started that very first night she called him from WeCount. “So what, then?” she asked. “You just fully don’t believe in, like—”
“The American Dream?” Colby laughed. “No, Meg, I do not believe in the American Dream.”
“Not the American Dream,” Meg protested, huffing a bit. “God, you make me sound like somebody’s crusty old grandma who’s like, Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, sonny. I’m just saying that of course I think it’s possible for things to get better—or for people to improve their circumstances, if they have the right resources and help.”
“And you’re going to help them?”
“I mean, I hope so, yes.”
“By writing letters to your congressman and spending the next four years at a college in the middle of nowhere full of people exactly like you because you’re too afraid to tell Emily you don’t want to go?”
Meg blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. “Wow,” she said, all four of her limbs gone hot and prickly. “Been sitting on that one for a while, have you?”
“I’m sorry,” Colby said immediately. “That was over the line.”
“A little bit.” Meg scrubbed a hand through her hair, feeling, stupidly, like she might be about to cry. Colby was still the only person who knew she’d gotten in to begin with—she’d been super vague every time Emily asked about it, which was basically every day, especially since other people had started to hear from schools the last couple of weeks—and she didn’t need him of all people throwing the whole thing in her face.
“I’m being an asshole,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Sure you did,” Meg said crisply. “You might as well admit it, Colby. I mean, you basically already did, so.”
“It’s just . . .” Colby sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re so smart, that’s all. And, I don’t know, you going to some expensive school you’re not even excited about just because that’s what everybody expects you to do and it’s easier than making things awkward is just . . .” He trailed off. “Like, if you actually do want to go change things, if you actually think you can, then shouldn’t you, like . . . go out there and change them?”
“You’re being extremely mansplainy right now, you realize.”
“I do, yeah.” Colby let out another sigh, deeper this time “I’m going to quit while I’m behind.” He was quiet for a moment. “Are you mad at me?”
“A little,” Meg said, squeezing her eyes shut and telling herself he had no idea what he was talking about. He was in a crap mood, that was all. He was being obnoxious.
She opened her eyes again, frustrated, her restless gaze skating over the friendly detritus of her cluttered bedroom: the framed photo of her and Emily at last year’s student council car wash, the BUILD BRIDGES NOT WALLS sign tacked to the bulletin board above her desk. She’d gotten it on her first real date with Mason, the two of them taking SEPTA into the city to go to an immigration protest down at Love Park. It had been a million degrees outside even though it was halfway through October, the midday sun beating down and her shoulders red and blistering. The back of Mason’s T-shirt had darkened with sweat. Meg kept waiting for him to complain, or suggest they take off, but he never did, not even when the all-female drum circle played for the better part of forty-five minutes. Instead, he’d gotten her a popsicle from a guy selling them out of a cooler, her hand still sticky with fruit juice when he’d taken it in the delicious air-conditioned chill of the train back home.
Mason would never question her decision to go to Cornell with Emily, she thought sulkily. Mason would never put her through the uncertainty of wondering if possibly he might have a point. She didn’t want to go to Cornell, not really. It was the path of the least resistance. But it wasn’t exactly like she had some other brilliant plan.
Finally, Colby cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said, “what’s your email?”
Meg gave it to him, opening her laptop and clicking over to Gmail; a few moments later, a message from him popped up. “Click the link,” Colby instructed.
Meg frowned. “Is this, like, a virus that’s going to download a bunch of terrifying porn to my computer?”
“You think I would send you a terrifying porn virus?”
“No, but—”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry, sorry. Here I go.” She clicked it. It was a link to a streaming site that did admittedly look a little bit sketchy,