limitations.”
“You have it totally wrong there, Dad. This isn’t about me not being able to keep up with all this. It’s just that …” Outside the house, a carload of Weston students (Westies, as they are sometimes known) honked, music blaring. “I’m ready for more, actually. Just not clubs and classes.” Mom stood up and stretched. “I’m going to get a social life.”
“I stand corrected,” Dad (ever the lawyer) said, feeling his weekend beard. “But it’s still a big step for you, Cyr. And I think I speak for the both of us when I say we’re happy for you, and …” (he looked at my mom) “… it’s about time!”
So when Sarah Jensen asks me where I’m applying for early decision, I can answer her without feeling bad about my strategy. Once I’d realized I was using extracurriculars and my straight As as a cover (a cover not just for my nose, but for my general shyness in the social arena), I felt even more solid about freeing myself. It’s not like I went from nothing to Prom Queen, but I now know people’s names. I’ve become part of the social fabric at Weston. And since meeting Leyla, I kind of have a best friend—or whatever the word is for a best friend who is technically in a totally different social group than you.
“I’m not applying early,” I tell Sarah Jensen. She looks like I’ve just announced I’m a slug trapped in human form.
“Why not?” She allows her pencil to stop moving across the page, and sets her pointer finger on her open textbook to mark her place while she recovers from my shocking news.
“You know, I’m just not sure I could commit completely to one school. What if there’s another one I’d rather go to? I mean, it’s not a sure thing no matter what I do, but I’d like to feel like I have choices. Come April, I just want to feel like I made a decision, too, you know?”
“But you’ve been planning on Columbia, talking about it forever,” Sarah says. Something in her mouth makes her look sad, like I’ve hit on something maybe she’s thought about, too.
“I know, I know. And I would probably love it there. And maybe I’ll get in—and maybe I won’t.” I look around at all the people studying, the seniors who will all be dispersed across the country at college, or taking a year off, or in Eddie’s case maybe going to Oxford. It’s hard to think beyond high school when you’re in it, but I try to explain my point of view to Sarah. “Making choices is part of what makes us different from animals, right? We not only know how to feed ourselves, but we decide what to eat and when and how much. What’s something you like?”
“To eat?” Sarah wrinkles her forehead.
“Yeah, like mac and cheese, or egg salad …”
“I hate anything egg-related,” she informs me.
“I’ll remember that in case we ever have brunch, okay? But my point is—you love candy necklaces.” I point to the one currently around her neck. Since eighth grade she’s been crunching away on her special sweet treat at least once a week. Just the smell of those necklaces makes me feel academic pressure.
Sarah’s hand flies to her neck and she touches her beloved candy couture. “I do.”
“But do you love them because you really really love them, or are you just used to eating them?”
Sarah thinks a minute. “So, because you always planned on Columbia University as your goal, your quest, you’re now doubting the validity of that desire?”
In the doorway, I spot a familiar shade of green that can only mean one thing: Eddie Roxanninoff and his incredibly well-faded Dartmouth T-shirt—a hand-me-down from his older brother, who graduated Weston three years ago. I love seeing Eddie in this shirt because it reflects who he is. It’s comfy, soft (I felt it once when I smushed a mosquito on his back; he was grateful), brings out the moss hue in his eyes, and—most importantly—is that article of clothing that will one day be loaned to a girlfriend and never
“You have it totally wrong there, Dad. This isn’t about me not being able to keep up with all this. It’s just that …” Outside the house, a carload of Weston students (Westies, as they are sometimes known) honked, music blaring. “I’m ready for more, actually. Just not clubs and classes.” Mom stood up and stretched. “I’m going to get a social life.”
“I stand corrected,” Dad (ever the lawyer) said, feeling his weekend beard. “But it’s still a big step for you, Cyr. And I think I speak for the both of us when I say we’re happy for you, and …” (he looked at my mom) “… it’s about time!”
So when Sarah Jensen asks me where I’m applying for early decision, I can answer her without feeling bad about my strategy. Once I’d realized I was using extracurriculars and my straight As as a cover (a cover not just for my nose, but for my general shyness in the social arena), I felt even more solid about freeing myself. It’s not like I went from nothing to Prom Queen, but I now know people’s names. I’ve become part of the social fabric at Weston. And since meeting Leyla, I kind of have a best friend—or whatever the word is for a best friend who is technically in a totally different social group than you.
“I’m not applying early,” I tell Sarah Jensen. She looks like I’ve just announced I’m a slug trapped in human form.
“Why not?” She allows her pencil to stop moving across the page, and sets her pointer finger on her open textbook to mark her place while she recovers from my shocking news.
“You know, I’m just not sure I could commit completely to one school. What if there’s another one I’d rather go to? I mean, it’s not a sure thing no matter what I do, but I’d like to feel like I have choices. Come April, I just want to feel like I made a decision, too, you know?”
“But you’ve been planning on Columbia, talking about it forever,” Sarah says. Something in her mouth makes her look sad, like I’ve hit on something maybe she’s thought about, too.
“I know, I know. And I would probably love it there. And maybe I’ll get in—and maybe I won’t.” I look around at all the people studying, the seniors who will all be dispersed across the country at college, or taking a year off, or in Eddie’s case maybe going to Oxford. It’s hard to think beyond high school when you’re in it, but I try to explain my point of view to Sarah. “Making choices is part of what makes us different from animals, right? We not only know how to feed ourselves, but we decide what to eat and when and how much. What’s something you like?”
“To eat?” Sarah wrinkles her forehead.
“Yeah, like mac and cheese, or egg salad …”
“I hate anything egg-related,” she informs me.
“I’ll remember that in case we ever have brunch, okay? But my point is—you love candy necklaces.” I point to the one currently around her neck. Since eighth grade she’s been crunching away on her special sweet treat at least once a week. Just the smell of those necklaces makes me feel academic pressure.
Sarah’s hand flies to her neck and she touches her beloved candy couture. “I do.”
“But do you love them because you really really love them, or are you just used to eating them?”
Sarah thinks a minute. “So, because you always planned on Columbia University as your goal, your quest, you’re now doubting the validity of that desire?”
In the doorway, I spot a familiar shade of green that can only mean one thing: Eddie Roxanninoff and his incredibly well-faded Dartmouth T-shirt—a hand-me-down from his older brother, who graduated Weston three years ago. I love seeing Eddie in this shirt because it reflects who he is. It’s comfy, soft (I felt it once when I smushed a mosquito on his back; he was grateful), brings out the moss hue in his eyes, and—most importantly—is that article of clothing that will one day be loaned to a girlfriend and never
Similar Books
