplies her red lipstick in her locker mirror. I wonder what it would be like to move through the world in her body. To be tall and striking and beautiful, to make people stop on the street and ask Who is that? But even while I think those thoughts, I know that this description is missing a huge part of the story. That by virtue of her skin color, Shola gets none of the perks of my invisibility, or of my presumption of harmlessness. Since she’s had her license, she’s been pulled over twice driving her parents’ car for no reason at all. And at Wood Valley, where she sticks out—not only because she is in the minority at our mostly white school, but because she refuses to play the high school conformity game—she’s met with less admiration and more mystification.

  “Of course I didn’t say that. I’m not a monster.” I knew that applying to colleges would be stressful but I didn’t realize it would feel like this—a constant tightening. Last term, the principal ran a required seminar for both parents and students discussing ways to ease anxiety during this process. The hour-long PowerPoint presentation included tips like “Establish a daily meditation practice” and “Put a Post-it on your bathroom mirror that says: ‘Where you go to college does not define you.’ ”

  I assumed I’d be mostly immune to the pressure, though, like I’ve been throughout my time at Wood Valley. I’ve never been terribly concerned when I bombed a test. To be honest, I’ve never put myself at risk for any real rejection, at least not in the way Shola and Levi have. I’m not a good enough actress to expect a part in the school play or popular enough to run for student council or ambitious enough to want the EIC position on the school newspaper, not that I’m interested in any of those things anyway. This will be the first time, with the exception of middle school (and in that case my parents did all the hard work), that I’ve ever applied for anything.

  “Chloe, you know I love you, but you really need to check yourself,” Shola says.

  “What? Why?”

  “You literally said, out loud, to my face, ‘it’s so unfair that you get to write about being a scholarship kid and Levi gets to write about cancer,’ ” Shola says, in what’s supposed to be an imitation of my voice, but is really a generic, obnoxious whine. For the record, I did not say that.

  “That’s not what I said and you know it. I was simply making the objective observation that I’m the least interesting person I know. And I have no idea how to spin that for an essay.”

  “Define interesting,” Shola says, because she never lets me get away with anything.

  “I’m an average student with average grades and I haven’t, you know, written a book on molecular biology or played with the New York Philharmonic. All of a sudden, it feels like you need to be special to get into college,” I say.

  “Or rich,” she says.

  “Why do you have to make everything about money?” I feel bad as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Shola doesn’t make everything about money. The world does. And Shola is the only person at Wood Valley brave enough to point that out. Which is yet another reason why the rest of the student body remains mystified by her. It’s uncomfortable to hear the truth. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Chlo, when you say ‘least interesting’ what you really mean is ‘most privileged’—like nothing bad has ever happened to you, wah, wah, too bad, so sad—and the idea that you’d complain about that is like the height of entitlement.”

  “Stop being smarter than me. I can’t keep up,” I say with a smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  “Bullshit,” Shola says, then slams her locker door and walks away.

  * * *

  —

  Later, we sit together at lunch, but it’s obvious Shola’s still annoyed. She spends the whole time jabbing at her phone, probably complaining about me to her other, non–Wood Valley friends. We’re under a tree in the quad, our favorite spot, and I wish Levi were here to smooth things over.

  If Shola wasn’t mad, I’d say I miss Levi, and she’d snort and say You are so ridiculous.

  Levi’s at a student council meeting, and since he’s busy every day after school this week, I won’t be able to spend any real time with him again until Saturday night. I’d like to ask Shola what she thinks will happen when he comes over this weekend.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and she looks at me, and then back at her phone. “I really am, Shola.”

  “You’re not the only person in the world applying to college, you know.”

  “I know that.”

  “This is super stressful for me too.” Shola puts down her phone and plays with the grass. Pulls up individual blades, one by one, and then lines them up in her hands.

  “You’re going to get in everywhere, though.”

  “See. That’s what I mean. You say that, but you have no idea—”

  “Shola, you’re brilliant. You work hard. You have practically perfect grades, you do a ton of extracurriculars, you’re—” I start ticking off her attributes on my hands.

  “Black?” she interrupts.

  “Give me some credit. I was going to say you’re amazing at everything you do.” I block out the memory of my dad talking to Dr. Wilson, his unfair jab at Shola. I think about all the times other kids at Wood Valley have made snide comments about her being a shoo-in, and how Shola clenches in response. Maybe she has more reasons than I realized for being ready to graduate and move on.

  “I’m totally overwhelmed, Chloe.” Her eyes fill with tears, even though she’s not usually a crier. She’s more the type to go cold and quiet. “I’ve been tutoring the Littles and it’s not going well. And then the FAFSA is a nightmare.”

  “What’s a FAFSA?” I ask, gripped with the sudden terror that I’ve missed some essential application step.

  “Exactly.” She wipes at her face with the backs of her hands and stands to leave.

