and who will remind him to make dentist appointments every six months? I know he’s a respected attorney, and he’s perfectly capable of being an adult. But part of me also believes that he’s been like a Jenga tower all these years since Mom died, moving ever so carefully around life, lest one small piece fall away, and everything that’s left of him comes crashing down. What if that one small piece is me?
I don’t tell any of this to Ms. Taylor, though. What I tell her is that Stanford is basically my first and only choice. That I will do anything—anything—she says to get in. Though, yes, of course I will apply to some backup schools, too. But they’re not what I want. And not where I will be happy.
“You’ll be successful anywhere you go, Emma,” Ms. Taylor says kindly. “And Stanford would be lucky to have you.” She’s been my guidance counselor since freshman year, and as our coding club adviser, she’s also seen me work harder than maybe any other adult at Highbury High. Still, I bask for a few seconds in her compliment. It’s nice to be believed in, even if it’s only by Ms. Taylor. She pushes her glasses up a little on the bridge of her nose. “But you know Stanford has an extremely rigorous admissions process. You could do everything right and still not get in.”
I do know the statistics: last year over 47,000 students applied to Stanford and only 2,700 got accepted. Less than six percent. But I’m ranked first in my class of 106 students (tied with George) and I got a perfect score on my SATs. I’m president of coding club and treasurer of NHS. Why can’t I be in that six percent?
I say all that out loud to Ms. Taylor and she laughs. “I do love your confidence,” she says. She looks over my academic records, then back at me and she frowns a little. “But you know what you need to add to all this, a little something social to spice it up.”
“Social?” I shake my head, not even quite sure what she means. She sounds like Izzy, but she can’t possibly be telling me to get a boyfriend to get into Stanford.
“I don’t know...join the committee to plan the fall formal. Or throw your hat in the ring for homecoming court. Or try out for the dance team this year.”
“Are you kidding?” I’m pretty sure she is because I don’t have the skills to make the dance team even if I wanted to. Or campaign for homecoming court? That sounds absolutely horrifying—trying to convince all the people I don’t know and don’t talk to at my school to like me? No thanks. “I play piano,” I remind her. Since it’s not through school, it’s probably not in my academic record. But I’ve been studying since I was little, lessons once a week with Mrs. Howard, and I play a recital and compete at least once a year. “I won the New Jersey Music Teachers Association competition in my age group last year for solo performance,” I tell her.
“Yes, solo,” she emphasizes.
“I guess I could enter a duet this year.”
She laughs a little and shakes her head. “Just think about it,” she says. “It’s your senior year. Shake it up a little bit, Emma. Show Stanford you’re not just another math brain in a very large pile of math brains.”
I tell her I’ll think about it, but as I walk out of her office I feel a rare sliver of doubt about my capabilities, my future—a fleeting heartbeat in my throat, wondering if she’s right. I don’t have a social bone in my body. Maybe to Stanford I will be just another number, in a very large pile of applications.
* * *
Sam spots me in the cafeteria at lunch as I’m paying for my cheese hoagie and shouts my name. “Hey! Emma Woodhouse. Over here.” He’s pretty loud for being new to our school, and also for being a junior. But even in the awful fluorescent cafeteria light, he’s also really pleasant to look at. Plus, last year I used to eat with Izzy and her friends, and now they’re all gone. Even George has B lunch and isn’t here. All last week, I ate alone, and the twenty-three minutes in lunch period that had seemed too short last year suddenly felt much longer, interminable. I make my way over to Sam’s table.
“Sorry,” he says as I plop