“Am I?” she says distractedly. “I was up to my eyeballs in flooring bids for the damaged wing. I had to get out of there.” She looks up. “How was your day?”
“Good,” I tell her. “Except for the part where I blatantly asked the new guy out on a date.”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Lucky new guy.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure he thinks so,” I reply. “When I asked him, he didn’t answer right away.”
“But he eventually said yes?”
“Only after I made it sound like it wasn’t a date.”
“It sounds very complicated,” Mom says. “But promising! So where are you taking him?”
“Oh, just this get-together a girl from school is having at her house.” I keep my voice casual, but not too casual. I don’t want to sound evasive, but I am, in fact, being evasive, because of course Ilana’s parents are out of town, and of course there’s no way my parents will let me go to the party if they know that.
“Tonight?”
“Yep. Hey, are those for me?” I ask, pointing at the stack of oversized envelopes on the table.
“They are,” she replies, sliding them toward me. College application packets. I quickly flip through them—Vanderbilt, Duke, University of Georgia, and Yale—then drop the whole stack in the trash. “You know, it might not hurt to have some options,” she says. I can tell she’s treading carefully. “Not that I don’t think you’ll get into Northwestern, because I know you will. But why limit yourself now? Why not give yourself some choices?”
“I am giving myself choices. By also applying to Indiana and NYU.” My dismissive tone earns me a pointed look. “Sorry,” I tell her. “I just don’t want to go to school in the South, okay? We’ve talked about this.”
“Fine. That covers three of the four.” Mom walks to the trash can and pulls out the blue-and-white Yale envelope. “Connecticut is definitely not the South. And Yale has one of the oldest and most widely read college newspapers in the country.” We both know she only knows this because Caitlin said it at my birthday dinner.
“But no journalism program,” I point out. “Which would matter if we were talking about a school I could get into, which we’re not.” This earns me another look. “Mom. It’s Yale. Nine-percent-acceptance-rate Yale. Normal people like me do not get into places like that.”
“Who says you’re normal?” She smiles, making a joke, but this conversation is irritating me, because it’s the same one we’ve been having since I was a kid. Mom thinks I underestimate myself. I know she overestimates me. Despite her conviction that I’m Someone Special, history has proven that I am merely average. Which I’m fine with—I just wish she’d get on board. “At least think about it,” Mom urges, holding out the envelope. “Will you do that for your annoying mom?”
I take the envelope. “Only because she’s being particularly annoying right now.”
Mom winks. “She tries.”
At quarter till eight, having tried on nearly every item of clothing in my closet in every possible combination and promptly dismissed each one, I’m digging through my mom’s top drawer. My skinny jeans work with this slouchy top and heels, but the whole ensemble still feels a little blah on its own. As I’m wrapping a sparkly linen scarf around my neck, the doorbell rings. I grab a pair of earrings from her jewelry box and head downstairs.
Caitlin and my mom are standing in the foyer, talking, when I appear. They get quiet when they see me.
“What?” I ask suspiciously. I hate when they talk about me. Which is often.
“Nothing,” my mom says with a breezy smile. “Enjoy your non-date date.”
As usual, Caitlin looks amazing. Her faded jeans and thin hooded sweatshirt give the impression that she just threw the outfit on, but the details—gold accessories, her grandfather’s watch, dramatic metallic platform sandals—pull the whole look together. I wonder briefly if it’s a mistake to let Josh meet her. Not that anything would ever happen between them, it’s just that I know how she looks and I know how I look.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Caitlin says as we walk to her car. For a second I think she’s read my mind. “You should just apply.”
“Huh?”
“To Yale. Your mom told me they sent you an application packet. Would it really be so horrible if you and I were at the same school?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’s why I don’t want to apply. I’m afraid you and I will both end up there.” Caitlin unlocks the doors to her Jetta, and we both get in.
“So what is it, then? Why not apply?”
“(A), I won’t get in, so it’s a waste of energy. And paper.”
“The application is electronic.”
“And (B), Yale doesn’t have a journalism program.”
“That’s because it’s a liberal arts school.”
