in with all the upperclassmen while we’re still early in the year,” Ms. Singh said. “It’s time to get serious about the future, so I thought we could chat and make sure you’re on the right track.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I never shied away from talking about the future.
“Last we spoke, you had your heart set on MIT.”
“I still do.”
Ms. Singh nodded pleasantly, but said, “Have you considered backup options?”
I frowned. I’d gotten that question enough from Mother and Father. “No.”
“Well, I really encourage students not to pin all their hopes on one school.”
But for me, there only was one school. I’d wanted to go to MIT since I’d found out MIT existed.
“I’ve worked very hard to make myself the ideal applicant,” I said.
“I know you have. I looked through your file before you got here. Your GPA is excellent—”
“Not as excellent as Sara Kang’s,” I replied bitterly.
“You still have a shot at valedictorian if you put in extra effort this year.”
“And if Sara Kang doesn’t put in effort, right?”
Ms. Singh ignored the question and said, “Are you keeping up with your extracurriculars?”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t strictly true. I’d skipped the last several debate team meetings and hadn’t volunteered in a while. But I was semi-active in science club. And I was still on track to becoming an Eagle Scout, despite it being a torturous experience. I enjoyed working toward some of the merit badges, (See: astronomy, electronics.) but the camping trips were agonizing. Tents and trees and nature. Not to mention s’mores, which were the stickiest, most stress-inducing food I’d ever eaten.
“I’ve done some research on MIT,” Ms. Singh said. “They strive to take on well-rounded students.”
“Which I aspire to be.”
“They prefer applicants to have participated in a sport.”
I knew that. I’d done my research too. “Unfortunately, that’s not possible.”
“Have you looked into all the options? Maybe track?”
I almost laughed out loud. I couldn’t make it down the corridor without getting winded. “They prefer students to have a sport; they don’t require it.”
None of this mattered anyway. Surely my unconventional pursuits would be more attractive to the admissions board than whether or not I played football. I began to feel anxious. I should be working on the next stage of the hoax, not spending time discussing my athletic ability.
Thankfully, Ms. Singh moved on. “What about your hopes for after college?”
“I plan to work for NASA.”
She smiled. “An astronaut, huh?”
“An engineer.”
People assumed wanting to work for NASA meant wanting to go to space. Not me. Astronauts were daredevils. Space travel involved innumerable risks. I’d rather keep my feet firmly planted on Earth.
“You know,” Ms. Singh said thoughtfully, “I have a friend who works for Triple i.” (Triple i: Interstellar Initiatives Inc., a private space-travel company.)
I tried not to visibly cringe.
“Triple i is interesting,” I conceded. “But not NASA.”
Triple i was all about space tourism and flashiness. It was where hip, young people worked, because sometimes space could be trendy. It wasn’t comparable to NASA, with its long history of tradition and countless achievements.
“It might be worth looking into, though,” she said. “I could put you in touch with my friend.”
I thanked Ms. Singh because she really was trying to help, but I didn’t want to talk to her friend. It was NASA or nothing. It was MIT or nothing. And thanks to the groundbreaking sociological paper I was writing, achieving those goals would be possible.
We chatted for a few more minutes, discussing my strategy for the rest of the year. She offered to get me information pamphlets. Poor Ms. Singh didn’t seem to know that the information in her pamphlets could be easily found online.
Still, I left the meeting feeling optimistic and imagining the glory and wonder my future would hold.
Of course, there were still several steps I had to take before I could enjoy that future. Beginning with researching crop circles.
Event: Suspicious Behavior
Date: Sept. 27 (Wed.)
I liked doing research right before bed. I’d drift to sleep with new information still floating through my consciousness. I always hoped it would permeate my dreams.
But it was hard to concentrate on research with overly synthesized pop music blaring from the bedroom next door.
I threw my book about crop circles on the bed, stomped into the hall, and pounded on my sister’s door.
“What?” she shouted.
I pushed the door open and stepped into Maggie’s room.
“Excuse me. I didn’t say come in.”
I held up a hand to my ear, pretending I couldn’t hear. She rolled her eyes, but reached over to her tablet and cut the sound.
“What do