course she wrote it herself! You’ve seen her writing. You know how good it is.”
“Right—it’s just the feeling I get. I mean, look at Nicole. She’s way too invested in Amy’s accomplishments. Has Amy told you how many colleges she’s applying to?”
His heart started to race again. No, she hadn’t. “How many?” he said softly.
“Twenty. I’m not kidding. I know we’re all being a little ridiculous with our thirteen applications and our parents breathing down our necks, but twenty ? Five Ivy Leagues? You don’t think that’s a bit much? I’m surprised Amy hasn’t mentioned this to you. It’s almost all we talk about. We’re applying to two of the same schools, and they have these crazy essays. Describe what your life would be like if you lived on the moon. Write an essay from the point of view of one of your hands. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve had to write about.”
“Where is she applying?”
Sarah rattled off a list: Yale, Brown, Stanford, Columbia. He stopped listening. His breath went shallow. How did he not know any of this? The applications were due months ago. Amy had never mentioned them once. “Do you think she’ll get in?”
“Oh sure. She’s got the grades and the board scores. I think that’s what worried my dad. He was talking to the high-school guidance counselor, who said Amy was probably our best shot at Harvard or Yale this year, and it made him feel bad about what happened when she was in seventh grade.”
Harvard or Yale? Was she serious?
“Aren’t you going to eat, Matthew?”
“No.” He was really sweating now. And having a hard time breathing. “I have—I’m sorry . . . I have to go to the bathroom.”
In the bathroom, he plunged his hand into the hottest water he could get from the tap. His skin went from pink to red. He washed his hands, then his wrists, then up to his elbows. He sterilized everything front and back. He rinsed and shut off the faucet with his elbow.
Who did Amy think she was, getting inside his head, telling him what to do when she’d never told him the first real thing that was going on in her life? Harvard or Yale? He’d never met anyone who applied to either of those places, let alone had a reasonable chance of getting in. A new, terrible thought occurred to him:
Amy felt sorry for him. She knew he didn’t have the grades or the scores to get in to a competitive college. Actually, his grades were okay; his test scores were the embarrassment. He’d taken them twice, the second untimed. Even then, his anxiety was so bad he actually sweated onto the paper he was bubbling answers onto. His second score only went up by fifteen points—such an incremental gain, his guidance counselor suggested that he should rethink where he wanted to apply. Or even if he wanted to apply. “College can be stressful for some kids. Taking a year off might not be a bad idea. I even encourage it in some cases.”
They never talked about it again because secretly, he was relieved. Everything about college applications had filled him with dread, especially the essays that encouraged you to “describe your thought process in coming to this conclusion/opinion/decision, etc.” How could he do this? How could he write, After thirty-two checks of the faucet, I determined that Pitzer is my number-one school choice, mostly because it has an even number of vowels in its name, which for some reason my brain cares about right now ?
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in the bathroom. Long enough to wash his hands four more times without doing it twice in front of the same person. Long enough to calm down from all the information Sarah had told him. Long enough that, by the time he walked out of the bathroom, Sarah had switched tables and was sitting with Ryan.
“TELL ME ABOUT YOUR LUNCH WITH SARAH,” Amy asked him the next day. “I’LL NEED A FULL REPORT TO GIVE YOU CREDIT.”
“Why didn’t you tell me where you’re applying to college?”
“IT
“Right—it’s just the feeling I get. I mean, look at Nicole. She’s way too invested in Amy’s accomplishments. Has Amy told you how many colleges she’s applying to?”
His heart started to race again. No, she hadn’t. “How many?” he said softly.
“Twenty. I’m not kidding. I know we’re all being a little ridiculous with our thirteen applications and our parents breathing down our necks, but twenty ? Five Ivy Leagues? You don’t think that’s a bit much? I’m surprised Amy hasn’t mentioned this to you. It’s almost all we talk about. We’re applying to two of the same schools, and they have these crazy essays. Describe what your life would be like if you lived on the moon. Write an essay from the point of view of one of your hands. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve had to write about.”
“Where is she applying?”
Sarah rattled off a list: Yale, Brown, Stanford, Columbia. He stopped listening. His breath went shallow. How did he not know any of this? The applications were due months ago. Amy had never mentioned them once. “Do you think she’ll get in?”
“Oh sure. She’s got the grades and the board scores. I think that’s what worried my dad. He was talking to the high-school guidance counselor, who said Amy was probably our best shot at Harvard or Yale this year, and it made him feel bad about what happened when she was in seventh grade.”
Harvard or Yale? Was she serious?
“Aren’t you going to eat, Matthew?”
“No.” He was really sweating now. And having a hard time breathing. “I have—I’m sorry . . . I have to go to the bathroom.”
In the bathroom, he plunged his hand into the hottest water he could get from the tap. His skin went from pink to red. He washed his hands, then his wrists, then up to his elbows. He sterilized everything front and back. He rinsed and shut off the faucet with his elbow.
Who did Amy think she was, getting inside his head, telling him what to do when she’d never told him the first real thing that was going on in her life? Harvard or Yale? He’d never met anyone who applied to either of those places, let alone had a reasonable chance of getting in. A new, terrible thought occurred to him:
Amy felt sorry for him. She knew he didn’t have the grades or the scores to get in to a competitive college. Actually, his grades were okay; his test scores were the embarrassment. He’d taken them twice, the second untimed. Even then, his anxiety was so bad he actually sweated onto the paper he was bubbling answers onto. His second score only went up by fifteen points—such an incremental gain, his guidance counselor suggested that he should rethink where he wanted to apply. Or even if he wanted to apply. “College can be stressful for some kids. Taking a year off might not be a bad idea. I even encourage it in some cases.”
They never talked about it again because secretly, he was relieved. Everything about college applications had filled him with dread, especially the essays that encouraged you to “describe your thought process in coming to this conclusion/opinion/decision, etc.” How could he do this? How could he write, After thirty-two checks of the faucet, I determined that Pitzer is my number-one school choice, mostly because it has an even number of vowels in its name, which for some reason my brain cares about right now ?
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in the bathroom. Long enough to wash his hands four more times without doing it twice in front of the same person. Long enough to calm down from all the information Sarah had told him. Long enough that, by the time he walked out of the bathroom, Sarah had switched tables and was sitting with Ryan.
“TELL ME ABOUT YOUR LUNCH WITH SARAH,” Amy asked him the next day. “I’LL NEED A FULL REPORT TO GIVE YOU CREDIT.”
“Why didn’t you tell me where you’re applying to college?”
“IT
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