“What?” I ask, confused. “I thought I was rooming with you and Paige.” A couple of weeks ago we had to fill out a form and indicate roommate preferences for the trip. Of course Celia and Paige and I all put that we wanted to room together. Since there were supposed to be three people to a room, we figured it was a given we’d get matched up.
“Yeah, well, somebody must have screwed up.” Celia takes in a deep breath. “I tried to talk to Mr. Beals about it, but he’s being totally and completely unreasonable. He didn’t even want to listen to what I had to say. Apparently someone on this trip has ringworm and he’s, like, completely consumed with it.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Some kid named Bruno. He allegedly got it from wrestling, but can you imagine? It’s, like, highly contagious.” She looks down at her arms, as if checking them for any kind of disease, but of course her skin is perfect as always. “Anyway, you should check your room assignment and see who you’re with.”
On the bus on the way here they handed out papers to everyone that listed their room numbers and roommates. I hadn’t even looked at mine, because I just assumed I’d be with Celia and Paige. I rummage through my bag and pull out the paper. Quinn Reynolds, it says, room 217. When I see the names underneath my own, my heart sinks.
Aven Shepard.
Lyla McAfee.
What? How did I end up rooming with Lyla and Aven? Those two are the very last people in the whole wide world I’d want to room with. In fact, if I had to fill out a form that asked me who my very last choices were, I would have written Lyla McAfee and Aven Shepard. Seriously, I’d rather room with Ringworm Bruno than Lyla or Aven.
“Who was in charge of making these room assignments?” I demand.
“I dunno.” Celia shrugs. “But don’t even think about asking someone to change them. They won’t do it.” She shakes her head and drums her fingers on the table, impatient for the meeting to begin.
I look back down at the paper in front of me.
Lyla. Aven. Me. All in the same room. The last time the three of us were in close proximity, we ended up in a fight. A wave of guilt sears through my body, the kind of guilt that burns like an inferno, the kind of guilt you don’t want to have to face for even one second, because if you do, you might have to confront the fact that you’re a horrible person.
I take in a deep breath and do what I always do whenever I think about Lyla and Aven—I push them out of my mind. But then I spot something at the bottom of the paper I’m holding.
From the Office of the Student Action Committee.
The Student Action Committee is a committee I actually thought about joining, because I thought it would look good on my Stanford application. (Ha-ha.) But then I realized I’d be better off doing debate and tennis, because it would make me seem more well-rounded. (Intellectual and athletic!)
And even though the Student Action Committee sounds very impressive, they actually don’t really do that much. They meet once a week in the library and try to implement programs for the student body. But I think all they really do is sit around and talk about stuff they want to implement, because they don’t seem to really get anything done. They spend most of their time doing clerical work and other busywork for all the different school events—like adding up money for fund-raisers, or making room assignments for our senior trip.
So I didn’t join. For all those reasons. But if I’m being completely honest, one of the other (main?) reasons I didn’t join was because Aven is on the committee.
As Mr. Beals takes his place at the front of the conference room and starts talking about the rules for the trip (which are completely ridiculous and self-explanatory—like not spending the night in other people’s rooms, not partaking in alcohol and drugs—pretty much everything everyone’s going to do anyway), I let my eyes wander around the room until I spot Aven.
She’s sitting in the corner at one of the round tables, her dark hair pulled back from her face. She’s pretending to listen to Mr. Beals, but she seems a little distracted—her leg is bouncing up and down under the table, and she keeps chewing on one of her fingernails. She looks nervous. Is it because she knows she’s going to be rooming with me and Lyla? Or is it because she set us up to be roommates on purpose?
She must have. There’s no way she was on that committee and the three of us just happened to end up rooming together. It’s way too random.
But why would Aven want us all to room together? She’s not expecting the three of us to become friends again, is she? If so, she’s more delusional than I thought. I keep watching as she twists her hands in her lap and then glances toward the table next to her. I flick my eyes over to see what she’s looking at. Liam Marsh. The guy she’s been obsessed with for, like, ever. Supposedly they’re best friends, but Aven’s always been secretly in love with him.
