me last Friday. There’s a chance—a really good chance—that if I kick ass on my project, I’ll get into Stanford. He knows the assistant dean of the history department, and he ran into him last week and talked about me. They’re interested, Myk.” I pause. “Stanford.”
“Really?” Her breath gets fast, she’s so excited. “But Stanford rejects ninety-four percent of their applicants.”
“I know . That’s why it’s such a big deal, dorkus.”
I drive for a while, tap on the wheel, and let her think about it. I even let myself think about it. With a Stanford degree in the public history track, I can get a job at a heritage site, or a museum. Ever since I first toured the Smithsonian on a second-grade field trip, I’ve wanted to work there. Work with real, significant artifacts like the Declaration of Independence. The original flag that flew over Fort McHenry. Silver-print photographs of the Civil War. Maybe I could do research and discover something important. Maybe even do tours for school kids like Myk.
“Stanford,” she echoes. “That’s awesome.”
“Sorry I’ve been weird,” I say, pressing it home. “I’ll probably have to put in a lot of extra hours and stuff, making sure the project’s perfect, keeping all my grades up. But I’m so close. It just kind of made me crazy.”
She sits back in the seat, eyes shining. “Promise I won’t tell Mom and ruin the surprise.”
Something shifts, and I realize what I’m doing. Cold, hard lying. To Myka . It actually hurts, like a fist clenched in the pit of my stomach. She’s the one I didn’t have to hide around, ever. Didn’t lie to. The only one who knew the real me.
But I have to do it to protect her. Don’t I?
And they did promise me Stanford. So maybe it will come true, Stanford and the Smithsonian and all that goes with it, just like I said. And then she’ll never know I lied.
* * *
When I walk into English, Rachel’s there, looking up at me. “Hey, Jake.” She smiles, her lips red today. Her dark hair’s pulled into a low ponytail, but there’s one strand loose, touching her cheek. I want to tuck it back behind her ear. At the same time I like it just like that.
I drop into the seat next to her, thankful Ms. Gieck (yeah, that’s her real name) doesn’t assign seats. Eric sits in front of me.
“Hey,” I manage. “What’s going on?”
I am. So smooth.
She looks down, rubs one finger across a dent in her desk. “I’m sorry I freaked out after the party.” She shifts in her chair, still focusing on the desk. “That was … weird.” She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. “Was that real? Or a trick?”
To my relief she doesn’t look disgusted or put off, like everyone did at the party. Just curious. Still, I don’t know what to say. If I say it was a trick, that makes me less of a freak. Look how much trouble I got into already by sharing. But if it was a trick then she’d think I lied, made up that part about her dad.
I can’t lie to her.
“Real,” I say, like it’s no big deal.
She nods slowly. “I thought so. That part about my dad—” She sighs. “I didn’t want to admit it, but it seemed right.”
“Sorry,” I say, quiet.
She shrugs. “Yeah. It’s pretty crap.”
Lily laughs, across the room, and I can’t help but look. She’s flirting with Mike again, leaning in close.
Rachel follows my gaze. “She doesn’t say nice things about you. But—” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “She’s not very nice.”
“You,” I say, “are very perceptive.”
Ms. Gieck starts writing something on the board about the Merchant of Venice, and everybody quiets down.
Rachel leans over. She smells like vanilla, and suddenly I want cookies. “Caitlyn’s having another party on Saturday, after dress rehearsal,” she whispers. “I thought maybe you could come? You … don’t have to do the thing again. Unless you want to. But we could hang out?”
Her eyes are a very deep
“Really?” Her breath gets fast, she’s so excited. “But Stanford rejects ninety-four percent of their applicants.”
“I know . That’s why it’s such a big deal, dorkus.”
I drive for a while, tap on the wheel, and let her think about it. I even let myself think about it. With a Stanford degree in the public history track, I can get a job at a heritage site, or a museum. Ever since I first toured the Smithsonian on a second-grade field trip, I’ve wanted to work there. Work with real, significant artifacts like the Declaration of Independence. The original flag that flew over Fort McHenry. Silver-print photographs of the Civil War. Maybe I could do research and discover something important. Maybe even do tours for school kids like Myk.
“Stanford,” she echoes. “That’s awesome.”
“Sorry I’ve been weird,” I say, pressing it home. “I’ll probably have to put in a lot of extra hours and stuff, making sure the project’s perfect, keeping all my grades up. But I’m so close. It just kind of made me crazy.”
She sits back in the seat, eyes shining. “Promise I won’t tell Mom and ruin the surprise.”
Something shifts, and I realize what I’m doing. Cold, hard lying. To Myka . It actually hurts, like a fist clenched in the pit of my stomach. She’s the one I didn’t have to hide around, ever. Didn’t lie to. The only one who knew the real me.
But I have to do it to protect her. Don’t I?
And they did promise me Stanford. So maybe it will come true, Stanford and the Smithsonian and all that goes with it, just like I said. And then she’ll never know I lied.
* * *
When I walk into English, Rachel’s there, looking up at me. “Hey, Jake.” She smiles, her lips red today. Her dark hair’s pulled into a low ponytail, but there’s one strand loose, touching her cheek. I want to tuck it back behind her ear. At the same time I like it just like that.
I drop into the seat next to her, thankful Ms. Gieck (yeah, that’s her real name) doesn’t assign seats. Eric sits in front of me.
“Hey,” I manage. “What’s going on?”
I am. So smooth.
She looks down, rubs one finger across a dent in her desk. “I’m sorry I freaked out after the party.” She shifts in her chair, still focusing on the desk. “That was … weird.” She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. “Was that real? Or a trick?”
To my relief she doesn’t look disgusted or put off, like everyone did at the party. Just curious. Still, I don’t know what to say. If I say it was a trick, that makes me less of a freak. Look how much trouble I got into already by sharing. But if it was a trick then she’d think I lied, made up that part about her dad.
I can’t lie to her.
“Real,” I say, like it’s no big deal.
She nods slowly. “I thought so. That part about my dad—” She sighs. “I didn’t want to admit it, but it seemed right.”
“Sorry,” I say, quiet.
She shrugs. “Yeah. It’s pretty crap.”
Lily laughs, across the room, and I can’t help but look. She’s flirting with Mike again, leaning in close.
Rachel follows my gaze. “She doesn’t say nice things about you. But—” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “She’s not very nice.”
“You,” I say, “are very perceptive.”
Ms. Gieck starts writing something on the board about the Merchant of Venice, and everybody quiets down.
Rachel leans over. She smells like vanilla, and suddenly I want cookies. “Caitlyn’s having another party on Saturday, after dress rehearsal,” she whispers. “I thought maybe you could come? You … don’t have to do the thing again. Unless you want to. But we could hang out?”
Her eyes are a very deep
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