As if my anxious brain isn’t already in overdrive.
You’re just an amateur blogger.
Your SAT scores are mediocre.
Rejected.
I toss my phone into my backpack, as if that will make a difference.
* * *
“Wait-listed.”
Molly can’t even look at us when she says it. She’s too busy tearing her quesadilla into tiny, inedible pieces. Her eyes are wet but she doesn’t blink, won’t even shed a tear. Sawyer texted me in first period, but this is the first time I’ve seen Molly today, so it’s the first time I can believe it’s true.
“It’s not a rejection,” Nash says.
“It’s not over,” Autumn says.
Molly shrugs. “I don’t know how to process this.”
We don’t know what to say to that—so we don’t. Lunch passes in awkward silence, because what do you say to someone who’s sort of maybe lost their dream? Molly took five AP classes this year. Molly is valedictorian. Student council treasurer. President of USY. If Molly Jacobson isn’t enough for her dream—how am I possibly enough for mine?
“No word yet?” Sawyer asks Autumn, Nash, and me.
Sawyer’s future is on lock. Last week, he signed his life away to UConn baseball.
“They’re Division I and I can keep working at the bakery. It’s kind of too perfect,” Sawyer said to me during a shift last weekend. He had multiple offers from schools all over the country. He’s absolutely Ollie’s hero—if there was ever any doubt otherwise.
He’s also a hero for handling our stress like a champ, tbh.
Molly blinks out of her trance. “I’m sorry. I’m so in my head right now! Please distract me. What is everyone else’s situation?”
Autumn swallows a fry. “Well. I got into Loyola and Emerson. So … I’m going to film school! USC is still very much to be determined.”
“I’ve heard from UConn and Wesleyan,” Nash says.
I retie my ponytail. “I—”
Autumn’s phone vibrates, loud, against the table.
Ten anxious eyeballs stare at Autumn’s phone. It’s the fifth time this has happened.
“I mean.” Autumn swallows. “It’s probably another false alarm.”
“Autumn,” Molly says, her voice level, “if you don’t check your email right this second and give us some good news, I’m going to have an existential crisis. Right here.”
Autumn inhales a deep breath and opens her email. My eyes dart around the table, from Nash to Molly to Sawyer to Autumn. We’re all holding our breath. I’m positive. Autumn’s eyes are glued to her phone and for a moment she’s expressionless. Like a total statue. But then her eyes widen and her lips curve up and I almost burst into tears. Which, like, this isn’t even my news. Pull yourself together, Halle!
“I got in,” Autumn says.
Then she bursts into tears and it’s wild because I’ve never seen Autumn cry.
“I’m sorry.” Autumn wipes her nose with her shirt sleeve. “I don’t know how to process this. I prepared myself for a no. I didn’t think—like, I guess I never thought I’d actually—God, Molly, I’m so sorry.”
Molly stands up from her seat, walks around the table to Autumn, and wraps her arms around her. “Why are you apologizing? You freaking got into USC! My existential crisis has to wait.”
We’re all freaking out and congratulating Autumn, who is absolutely glowing. The emotional whiplash is unreal.
Once Molly lets go, Autumn turns and wraps her arms around me. “I literally couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you.”
I shake my head. “Not true.”
Autumn raises her eyebrows.
“Okay! Maybe just the dialogue part.” I laugh.
“Director, Autumn Williams,” Nash says. “Has a pretty sick ring to it.”
“It really does,” Molly says.
“Remember us when you’re famous,” Sawyer adds.
The bell rings, interrupting the celebration and reminding Le Crew that we are, in fact, at school and we do, in fact, still have AP tests to prepare for. Nash and I have calculus next and I don’t even know how I’m going to process free-response questions. It’s enough of a struggle on a normal day.
Le Crew splits off into every direction. Nash and I walk to calc and he asks—no, insists—that we check our email.
“Please. I need to know. Please. Please. Please,” he begs.
He doesn’t need to ask me twice.
Your NYU Admissions Decision appears in bold at the top of my inbox.
This is not a drill.
“It’s here,” I say.
“Mine too,” Nash says.
We freeze in front of the English wing lockers. My heart is racing and my palms are sweating because in a matter of moments, I will know. And it’ll either be the best day of my life or I will be commiserating with Molly for the rest of the year. That’s probably what