If I'm Being Honest(39)

Regardless, she looks amazing without the blazer.

“I wish my parents understood.” She rolls her eyes. “Morgan’s lucky hers don’t care.”

I glance at Brad, who’s evaluating the SUVs and sports cars dropping our classmates off in front of school. “How’s Morgan’s shoot going?” I ask.

“Fine, I imagine,” Brad mutters. He thumbs the collar of his Brooks Brothers shirt, visibly bothered. “With the costar.”

Elle and I share an amused glance.

“You’ve really never seen the costar?” Elle prods. “You haven’t IMDb-ed him?”

“Not yet,” Brad grumbles. “I would have. But I don’t know his name. Morgan only ever calls him ‘the costar.’” He adopts a Morgan voice, which is pretty convincing. “The costar forgot his lines. The costar bought everybody lunch. The costar and I had fake sex in front of the whole cast and crew.”

Elle’s in stitches. “Why didn’t you ask his name?” she gets out.

“How could I? I would have come off crazy jealous and insecure.”

Elle erupts in a peal of laughter. “I’ve seen him,” I jump in. “Morgan sent me a couple images from the movie for her website. You have nothing to worry about, Brad.”

“Thanks, Cam.” Brad touches his perfectly combed hair, looking endearingly unconvinced. “I know it’s stupid of me to worry. I want Morgan to achieve her dreams, one hundred percent. But what’s going to happen when she’s filming with, you know, Chris Pratt? She loves Chris Pratt!”

“Everybody loves Chris Pratt,” Elle contributes thoughtfully.

Brad throws up his hands.

We walk up the front steps, down the hall, and into the quad, where within the impeccably manicured hedges, it’s a wall-to-wall crush of people. Crowds press right up to every table. If I were near the ornate octagonal fountain in the center of the quad, I’d be afraid of getting pushed in. Even walking is going to be a challenge.

Lisa Gramercy, in class-president mode, is passing out programs, reveling in every moment of looking like a student leader in front of reps from Harvard, Princeton, Penn. I’d hate Lisa if she weren’t just obscenely nice.

“Ugh.” Elle collapses against Brad in indignation. “Better get this over with. I have to talk to Princeton for my dad. He’s going to check if I have a program or a bookmark for proof. He hasn’t said he’s going to. But I know he’s going to. Brad, you headed to Harvard?”

Brad nods once. His dad went to Harvard Law with Obama.

“And Cameron’s doing Penn,” Elle concludes.

“The Ivies will be in the back of the quad,” Lisa says out of nowhere. I don’t know how she emerged from the crowd to come up to us. But here she is, black curls bouncing from her ponytail, pearls in her ears. Before I can get annoyed by her eavesdropping, she gives me a glance of friendly envy. “That’s a great blazer on you, Cameron.”

I smile. Elle does, too, I notice out of the corner of my eye. “Thanks, Lisa,” I say. “You look really pretty.”

Lisa beams and disappears.

“Of course they’re in the back,” Elle deadpans.

We’re heading into the crowd when I catch sight of Paige—and with her, Brendan. They’re tightly compressed in line for a school whose banner I can’t completely read. Something University. Mr. Keeps to Himself doesn’t look uncomfortable the way I would have expected, and I remember his confidence in our texting conversation the other day. Brendan’s eyes flit up occasionally from the brochure he’s reading, seemingly sizing up the booth’s representative and eavesdropping on other students’ conversations. He’s in a dark gray suit stretched over his huge frame, his curly hair just the right level of combed.

He looks . . . good.

“I’ll find you guys later,” I call up to Elle and Brad.

Elle pauses. Glancing over her shoulder, she cocks her head when she notices Paige. “Do you want us to wait for you?” she asks uncertainly.

“Um. It’s okay,” I reply. “I promised some people I’d hang with them for a while.”

Something crosses Elle’s face, something hard and inquisitive. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something then closes it, and her features relax.

“Okay,” she says. “Break a leg. Not that you need any luck, what with your dad.”

I nod, glad she understood about Paige and wishing she hadn’t mentioned my father. It’s not like he’d ever provide even a kind word to his alma mater about his own daughter, and on the other end of the equation, if I’m not admitted . . . I’m worse than a disappointment. I’m unworthy.

When it comes to my father, legacy’s not a gift. It’s a prison.

Shaking off the familiar fear, I join Paige and Brendan. “Wow,” I say, walking up. “Here it is. Conclusive proof that Brendan ever ventures outside.”

“I’m here because my dad forced me,” he replies, his expression tight. Paige’s eyes flicker with unconcealed concern.

“You could check out schools other than MIT,” she offers. “If you wanted to.”

Brendan glances over the heads of the crowd from his extraordinary height. I can, tell he wishes he were elsewhere, and I know Paige can, too. He turns to his sister, his expression softening. “Yeah,” he says. “I will.”