Before graduation, I will . . . tell the truth.
That’s what Aven wrote in her email to herself. It was ambiguous, but Lyla and I both knew exactly what Aven was talking about—finally telling Liam she wanted to be more than friends.
Of course, I thought it was a terrible idea. You don’t just go around telling your guy friends you’re in love with them. There’s no point. If a guy likes you, he doesn’t just continue being friends with you. He makes a move. It’s definitely a misconception that guys won’t go after you because they don’t want to ruin the friendship. Puh-leeze. Guys don’t care about friendships. They care about sex. And if they think they can get it from someone they’re even remotely interested in, they go for it. Whether they’re friends or not.
But when Aven wrote that email, I didn’t try to talk her out of it—I was sure that by the time we were seniors, the whole Liam situation would have been resolved, one way or the other. I figured the most likely scenario was that they wouldn’t even be friends anymore, or if they were that Aven would have gotten over her ridiculous crush. But from the way she’s looking at Liam, it’s apparent she hasn’t.
As Mr. Beals drones on and on about the signs of ringworm, I scan the crowd of my classmates for Lyla until I spot her on the other side of the room, looking agitated and impatient.
Could she have had something to do with the room assignments? I don’t think so. If Aven and Lyla had worked together to make sure we all roomed together, that would mean they were friends again. The thought of the two of them becoming friends without me makes my stomach squeeze. But if they were friends again, wouldn’t they have just roomed with each other? Unless they wanted to make up with me, too. But then why didn’t they just approach me? They could have asked me to talk, sent me a text or an email or something.
Plus, if they were friends again, they’d probably be sitting together. No. This is definitely Aven working alone. I can’t believe how nervy she is. Especially for someone who lives her life being so afraid of everything.
My phone vibrates.
Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.
Well. Rooming with Lyla and Aven certainly fits the bill.
Once the meeting is over, the conference room erupts into complete and total pandemonium. Kids are talking and laughing, bags are being rolled over the floor, and everyone’s pushing toward the exit. Our whole class is jazzed up from sitting so long, and they’re anxious to get out into the sunshine and start the trip.
“Meet in our room in fifteen,” Celia instructs. “We’re gonna hit the beach, okay? Nathan will probably be there, so wear your black bikini.” She grabs my hand and then twirls under it, like we’re ballroom dance partners or something.
I giggle in spite of myself. This is vacation, after all. And the beach sounds awesome right now.
“See you in a little,” Celia says. She and Paige disappear down the hallway toward their room. I sigh and wish I were going with them. I think about heading back into the conference room and begging Mr. Beals to let me change my room assignment. But I know it’s probably not going to happen.
Whatever. Just because Lyla and Aven an
d I are going to be in the same room doesn’t mean that I have to hang out with them. In fact, I probably won’t even see them. It’s my senior trip. I’m not going to be sitting in my room the whole time—I’m going to be out and about, having fun.
My phone starts ringing in my bag, and I reach in and rummage around for it. It’s my brother, Neal.
“Hey,” I say, as I start wandering down the hall toward the elevator bank. There’s a crowd of kids from my class doing the same thing, so I linger a little longer near the lobby, deciding to wait until things thin out a bit. “What’s up?”
Neal’s a sophomore at Stanford, but he’s home for spring break. Neal and I are pretty close—well, as close as you can be to your older brother. I always secretly wished Neal had been a girl, so I could raid his closet and talk to him about boys. Of course, everyone I know who has a sister wishes they had a brother, because their sisters are always stealing their clothes and being bitchy to them. Also, they think that if you have an older brother, he brings home his hot friends and then you get to hook up with them.