“Exactly. And while that’s great, and while it might be true that I could get a job at the newspaper of my choice if I graduated from there, it doesn’t change the fact that I do not want to spend four years taking art history or poli-sci classes. I actually want to learn how to be a journalist. In a classroom. Preferably at Northwestern.”
Caitlin glances over at me as she starts the car. “Or, (C), you’re just afraid you won’t get in.”
“No, I know I won’t get in. So there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“But unless you apply, you won’t know that for sure.”
“Can we drop it, please?” I snap. I know she means well, but I get enough of this crap from my mom. Caitlin backs off.
“Yes. As long as you promise to edit my personal statement as soon as I’m done with it.”
“Haven’t I promised that, like, forty times already?”
“Ugh, I’m just nervous about it,” she says. “I’ve heard that the essays matter a lot—more than at other schools.” Her words are tinged with worry. We both know writing is not her forte—she’s struggled with it since being diagnosed with dyslexia in fifth grade. Caitlin is great at expressing herself, but her dyslexia causes her to use the wrong word a lot, something spell-check doesn’t catch. “I can’t even imagine what I’ll do if I don’t get in.” Her voice falters slightly. It’s uncharacteristic of Caitlin to be so set on something like this—unlike me, she doesn’t have tunnel vision when it comes to her future. But getting into Yale is not just about academics for her. Her grandfather worked as a shipping clerk in the Port of New Haven when he first arrived in the United States from the Ukraine in the 1960s, and from then on was determined that a member of his family would go to Yale. He started calling Caitlin “my little Yalie” the day she was born (he’d already given up on his daughter, who dropped out of school when she got her first modeling contract). Caitlin idolized him. He died three days after her sixteenth birthday.
“You’ll get in,” I assure her. “And your essay will blow their minds. We’ll make sure of that.” Her expression goes from worried to relieved.
We pick up Tyler first. As we pull into his driveway, the garage door goes up and Tyler emerges carrying a backpack. He walks quickly to the car, holding the bag close to his body, obscuring it from view. His beer stash.
“You decided I was right,” Caitlin says as Tyler slides into the backseat.
“Wrong. I decided it was worth the precaution on the off chance that you were,” Tyler corrects, tucking the bag under his feet.
“Uh-huh.” Caitlin starts to back out of Tyler’s driveway, then stops. She looks over at me. “Wait, where are we going? You never told me where this guy lives.” I hand her the piece of paper with Josh’s address on it, noticing for the first time his cute, boyish handwriting. Caitlin types the address into her GPS.
“Remind me how the new kid knows Ilana?” Tyler asks, fiddling with Caitlin’s iPod. “Do you have any normal music on here? ‘Elliott the Letter Ostrich’? FYI, indie bands should be barred from naming themselves.”
“If by ‘normal’ you mean crappy pop, then no,” Caitlin replies. “And the new kid doesn
’t know Ilana. Abby just thought it’d be a good idea to invite him to her party. You know, ’cause we were so excited about it.”
“Again, I don’t understand why you two are so anti,” Tyler says. “So she’s a little temperamental. So her head outweighs her body. She does have some redeeming qualities.”
“Such as?” I ask. I’m not just being catty. I’ve tried to come up with reasons to like her. Or at least tolerate her. And I’ve come up blank.
“She’s fun,” Tyler replies, his euphemism for slutty. “And she’s talented.”
I snicker. “Talented, huh?”
“I’m serious,” Tyler says. “I saw her audition for the play she’s so amped about. She was really good.” He sounds disturbingly sincere.
“Please don’t tell me you have legitimate feelings for her,” I say. “Caitlin, help me out here. Tell him he’s not allowed to actually like her.”
“I don’t care who he likes,” Caitlin retorts, a little too quickly. Her eyes are focused on the road. “We’re here,” she announces.
I look up, startled. “Already?”
Caitlin points at a two-story brick house at the end of the street. There’s a beat-up Jeep with Massachusetts plates parked in the driveway. “Looks like Astronomy Boy is Ty’s neighbor,” she says. I glance out the side window. We’re stopped in one of the newly developed cul-de-sacs near the new back entrance of Tyler’s subdivision. There was a party back here junior year, a few streets over, before the asphalt was poured on Poplar Drive. The “Poplar Party,” which was quickly renamed the “Popular Party.” There were rumors of a guest list, but none materialized.
