If I'm Being Honest(3)

“You two are terrible,” Morgan says, shaking her head. “I don’t know why I’m even friends with either of you.”

Elle and I don’t have to exchange a look. We round on Morgan in unison. “You’re an honor student, you’re nice, you have cool, rich parents,” I start.

“You’re an actress, and you’re gorgeous,” Elle continues.

“You’re too perfect,” I say.

“No one but us could handle being friends with you,” Elle finishes flatly.

Morgan rolls her eyes, blushing. “You guys really are the worst.”

I shrug. “But you love us.”

“Debatable,” she delivers with a wink. She pulls out her phone, probably to text her boyfriend, Brad.

I catch the time on her screen. Shit. There’s only ten minutes left in lunch. I have to drop off the essay I peer-reviewed and pick up mine from the College and Career Center. I shove my notebook into my bag and stand. “Morgan,” I say, remembering the final item on my list. “Would you ask Brad if he knows if the soccer team’s coming to Skaˉra tonight?”

Two pairs of eyes fix on me immediately. It’s a reaction I knew well enough to expect. “What do you care about the soccer team?” Elle inquires. “You’re not considering ending your two-year streak of lonely Friday nights with a hookup, are you?”

“What’s wrong with a little window shopping?” I reply lightly. I throw my bag over my shoulder and leave, eager not to be interrogated.

I head in the direction of the College and Career Center. Passing the courtyard fountain, I pointedly ignore Autumn Carey and her friends glaring in my direction. I could not care less. If every glare I earned, or didn’t earn but received nonetheless, bothered me, I’d drown in the judgment.

I quicken my steps to cross campus in time to pick up my essay. The College and Career Center pairs up seniors to read and review each other’s college essays. It’s mandatory, unfortunately, given the utter disinterest I have in my classmates’ opinions on my college prospects. I was paired with Paige Rosenfeld, who’s outstandingly weird, but luckily I don’t have to talk to her. Her essay was about feeling like she couldn’t help a classmate who was being bullied, and I gave her only a couple comments. Learning about Paige’s personal life isn’t exactly item number one on my priority list.

I have my essay to worry about. It needs to be perfect. I worked for the entire summer on the draft I submitted to the CCC. Writing, rewriting, reviewing. I even had Morgan’s boyfriend, Brad, who’s on track to follow in his dad’s footsteps to Harvard, edit it with permission to be harsh, or as harsh as Brad’s capable of.

Because I need it ready, polished, and perfect by November 1. The deadline for the Early Decision application for the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School.

It’s my dad’s alma mater. Even though we’ve never lived together, even though our relationship is admittedly dysfunctional, I’ve long wanted to go where he went. If I got in, he’d know I could. If I got in, we’d have Penn to share.

I walk into the College and Career Center with minutes left in lunch. It’s empty, and I cross the carpeted, overly clean room to the student mailboxes. I drop Paige’s essay off, then head to my box. The envelope with Paige’s comments on my essay sits on top. Hurriedly, I slide the pages loose and start scanning the red ink in the margins.

Which . . . there’s plenty of. I feel my heart drop, then race. I didn’t plan on particularly caring what Paige Rosenfeld had to say about my essay, but faced with this treatment, it’s hard to ignore.

I flip to the final page, where I find Paige has written a closing note. I force myself to focus on each sentence, even when I want to ignore every word.

This just reads as really, really inauthentic. Anyone could write this with a couple Google searches on UPenn. There’s no “you” in here. Whatever reason you want to go there, tell them. Try to find a little passion—and then start over.

I frown. Who is Paige to tell me what’s “authentic”? She doesn’t know me. It’s not like her essay was brilliant either. If I’d cared, I could have written her a note criticizing her trite choice of topic and overdramatic descriptions. Beaumont hardly has a bullying problem.

It’s embarrassing, reading feedback like this on writing I was proud of. The worst thing is, though, I know she’s right. I was so wrapped up in being professional that I didn’t get to anything personal.

But I refuse to be discouraged. I’m not like Bethany. If I could be broken by harsh words, I would have given up a long time ago. I will rewrite this essay, and I will get in to UPenn.

Inside my bag, my phone buzzes. I pull it out on reflex and find a text from Morgan.

    The soccer team will be there. Looking forward to whatever you’re planning . . .



With half a grin, I flip my essay closed. I drop it into my bag, my thoughts turning to tonight.





Two



I’M LATE TO SKāRA BECAUSE FRIDAY-NIGHT TRAFFIC on Highland is horrendous, and I had to hunt for half an hour for parking because I didn’t want to pay seventeen dollars for the garage. The club is on the top floor of a huge mall on Hollywood Boulevard, between tall apartment complexes and art deco movie theaters. I have to dodge tourists clogging the curb chatting in languages I don’t recognize and taking photos of the Hollywood Walk of Fame.