The Ivies - Alexa Donne Page 0,7

to her open laptop, I see her close a Word doc and go to College Confidential, where she stays for the rest of class. Because I am a glutton for punishment, I do the same, opening two tabs in my browser: one the Harvard SCEA thread on College Confidential, the other the Harvard Applicant Portal. I spend the next thirty minutes refreshing both every three minutes or so, like a normal person.

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A spate of LACs—aka liberal arts colleges—drop their decisions during sixth period, which for me is AP Calculus, a class I’m taking even though I despise math and it’s my most challenging subject. Can’t be seen to have not taken the most challenging classes available to me, though. Sierra’s in this one with me, thank god, because she helps me with my work so I don’t have to suffer the shame of hiring a tutor. Not that I could afford one, anyway.

I’m trudging through a problem set when Colby, Hamilton, and Williams drop. We have an ecstatic Purple Cow (tragically, yes, that’s the Williams mascot) in our class, I get a group text from Margot about a Colby kid in AP Bio, and then Avery replies about a Hamilton in Drama (naturally). So far we’re only hearing about acceptances. Guess the kids who aren’t getting in aren’t crowing too loudly.

Then, with two minutes until the bell is supposed to ring, we hear the hiss of a litany of “shits” from Jason Wang in the front row. Oh well. Premed at WashU is very competitive. Maybe he’s lucky and got deferred. The bell rings, and so does his phone. Apparently, his parents were refreshing College Confidential religiously, too. I feel bad for him.

As I hurry from AP Calc to my final and favorite class of the day, AP Brit Lit, the mood in the halls has shifted. Now I can see the rejections as plain as day on so many faces. Eden Hannon’s mascara is streaked across her cheeks, and her watermelon lipstick is smudged. I know she applied ED to Northwestern, so she’s been rocking the look for over an hour.

Chris Hardin stops me just outside Brit Lit. “Hey, Olivia, have you seen Emma?”

“Uh, no, why?” He smells of weed, so we know how he’s dealing with the pressures of ED day.

Chris chuckles and says, “I owe her a big thank-you, is all. Catch you later.”

I don’t want to know what the glint in his eyes means. Are they hooking up? No, Emma wouldn’t go for a loser bro like Hardin. Probably buying weed off him or something.

Chris isn’t watching where he’s going, and his shoulder smacks hard into Seth Feldstein, who merely scowls and keeps going. His jaw is set so tight, I can practically hear his teeth grinding as he passes. That means MIT is out.

Fuck, when are the Ivies dropping? We’re expecting Yale and Harvard today, at least. It’s like someone’s inserted screws underneath my rib cage and is slowly drilling them tighter, tighter. My breath comes in short pants, though maybe it’s the rushing through the halls. I drop into my seat at the back of the class, next to Avery, who only had to walk one room over to get here. She’s cool as a cucumber. Avery’s mom is the heir to a massive pharmaceutical fortune, a triple Harvard legacy, and a devoted donor. I’m fairly certain there’s a wing named after the Montforts somewhere on campus.

Thomas Hardy does his best to distract me, and it’s the slow-building rage against all men ever that manages to keep my attention for a solid thirty-five-minute stretch. Angel Clare is a dick. And Hardy really liked trees.

My phone is resting on my thigh. I’ve been compulsively fingering the power button, willing myself not to press it, to illuminate the screen and angle it so I can see it. Finally, I give in. And I see the M-emblazoned envelope at the very top of the home screen. I have an email.

I suck in a breath. Steal a glance over at Avery, also looking at her phone. Shit. They send out decisions in waves. I know this. Acceptances first. Then deferrals. Finally rejections. How long has Avery been looking at her phone? Am I wait-listed or rejected?

“Olivia, what do you think Hardy is trying to say in contrasting Angel and Alec?”

Ms. Kaylor calls on me—her revenge, I’m sure, for looking at my phone. Screw the rules on a day like this! We’re all on