The Ivies - Alexa Donne Page 0,6

me a million times that Canadian universities only require grades and test scores. He’s free of the kind of bullshit that infects most of this place. It’s refreshing.

“What are you working on?” I initiate the small talk this time.

“Waiting on the same stuff as you, probably,” he says. “Bella’s review of the new drama club show, Brent’s holiday movie wrap-up, and the ED list.”

I pull up the spread I have reserved for the early-decision college results for the senior class. Congratulations, Class of 2021! the left-hand page reads. The right side is blank, with a three-column box faintly outlined in pink, waiting for me to copy and paste in the final list. Typically, the Ledger comes out on the fifteenth of every month, but we always hold the December issue until right before the winter break so we can print a list of the schools everyone got into early.

I drag the layout onto my left-hand screen, which is angled so as not to afford Ethan a complete view. I type carefully.

Harvard, Olivia Winters. My eyes scrape over each letter; I whisper the words, feeling them on my tongue. God, I need this, and I’m dreading it. If I get in and Avery finds out I applied behind her back, she will literally kill me.

“Didn’t you apply to Penn?”

I jump a good foot in the air. Twist around to find Ethan leaning over to peer at the screen. I jab aggressively at the backspace key.

“I was just—” I start to hedge, but then Nisha Khan begins screaming.

“I GOT INTO MOTHERFUCKING NORTHWESTERN!”

“Nisha, language!” Ms. Vasquez snaps. Then she breaks into a wide grin. “But congratulations! That’s amazing.”

We all chime in, congratulating Nisha on the good news. Northwestern is one of the best journalism schools in the country. My stomach turns over, and I feel my lunch inch up my esophagus. It’s starting.

This was a mistake. I should have applied early decision to Penn, the way I was supposed to. It’s an incredible school, with this independent Writers House thing that would be absolutely perfect for me for journalism. I’ve been communicating with the recruiter there, like a good girl, and I probably would have gotten in.

But Penn’s early-decision program is binding, and Avery and the other Ivies don’t understand how stressful it is for me, not knowing if I can afford a school that has a binding admissions decision. Harvard’s single-choice early action offers me an out—I don’t have to decide right away. If I get in, I can still apply to other schools regular decision and then pick the one with the best financial aid package in April.

Every time money comes up, I can’t stand the patronizing side glances, my friends’ clueless reassurances that I’ll be fine because schools just love to throw money at people like me. It’s a ridiculous myth that elite schools are full of the deserving poor on full rides. No, most students who matriculate are pretty damn wealthy. Financially needy students like me basically have to survive an application cage match for a shot at one of a few coveted full-ride spots. Heck, I’d be happy with full tuition; I can take loans for room and board. Why else have I been playing the Ivies’ game all these years? To survive.

Sierra and Emma might understand. They’re rich, but not “my parents have their own jet” rich (something both Margot and Avery can boast). Margot wouldn’t care, but she’d tell Avery, who would blow a gasket. So I didn’t tell any of the Ivies I applied.

“Olivia, are you okay?”

I feel Ethan’s warm, broad hand on my shoulder and look up into concerned hazel eyes behind those chunky plastic frames. They make him look like Harry Potter, and I find it so damn attractive.

He’s snapped me out of my spiral, and I manage a bright, if false, smile. “Definitely. Nisha’s gonna get shit-faced tonight at the ED day party. Will you be there?”

“Well, yeah. It’s in my dorm, remember?”

I ignore the heat in my cheeks. “Right! So, when do Canadian university decisions drop? You probably think we’re all insane.”

“Only a little unhinged.” His laugh could melt snow and cause blooms to sprout. “And sometime in early spring. I’m not worried about it.”

“Lucky,” I say as we get back to work, or at least pretend to. No one’s on task today.

Nisha goes out into the hallway to call her parents, and we can hear her screaming and crying for the next ten minutes. When she returns