Neal does have a lot of hot friends, but I’ve never hooked up with any of them. One, because I don’t have time for that. And two, because, well, none of them has ever really shown any interest in me. (Actually, that’s not true—last year Neal brought his freshman roommate, Brody, home over Thanksgiving. After dinner Brody cornered me in the hallway and asked if I wanted to party in his room late night. Then he raised his eyebrows up and down, like he wanted to make it clear exactly what kind of partying he was talking about. Which it was, because he was making it so skeezily obvious. Actually, now that I think about it, I probably should have told my parents and made them kick him out, because that was extremely inappropriate. Oh well. He and Neal aren’t friends anymore—Brody dropped out of Stanford over the summer and never came back. I think he was on drugs.)
“Not much,” Neal says. “I just wanted to let you know you have a letter here from Stanford.”
My stomach does a back handspring, and a lump forms in my throat. A letter? From Stanford? Genevieve said she wasn’t going to send it out for a few days! Didn’t she? Or did she just say a copy of her email was soon to follow? Why is my normally perfect memory failing me now? Maybe it’s blocking out traumatic experiences, like how accident victims can’t remember anything about getting hurt.
Suddenly, something about a letter arriving at my house seems almost . . . ominous. An email is one thing—people are always firing off emails at a moment’s notice without worrying about what’s in them.
But a letter sounds official. An official admissions letter. On real, actual paper. Probably with the school seal and a masthead. It sounds like the kind of thing that would have to be logged somewhere. Up until this point, I was kind of hoping maybe I could just email Genevieve and try to get her to change her mind, or at least find out who else I could talk to. Now that a letter’s been sent, it’s a whole different ball game.
Although . . . maybe the letter isn’t from the admissions office at all. Maybe it’s just one of those pamphlets they send urging you to apply to their school. That would be ironic—them inviting me to apply when they’ve just rejected me.
“Oh,” I say to Neal, trying my best to keep my voice light. “Who’s it from?”
“Stanford. I just said that.”
“No, I mean . . . what department at Stanford?”
“Admissions,” he says. He sounds exasperated, like he can’t believe I’m asking so many questions. “It’s probably your acceptance letter.”
Or not.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s great.”
“Why are you being weird?”
A bunch of kids from my school go walking by, talking excitedly. They’re being pretty loud and obnoxious, but for once I’m actually glad they’re acting that way. I need some time to stall so I can figure out what the hell I’m going to say to my brother.
“Hold on,” I say, then take my time moving to a corner of the lobby that’s a little quieter. I take in a deep breath, like they taught us to do in this yoga class we had to take in gym. “I’m back!” I say finally, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. “Thanks for calling me! Sorry if I was being weird, we just got to the hotel and there were a lot of people around.”
“Oh, okay.” Neal accepts this explanation, because he is a boy and boys have simple emotions. Score one more point for having a brother. “So do you want me to open it or not?”
“No!” I practically scream. “I mean, um, I don’t think so. No, thanks.”
“No?”
“No. Ah, I think I should wait until I get home so I can do it myself.”
“Are you sure? That’s going to be, like, three more days. Don’t you want to know what it says?” Not really.
“Of course I want to know what it says. But I want to open it myself. You know, to have the moment.” My words sound hollow in my ears, and I’m afraid I’m losing control of the situation. I try to think about what I would do if I hadn’t gotten that email this morning, if I didn’t already know that I didn’t get into Stanford. Probably I would have let Neal open the letter. But that’s not an option. And then I have a brilliant idea. “Send it to me!” I crow.
“What?” Neal sounds startled, probably because I sound manic.
“Send it to me! The letter! Overnight it to me, here at the hotel.”
“Really?” He sounds doubtful. “Don’t you want to open it in front of Mom and Dad?”
Ha. Ha. Ha-ha! “Well, obviously, you know, that would be ideal.” In a nightmare. “But since I’m not home, I don’t want to have to wait days. So if you could just overnight it to me, then I could open it. Maybe I’ll have someone take a video of me doing it, and then I’ll send it to Mom and Dad. You know, like a surprise.”
