Broken Beautiful Hearts(4)

We tiptoe out of the apartment and Tess locks the door behind us. On the way to my car, she walks along the edge of the curb putting one scuffed brown boot directly in front of the other as if she’s on a tightrope. It’s obvious she hasn’t heard from any colleges yet.

Now I wish I hadn’t left the letter on the passenger seat.

When we get to my car, I try to hop in first and grab it, but Tess is faster. She picks up the letter and flips it open.

“Wait—” I reach for it, but she’s already reading.

“Holy shit.” She looks over at me. “You got in! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wanted to tell you in person, but it didn’t seem like the right time.”

She closes the letter and places it on the dashboard. “Why? Because I’m feeling sorry for myself?”

“Tess…”

“Stop. This is the biggest thing ever.” She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. “You got into UNC! You’re going to be the next Alex Morgan!”

I break into a huge smile. “Doubtful, but don’t jinx it.”

“You can’t jinx the inevitable.” She looks away. “Before you ask, nothing came for me and I’m fine.”

“It’s okay to be worried.”

Tess leans her head against her window. “What if I don’t get a scholarship anywhere?”

“Letters only went out two days ago. Lots of people are still waiting,” I remind her. “And this is only the first round of academic scholarships. With your GPA and test scores, you’ll get one.” We both know a soccer scholarship is a long shot for her. Tess is a great player, but she doesn’t stand out on the field the way she does in the classroom.

She starts to say something, but I add, “And I’m not saying that just because you’re my best friend.”

“Grades and test scores might not be enough.”

“You’re also a member of chorus and the yearbook committee, which is impressive considering you’re a total lyrics slayer and the only decent photos you take are selfies.” The corner of her mouth turns up, so I keep talking. “Plus, you have twice as many community service hours as the rest of us.”

“Appearing well-rounded is more work than an actual job.” Tess hugs her legs and rests her chin on her knee. She’s not snapping out of it.

Time to shift into best-friend overdrive. “Didn’t you tell me that five percent of students who are offered scholarships turn them down?” I intentionally quote the wrong percentage.

“Nine percent. The article said most people pass because they get accepted to a school they like better or another college offers them a bigger scholarship.”

“And then…?”

She realizes what I’m doing and rolls her eyes. “And then the scholarship committee moves to the next person on the list. You made your point.”

“My work here is done.” I cut through the gas station that shares a parking lot with 7-Eleven, throw my Honda into reverse, and execute the smoothest parallel parking job of my life.

“That was impressive for a girl who failed her driver’s test twice.” Tess tries to keep a straight face.

“I only jumped the curb once.” When I hit the curb, the test administrator’s clipboard slipped out of his hands. He tried to grab it and whacked his forehead on the dashboard. Then he failed me on the spot. I picture his puffy cheeks and pinched red face and I burst out laughing—which makes Tess crack up, too.

We dissolve into hysterics until she gets the hiccups and I yell, “Side cramp.”

“Thanks for cheering me up,” Tess says between hiccups. “What would I do without you?”

I tilt my head toward a woman walking out of 7-Eleven holding a glazed doughnut. “You’d probably starve.”

On the way to school, we binge on sticky doughnuts and extra-rich hot chocolate. We manage to arrive on time, along with the second wave of students that skate in just before the bell everyday.

“Does Reed know about UNC?” Tess asks as we walk through the huge double doors. “I mean, did you text him or anything last night?”

I give her some serious side-eye. “And violate the code? I’m offended.”

We both smile and say it at the same time: “Best friends before boyfriends.”





CHAPTER 2

Perfect Day

THE FIRST THREE periods of the day go by without a hitch. In chemistry class, the teacher was out sick. She left our assignments on the board for the substitute, but one of the slackers erased them. The sub didn’t have a hard copy, so the period turned into study hall. At Adams that means pop in your earbuds and listen to music or play games on your phone.

When I arrived at English, my teacher handed out pop quizzes as we walked into the classroom. I’m not great at recalling details about topics that don’t interest me—like The Metamorphosis, the gross novella we’re reading about a man who turns into a cockroach. But on today’s quiz, I actually knew most of the answers.

Third period is always the easiest part of my day, aside from lunch. My art teacher, Mrs. Degan, encourages us to experiment and set our own artistic parameters. She says we could be one brushstroke away from genius, the way her last name is only one letter away from Degas. I spent the class period working on my current work of genius, an attempt at a cubist self-portrait that makes me look like a LEGO minifigure.