Pushing Perfect(27)

“I’m sure you did great,” she said. “Something was definitely different this time. You were more confident, maybe?”

“I’ve been working really hard.” Not like I’d ever tell her what had really changed.

She took a sip of her coffee, leaving a dark-pink lip print on the cup and a dot of whipped cream on her nose. I barely had time to decide whether to tell her when she wiped it off with her napkin. “Ugh, I love these things, but they’re such a mess. What did you get?”

“Green tea,” I said.

“How very proper of you. That’s not very celebratory, though. Hold on.” She got up and went back to the counter, then came back with an enormous almond croissant. “Here, we’ll split it. You deserve something sweet.”

It reminded me of my mom and the bagels. “Thanks,” I said, and broke off a piece. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I should eat; I hadn’t even taken a break to snack on the nuts I’d brought to the exam for energy.

“So now that you’ve got this out of the way, are you getting ready to work on your college applications? Have you talked to your parents about what schools you’re applying to yet?”

“Not yet. I still don’t know if my scores will be good enough. And they’re so set on Stanford—I’m worried they’ll be mad.”

Ms. Davenport sighed. “It’s entirely beyond me how you could think your parents would find Harvard inadequate.”

“You don’t know what they’re like. It’s like Harvard and Stanford were on opposite sides of the Civil War or something. They’re not going to take it well. And it’s not just Harvard—it’s all those East Coast schools. They want me to stay here, close to home.”

“You can always apply to all of them and decide later. I’ve already drafted your recommendation. It’s the best one I’ve ever written, if I do say so myself.”

I wanted to ask her why. I wasn’t so special. “I still don’t know what I’m supposed to write about in my essay,” I said instead.

“Colleges like to hear about how you’ve overcome adversity,” she said. “The story of how you got through these panic attacks to conquer the SAT might be a good one.”

If only she knew. “I don’t think it would be all that interesting,” I said.

“Well, is there anything that comes to mind? Any struggles you’ve had with friends or family? You can tell me anything—I’ll keep it between us.”

Of course there was something that came to mind right away: the monster. But I’d never talked to anyone about it but family. I trusted Ms. Davenport, though, and maybe she would understand. She wore lots of makeup herself, bright lipstick and dramatically penciled-in eyebrows. Maybe she needed it, like I did.

“I’ve got this skin problem,” I said, and then the words came out faster than I could contain them. I told her about that first zit, when I should have told my friends but didn’t, and how much worse it had gotten, until telling anyone seemed impossible, and all the ways it had kept me from being honest with my friends, until I had no friends left. “I don’t think I could write about it, though. If anyone found out, I think I would die.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said. “And you’d be surprised how many people are keeping their own secrets, secrets they think are the worst thing in the world but wouldn’t necessarily matter if they belonged to someone else. But it’s up to you to decide how to handle this. I don’t know that it’s a good topic for you quite yet, though—I think you still have a lot to work out first.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Anything I’d say would sound like a cliché to you. But honesty tends to be the best strategy. You have more control over the story that way.”

I had a feeling she’d say that. “I’m not ready for that.”

“Not yet,” she said. “But maybe someday you will be. Telling me was a start.”

“I guess,” I said. It didn’t really feel like one, though. I’d thought that maybe saying it out loud would be a relief, the first step to being more open with everyone, and not just about my face. But while it did feel good to tell Ms. Davenport, all I realized was that I viewed her in the same way I viewed my family—I could trust her, and she’d never tell anyone, but my secret wasn’t any less secret for her knowing it. She was right about me having a lot to work out, that was for sure.

We went back to talking some more about what colleges I was planning on applying to, and how things were going at school, which was easier than thinking about my whole skin thing. I supposed I really did feel better having told her, though—she didn’t seem shocked or grossed out or any of the things I was worried about, though she hadn’t actually seen the horror for herself.

“I hope you’re going to celebrate tonight,” she said. “You’ve worked really hard for this.”

“I’m going over to a friend’s house,” I said.

“Have a great time. You deserve it.”

“Thanks again,” I said. “For everything. See you in class next week.”

“Count on it,” she said, with a wink.

Next stop was Alex’s, but first I texted Mom. Made it through this time. Feeling optimistic. See you at home tonight.