“I don’t know, Quinn,” he says. “You know Mom and Dad don’t like surprises. They’ll probably be upset they didn’t get to see you open your letter.”
“What are you talking about? Mom and Dad love surprises.” My phone buzzes with a text, and I look down at it. Celia. u almost ready for the beach? I quickly type back, almost! txt u when I’m ready! I add a smiley emoticon at the end, and one of those emojis of a palm tree. I hate emoticons, and the only reason I even have them on my phone is because Paige downloaded them one day without my knowledge. She and Celia think it’s hilarious how much I hate them, and they did it to annoy me. For a while they were sending me messages strictly in emojis, leaving me to try and decipher them.
“They do not love surprises,” Neal is saying. “Remember when Mom threw Dad a surprise birthday party? He really didn’t like it.”
“Yes, he did.”
“No, he just pretended to like it, but inside he really didn’t. He thought it was over the top, and it made him feel awkward.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Neal, first of all, Dad did like that surprise party. And second of all, a surprise party is different from a video surprise from his daughter.”
“How?”
“How?”
“Yes, how is it different? They’re both fundamentally the same thing. They’re both going to pop up on him out of nowhere.”
“My video will not pop up on him out of nowhere! My acceptance letter is totally expected. It’s all I’ve been talking about for, like, my whole life.”
“Yes, but . . .” As Neal starts prattling on about the reasons he thinks it’s a bad idea, I marvel at the fact that I’m having an argument with my brother over something so stupid. Actually, that’s not really the weird part. My family gets into debates over things all the time—affirmative action, gay marriage, what an object really is, whether boys should be encouraged to like pink. We’re a very debatey family. It’s how we connect. But to be having an annoying debate like this with my brother, over something that’s not even going to happen, is a whole new level of ridiculousness.
“Neal!” I say finally. “I hear what
you’re saying, and thank you for your thoughts on whether Mom and Dad like surprises. I will take them all into consideration before I decide what to do. But in the meantime, could you please overnight the letter to me?” I say a quick prayer of thanks that the days of thick envelopes and skinny envelopes are over. Nowadays colleges don’t send you a big packet if you’ve been accepted. They just send you a letter with a link to a pdf file that has all the info.
“Fine,” Neal says, sounding miffed. “What’s the address?”
I spot a hotel notepad sitting on one of the tables in the lobby, and I rattle off the address that’s printed on the bottom, then give him my room number. “Thanks,” I say before hanging up.
My phone buzzes again, and I look down, about to tell Celia and Paige that I’m hurrying and to stop bothering me.
But it’s not a text.
It’s my email.
From myself to myself.
Before graduation, I promise to . . . do something crazy.
I shake my head and delete it. Again.
Begging my brother to send me my rejection letter, all the while making him believe it’s an acceptance letter, is crazy enough for me.
FOUR
WHEN I FINALLY GET UP TO MY ROOM, LYLA IS sitting on one of the beds, looking around in confusion. There are two queen-size beds on either side of the room, and a twin-size cot set up in the corner. Lyla’s bags are sitting on the floor near the bed she’s sitting on, almost like she’s claiming it. Not that I blame her—who the hell wants to sleep on a cot? I thought for sure I’d end up having to be the one to do it, since I took so much time downstairs. But it looks like Aven hasn’t gotten here yet.
Lyla looks up, her eyes meeting mine. My chest tightens, and a flash of sadness flows through me. For the briefest moment, and for some unexplainable reason, I wish more than anything that I was going to the beach with Lyla and Aven, and not Celia and Paige.
But that’s ridiculous. One, because it could never happen. Lyla and Aven and I aren’t friends anymore. Lyla wants nothing to do with me, and if I’m being honest, I don’t blame her. What I did to her was . . . well, it was awful. But thinking about that doesn’t serve any kind of purpose, and besides, it’s not like she was innocent in the whole situation.