If I'm Being Honest(43)

Both boys turn to me, amused admonishment on their faces.

“What?” I protest jokingly. “Like aspiring to hotness is criminal.”

“That reminds me,” Brendan speaks up, “I took your feedback into account. The sorceress in my game now has proper, um, proportions.”

“Wait.” I grin. “How did my hotness remind you of your sexy sorceress?”

Brendan rolls his eyes, but he’s blushing, like I’ve caught him red-handed. “It was the abstract concept of hotness,” he fumbles to say. “I thought we established that the”—he clears his throat—“‘sexy sorceress’ wasn’t my type.”

“And that extends to anyone who might or might not resemble her,” I ask leadingly.

“Naturally,” he replies.

“You’re such a liar.”

“Am not.”

Andrew’s watching us curiously.

Paige emerges from the crowd, holding a handful of flyers. Noticing Brendan with Andrew and me, her eyes light up. “Cameron,” she says, holding a program out for me. “I got you this.”

I take the program. Flipping it over to the front, I read, UCLA DESIGN MEDIA ARTS. The text is imposed over a photograph of a big, beautifully modern building.

“I know you want to go to UPenn. But check out this design program,” Paige goes on. “You know, if you ever want to do web design in college.”

I feel my mouth working, but I find nothing to say. To be honest, I’m touched by Paige’s completely unexpected thoughtfulness. Web design in college—I never even knew you could do web design in college. For the briefest moment, the idea rushes into my head of spending days in front of layouts and color palettes instead of spreadsheets and algorithms.

Then it’s gone. Paige, no doubt noticing my dumbstruck expression, gives me a quick grin.

“We’re doing Berkeley, right?” she asks Andrew, who nods a confirmation. “We have to get in line,” she says. “The fair’s practically over.”

I check my phone—she’s right. It’s ten minutes to nine. “Crap,” I say under my breath. It’s now or never. “I have to talk to Penn,” I tell the group. “Um . . .” I find Paige’s eyes. “Thanks. For the UCLA thing,” I get out.

“Of course.” Paige nods.

I try to pass through the group in the direction of UPenn. The crowd contracts, and momentarily I’m pressed chest-to-chest with Brendan. I glance up at him. He’s averted his eyes, but I’m fairly certain I feel his breath catch. I inch past him, not entirely knowing why my face flushes once more.

I get out into the crowd. By the time I turn to tell the group good-bye, the line for USC’s formed in my way. I’m walking up to the Penn table when I feel my phone vibrate. I pull it out to find a text from Andrew.

    I hear our moms are doing their dinner thing this week. Want to run?



I reply immediately, feeling excitement tingle into my fingertips.

    I’d love to!!



While the person in front of me talks to the rep, I’m unable to hold back a smile. Talking to UPenn feels a little less daunting. Before it’s my turn, I find myself writing a text to Brendan.

    You are too a liar.



I pause when his typing bubble appears.

    Am not.

Okay, I might be.

Just a little.



I reply with the blushing emoji.

I walk up to the UPenn rep, a silver-haired man in a navy blazer. “I’m Cameron Bright. I’m a senior,” I say.

“Good to meet you, Cameron.” He shakes my hand. His expression is warm, easy, welcoming. It does a little to calm the cold tingle of nerves in my chest and fingertips. “Do you know what you’re planning to study in college?”

“I’m interested in the Wharton School,” I declare, reaching for the Wharton pamphlet.

“Wharton is, as you know, a top-flight program for business,” he tells me. “I hope you’re ready for a schedule filled with business credits. Wharton students have very demanding course loads. I tell prospective applicants to be certain of their interest in the program before committing.”

Committing. Be certain. The words wind an unexpected twist in my stomach. I open the Wharton pamphlet and find the coursework list, which confirms what the rep’s saying. Courses line the length of the page: Statistics, Advanced Mathematics, Financial Analysis. Economics.

I feel the twist in my gut tighten, reminded of my Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market homework. Of bleary-eyed nights spent unraveling the complicated concepts and problems, or trying. I’ll be confining myself to years of nights just like them if I go to Wharton. To a lifetime of them.

From behind the Wharton brochure peeks a blue corner of the UCLA pamphlet Paige gave me. The image flits behind my eyes again of days devoted to design instead of derivatives.

“Hold on.” The representative blinks, breaking me from my thoughts. He studies me. “Did you say your name was Bright?”

“Um,” I say. “Yes.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be Daniel Bright’s daughter, would you?” His expression’s taken on a new interest.

I force a smile. “I am.”