  “Shola, please, wait.” She sighs the sigh of the eternally weary.

  “It’s the financial aid form.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

  “It’s why I’m not applying early decision anywhere, even though that would up my chances of getting in. I can’t commit to any school, even Harvard, until I know exactly how much aid I’m being offered. And did you know some colleges aren’t need blind? They actually take into account whether you can pay full tuition when considering your application. I’m not the one making it about money. They are.”

  I didn’t know any of that.

  “I still bet you get a full scholarship to Harvard,” I say.

  “Harvard doesn’t offer merit scholarships.”

  “Oh. Well, Harvard’s a dick, then.”

  “Yeah,” she says, and smiles the tiniest bit.

  “And you’re the best. Like if you look in the dictionary, it would say, ‘Shola: proper noun, meaning the opposite of a dick.’ That should be your yearbook quote.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “And any school that doesn’t give you full financial aid plus a full scholarship so you make money on this whole college deal is a loser school not worthy of the presence of you,” I say.

  “Amen,” Shola says.

  “Sometimes I’m an insensitive, overprivileged white-girl idiot.”

  “We do know this,�
� she says, and her tone changes. “Maybe it’s time you worked on that.” I reach out my insensitive, overprivileged white-girl idiot hands, a small gesture, and she takes them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Now

  I find my mom in flannel pajamas eating cookie dough ice cream at the kitchen table at four-thirty in the morning. Her hair is pulled into a loopy bun, and her face gives off the metallic smell and sheen of her expensive serums. My pristine mother has gone slack with sadness. I think, And this is just the beginning.

  We have only been living in this new hell for ten days. What will she look like by summer? I can’t imagine her beauty unraveling like the hem of a sweater. Then again, I never could have imagined any of this either.

  “Hey,” she says, waving her spoon. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She keeps them trained on the container. I assume since she’s denied herself this simple pleasure for so long, the Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream holds extra magic. This is the kind of self-care I can get behind.

  I sit down next to her and take the spoon from her hand. Help myself to a hefty bite. She doesn’t ask what I’m doing up this early. She doesn’t have to. No one sleeps in this house anymore.

  “Get your own,” she says, and we both smile as I go for more. “No, seriously, there are six cartons in the freezer.”

  “Six?” I ask.

  “Moment of weakness. I wanted to try lots of flavors. There’s also a stash of M&M’s—did you know they make caramel ones now?—and Mallomars. Also, vodka and a fresh baguette, because apparently I eat bread now. Thank God for Carrie. She even brought me a Costco-sized Nutella. Think they have Ben & Jerry’s in the big house?”

  “We need to talk,” I say. She closes her eyes and opens them again, as if her lids are heavy and they need a millisecond’s rest before facing me. I can’t tell if this is because she’s medicated or because she’s upset.

  “Isn’t it my job to force you to have the big talks?”

  “Mom.”

  “I thought we’d already covered this. It’s pretty simple. A man puts his peni—”

  “Mom!”

  “I’m kidding. Relax.”

  “How many Xanax have you had?” I ask.

  “This is my second pint. Works better than the Xanax.”

  “What’s Raj going to say?” Raj is my mom’s trainer. Thinking of him makes me think of all the hundreds of people we know, maybe even thousands, who have heard the news. When they think of us, they’ll only think about this: that I’m such a dumbass that my parents had to pay someone off to up my SAT score, and then bribe my way into college. Even worse: How many of them are celebrating our fall from grace? I would bet almost all of them.

  I wonder if Rita explained to Cesar the real reason why I haven’t been able to see him. I wonder if his mother saw my mother being led away in handcuffs on television, and if she now regrets all those cookies she made for me at Christmas. Maybe she’ll ask Rita to reassign Cesar to a different buddy.

  “Eh, Raj’ll understand. You know he’s pretty much the only person who reached out to check on me. With everyone else, it’s been like total radio silence. I’ve barely even spoken to Aunt Candy, since she acted all shocked and insisted, ‘We did things the legit way for Philo.’ Which, no way. You’d think felony charges are contagious or something.”

  I don’t float my alternative theory. That people are too disgusted to talk to us. That we carry the stench of the rotting and rotten.

  “I’m so mad at you.”

  “I know. You should be.”

  “I’m so mad at you.” I shout it this time, loud enough that I wonder if there are paparazzi still outside, even at this hour, and if they can hear me.

  “I know.” She reaches for my hand, and I pull away. She can’t touch me. I’m not ready for that. I worry her fingers will singe my skin. “The problem is we aren’t allowed to talk. Not about the big stuff. The judge said we aren’t supposed to discuss, you know, the thing.”

  My mom says this calmly, rationally, like she has accepted the concept of not being legally allowed to talk to her own daughter. I remember us sitting right here in the fall, celebrating my first kiss with Levi.