“Wait, don’t pull in yet.” I yank down the visor and survey my reflection. I look exactly the same as I did fifteen minutes ago. A little wild-eyed, but otherwise fine.
Tyler is busy humming the theme song to Mister Rogers. “So what’s the new guy’s story?” he asks between bars.
“Dunno,” I say. “He’s in my astronomy class. I think maybe he’s on the crew team?”
“We have a crew team?”
“It’s new, I think.”
“Can I pull into the driveway now?” Caitlin asks. We’re still idling in the middle of the street.
“Yes. Ready.” Caitlin pulls forward. “Wait!” She hits the brakes. I turn to Tyler. “No mention of how little Cate and I like Ilana. Or how much we hate her parties.”
Tyler looks at Caitlin. “She realizes how weird this is, right?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “Now shut it. And give me some gum”
Caitlin pulls into the driveway and parks. “Are you going to the door?” she asks me. “Or do you want me to just honk?”
“You can’t honk,” Tyler says. “What kind of signal does that send? His parents will think you’re some sort of parent-fearing freak.”
His parents. I didn’t even think about the fact that I might have to talk to parents. Yikes. Thankfully, two seconds into my internal parents love me! pep talk, the front door opens and Josh emerges. Wait, should I be offended that he didn’t want me to come to the door?
Tyler leans forward to get a better look. “He’s got kind of an accountant-on-vacation vibe to him, doesn’t he?”
I shoot him a look. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” He opens the door for Josh, then slides over to make room for him in the backseat. “Hey, man,” he says as Josh gets in. “I’m Tyler.”
We cover introductions and then lapse into moderately awkward silence. I chew nervously on my gum, willing Tyler to say something. He can make conversation with a fire hydrant.
“So, Josh . . . ,” Tyler says finally, “what brought you to Atlanta?”
“My stepdad was offered tenure at Emory,” Josh replies
“What does he teach?” I ask, turning around in my seat.
“Astrophysics.” Aha. So that explains his astronomy savvy.
Caitlin perks up. “I wonder if I know him,” she says. “What’s his name?” Josh just laughs.
“Oh, she’s serious,” I tell him. “Physics professors are to Caitlin what celebrities are to normal people. She started salivating when she heard Dr. Mann was at Brookside.”
“Well, in that case, my stepdad’s name is Martin Wagner,” Josh tells Caitlin. “He specializes in—”
“Dark matter,” Caitlin says, finishing his sentence. “I read his book.” Josh looks impressed. I remember the stupid comment I made in class today and cringe.
“You got all the way through it?” Josh asks her.
She smiles. “Twice.”
“Wow. No offense to my stepdad, but you should get some sort of prize for that.”
Caitlin laughs. “Well, I did have ulterior motives. He’s on the Yale alumni committee,” she explains. “Since he’s the only committee member with a hard sciences degree, I requested him as my interviewer.” She smiles. “I figured if all else fails, I’d tell him how brilliant I think his book is.”
“A solid strategy. A cute girl with an affinity for astrophysics? He’ll beg the admissions committee to let you in.”
It’s objectively true—Caitlin is, in fact, a cute girl with an affinity for astrophysics—so it shouldn’t be a big deal for the guy I like to point it out. Still, I bristle.
Caitlin laughs again. “Let’s hope so. Remind me, where’d he teach before this? In Massachusetts somewhere, right? But not Harvard or MIT . . . Brandeis?”
“Clark,” Josh replies. “In Worcester.”
“So, Massachusetts,” Tyler says. “What’s it like up there?” Before Josh can respond, Tyler adds, “This is my attempt to steer the conversation into nonboring territory.”
Josh laughs. “Nicely done. Massachusetts is great. It’s the only place I’ve ever lived, so I don’t have a lot to compare it to.”
“Is rowing a big thing up there? Abby mentioned you’re on the crew team.”
