The Best Possible Answer(35)

“Nothing.” The dog comes up to me and barks at my feet.

I feel sick. Nauseous. Dizzy.

“Is everything okay?”

“No,” I choke out. “It’s not.”

Evan walks toward me and reaches out to touch my arm.

I step back. “Please don’t touch me.”

“Okay…”

“And please don’t kiss me. No more. Not ever again.”

“You kissed me.”

“I know. I did. And I shouldn’t have. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have done this.”

“Is this about Sammie?”

“Yes—no. I mean, it is. And it’s not. It’s just—I need to get out of here.”

I run out of the apartment, half-hoping to find Sammie in the hallway so I can beg for forgiveness, half-hoping she’s gone so I don’t have to face her.

The hallway is empty. I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t face my dad.

I can’t call Sammie, and I can’t go back to Evan.

I take the emergency stairs all the way down to the lobby. I exit the building.

The city has woken up. The sidewalks are bustling with businesspeople, families, kids.

They’re all spinning around me. Spiraling around me.

I can’t pass out again. I can’t end up in the ER again.

I crouch down on a curb and try to breathe. I’m stuck, in the middle of the sidewalk, crying, sobbing, heaving for breath. I can feel passersby giving me funny looks, so I wipe my face and start walking.

But I don’t know where to go.

I have nowhere to go.

I have no one to go to.





PART THREE

Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe’s College Application Checklist

□ May: AP Exams bombed

□ June–July: Design and Engineering Summer Academy thwarted

□ July: Work on College Apps

□ August: Work on College Apps; Study for SAT

□ September: Finalize Stanford Application





SAT Math: Sample Question

A researcher wants to know if there is an association between lies, heartbreak, and life suckage for the population of sixteen-year-olds in the United States. After conducting a broad survey, which of the following conclusions is most relevant to this study?

(A) Girls who fall for cute guys despite their best intentions experience the most major life suckage.

(B) Girls who kiss their best friend’s crushes and then lie about it experience the most major life suckage.

(C) Girls who discover their fathers are involved with other women mere months after leaving their families experience the most major life suckage.

(D) Girls with broken hearts experience the most major life suckage.

(E) All of the above.


The Fourth of July is one hundred times worse than Memorial Day. Maybe it’s because I have to work every day this weekend. Maybe it’s because Sammie’s requested a shift change, and so now I’m on the desk by myself. Or maybe it’s because it’s 102 degrees, which means that everyone in Bennett Village is here, and they can’t understand why there aren’t enough umbrellas, or why we’ve run out of Diet Coke, or why it’s taking me so long to record their visitor passes. Or maybe, as usual, the answer is all of the above.

I wish I could quit. After that day on the balcony in Professor Cox’s apartment, I tried to tell my mom that I wanted to stay home after all. She asked me if I’d been having more panic attacks, sort of accusing me of having them, not asking out of a real sense of concern. So I rescinded my request.

And I said no.

Which is a complete and utter lie.

Ever since that day, the heart palpitations and choking feeling have been constant. And I’ve had two more Episodes in the middle of the night. But I didn’t wake her. I didn’t want to end up back at the hospital for something I knew would pass eventually.

When she persisted in asking me why I wanted to quit, and I didn’t have a good answer, she just shrugged and said, “If you are not sick, I see no reason for you to quit. It’s an easy job and decent money.”

So I’m here all weekend.

And it’s full life suckage.

Vanessa joins me behind the desk and scans the ID of a resident who’s been complaining, rather loudly, the whole time she’s been in line about how she’s “melting in this heat” and how “this is taking forever.”

“Thank you,” I whisper after the woman is gone. “She’s been giving me the side-eye the whole time she’s been in line.”

“People are jerks,” Vanessa says while swiping more IDs. “Where’s Sammie?”

“I don’t know.”

“You guys aren’t scheduled together anymore?”

“Guess not,” I say with a shrug.

“Had a fight?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Vanessa says. “That blows. Hope you guys make up soon.”

I don’t say anything.

“Do you have any plans for tonight? Any parties?”

This city loves a party. Summer in Chicago means concerts, parades, and street fairs. Fireworks shows at Navy Pier two times a week. Taste of Chicago, with its rows and rows of restaurant fare. Normally, I love a party, too, especially for the Fourth of July weekend, which has always been when Mila and I celebrate our birthdays. Every year on Saturday night, we have a small party. Mila invites a few of her friends, and we have a rooftop barbecue, with my dad cooking hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill, and then we watch the fireworks show from the roof, all of Mila’s little friends oohing and aahing at the explosions. I only invite Sammie, so it’s not really a party for me, but Mila demands that my name be on the cake, too. We’re always together.