  “The thing? Is that what you’re calling it?”

  “My alleged crimes,” she says, finally looking up at me. She takes in my disheveled hair, the toothpaste on the boob of my T-shirt. My eyes are swollen from crying. My nail beds are crusty with blood, since I’ve taken to chewing on my cuticles. There’s a burn in my gut: the churn of fear and guilt. “Because you could be called as a witness or, you know, be charged—”

  She stops here, and as if in slow motion, she crumbles. Her forehead rests on the table. Her arms wrap around her knees. A sound like a horse’s whinny escapes through her lips or maybe her nose. I want to rub her back like she used to rub mine when I was home with a fever.

  I also want to punch her in the face.

  I didn’t know you could feel blistering love and hate at the exact same time, but here we are.

  “So now you want to follow the rules,” I say, remembering Kenny’s warning. How I’m not supposed to talk to my mother. Funny that it’s the only thing I can think of to do. A few years ago, we learned in school that you should never throw water on a grease fire even though that’s our natural instinct when we see flames. That’s how it feels to turn to my mom—like she is both the water and the fire.

  I think of Isla up in her room, probably googling away. A better use of my time, and yet.

  “The lawyers say that—”

  “I don’t care what the lawyers say, Mom.” I feel hot all over and icy at my back, like thinking about a fever has brought one on. “I need to talk.”

  “I…I…Chloe, I don’t even know what to say. I messed up. Real bad. I have never been so scared. I didn’t know,” she says. And the echo of my own words, I didn’t know, the shallowness of them, makes me realize anger can be cumulative. I feel layered in rage, like coats of paint.

  “You didn’t know what? That this could all blow up in our faces? That you could go to jail? Which part didn’t you know?”

  “I didn’t know it could…I’m scared of saying too much—”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You could be subpoenaed. I don’t want you to have to lie. Listen, I don’t want to make any more mistakes.” She licks an errant drop of ice cream off her fingertip, and I notice her nails are chipped. Of course, she didn’t make her weekly mani-pedi appointment. I examine her more closely. Look for signs of other maintenance slipping. I grab the spoon again, more aggressively than necessary, and take another bite.

  “Let me put it this way: Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for you. Because I thought it was what was best. For you.” Her chin wobbles, and her face is wet.

  “No,” I say.

  “It’s true. I love you, Chlo. Nothing matters except for you and Isla.” She pauses. Lining up her delivery, trying a different tack. “And, of course, Ben and Jerry.”

  “This isn’t funny. This is not a late-night show where you have to be charming. This is our lives!”

  “I know. I’m trying to explain—”

  “Don’t you dare pretend any of this was for me.” It takes me a beat to realize I’m yelling. I don’t care. I point the spoon right in my mother’s beautiful, perfect, sagging face. “This was for bragging rights. So you wouldn’t be embarrassed by me. Don’t you dare lie.”

  She shakes her head, and she looks like her Missy bobblehead doll. Big-eyed, unhinged.

  “That’s not…It wasn’t—”

  “Everything was a lie.”

  “I love you,” she says. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  “This isn’t about whether you love me, Mom.”

  “But it is. That’s exactly what it’s about. I love you. That’s my job.
And you are almost all grown. While I can, I need to do what I can, anything I can to—”

  I pick up the ice cream container and throw it hard against the wall. It falls to the floor, bounces once, and lands near my mother’s feet. Nothing spills. She picks it up and hands it back to me.

  “You need to put your back into it,” my mom says, suddenly calm and sober. A cold devastation coming off her in waves. “Plant your feet.”

  I don’t throw it again. The carton is, like me, frustratingly useless. I should have thrown my water glass instead. Just another bad decision.

  I should have let it shatter all over the floor.

  We deserve to step on glass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Then

  “I’m not going to sugarcoat. This essay reads like a parody of an LA rich kid,” Mrs. Oh says. She hands me back my paper, which after a quick glance, looks free of edits. I’m confused. I’m used to Mrs. Pollack returning my English assignments covered in red pen.

  Mrs. Oh is sans baby today. In our last meeting, she found a Cheerio in her pixie cut and casually popped it in her mouth.

  “You didn’t write any comments.”

  “Because you should throw it in the trash and start over. Actually, burn it.”

  “You said that the admissions committee would find my mom’s career interesting. I figured I should write about that.” I attempt to say this as matter-of-factly as possible. To keep the wobble out of my voice.

  “This reads like if your mom’s Wikipedia page and an Instagram influencer’s diary mated and had a college application essay baby.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m a little punch-drunk from lack of sleep.” Mrs. Oh doesn’t look sorry, though. She looks like she wants to laugh. “But did you have to mention that you once got a free Chanel bag?”

  “It was an example of how the stylist system works.”

  “Really? Because it sounded like you thought acquiring that bag was an accomplishment that should get you into college.”