“You were wearing a Brookside Crew T-shirt yesterday,” I say quickly. “That’s how I knew. I mean, I didn’t really know, I just assumed. You know, because of the shirt.” Please, make the crazy girl stop talking. Caitlin and Tyler exchange a look in the rearview mirror.
“So . . . rowing,” Tyler says. “That’s cool. Are we any good?”
“I think we’re pretty decent,” Josh replies. “But ask me again in a couple weeks. Our first regatta is next weekend.”
Tyler and Josh move on to golf and make small talk about the PGA tour until we arrive at Ilana’s. Her pink stucco house is nearly identical to the one next to it, except that hers has a deep bass beat emanating from inside. There are cars everywhere.
“So this girl,” Josh says. “Is she a good friend of yours?” Caitlin snorts.
“More like a friend of a friend,” I say, ignoring Caitlin.
We head inside. The living room is packed. Tyler spots the golf team in the kitchen, holding pink plastic cups and huddled around what looks like a keg. Tyler shoots Caitlin a told-you-so look and heads toward it.
It’s not a keg. It just looks like one. Sort of. It’s an aluminum barrel filled with red liquid. “‘Splenda Punch,’” Josh says, reading the bubble-letter label. The word “Splenda” is outlined in bright pink marker. “Looks lethal.”
“It is,” Efrain, the most soft-spoken of Tyler’s golf buddies, pipes up. He’s cute in a Latino boy band kind of way, but he’s a total wallflower. Sometimes at lunch I forget he’s at the table. “I saw her make it,” Efrain says. “Grain alcohol, diet cherry soda, and about fifty packets of Splenda.” He nods in the direction of the living room. “She only started drinking an hour ago.” Ilana has her arms around a girl I don’t recognize, and the two are swaying to the beat. Or trying to. With the amount of alcohol coursing through their bodies, they’re not exactly in sync (with the music or each other). I laugh at the sight of them.
“Ouch. She’s gonna be feeling that in the morning,” Josh says. He sounds legitimately concerned. Meanwhile, I’m the bitch who laughed. I’m feeling a wave of remorse when I hear,
“Hey, Abby, nice scarf,” followed by a high-pitched cackle. Ilana points at me and whispers something to the girl next to her, and they both crack up. Yeah, I hope she is feeling that in the morning. And all week.
“So I have six beers,” Tyler announces. “Efrain’s drinking girly punch, Caitlin’s not having any ’cause she’s driving, and Abby never finishes more than one.” He opens a bottle and hands it to me. “So that leaves five for you and me to split,” he says to Josh.
“Oh, that’s okay,” Josh says.
“Nonsense,” Tyler tells him. “Beers are meant to be shared.” Before Josh can argue, Tyler puts the bottle in Josh’s hand. Josh holds the beer awkwardly, like he’s not sure what to do with it. Tyler stashes the rest of his beer in the fridge, then heads toward the makeshift dance floor.
“How long have they been dating?” Josh asks me.
“Who?”
“Caitlin and Tyler,” Josh replies. “They seem like a good couple.”
“Oh! They’re not a couple,” I tell him. “The three of us have been friends forever. Tyler’s kind of with Ilana.” The word “unfortunately” hangs unspoken on my lips.
Someone cranks the music and Ilana shrieks with glee. The kitchen-cabinet doors rattle on their hinges.
“Which one is Ilana?” He practically has to shout, the music is so loud. So loud, and so painfully bad.
I point.
“Huh.” Josh studies Ilana, who is now slapping her friend’s butt in time with the music and laughing hysterically. “I wouldn’t have put them together.”
Again, I’m tempted to add something witty and bitingly mean but refrain. “Yeah, it was a surprise to us, too,” is all I say.
“What about Caitlin?” he asks then. “Does she have a boyfriend?”
“Nope.” Then, even though it’s not really true, I add, “She doesn’t want one. She’s too focused on school for that.”
“Yeah, she seems really smart,” Josh remarks. Why do I suddenly feel the need to announce my GPA? I look over at Caitlin. She’s standing by the keg, making small talk with the guys, keeping her distance so that Josh and I can be alone. She’s my biggest ally. Why am I acting like she’s a threat?
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