13
THERE
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2008
(Thanksgiving Day)
I’m on a sidewalk, walking along the side of a stone building that runs the length of the block. The sidewalk is crowded with people dressed in jackets and scarves, arms full of books and notebooks, hands wrapped around giant cups of coffee, bustling here and there. The air is cold on my nose. “Abby!” I hear someone call. I turn to my right and am facing a black wrought-iron gate beneath a tall stone archway. On the other side of the gate, a guy—dark hair, chiseled cheeks, perfect teeth—smiles at me. Suddenly, there’s a beep and the gate opens. The guy comes toward me. “Hi,” he says as he gets nearer. “I brought you something.” I look down. There’s a box in his hands. “It’s pumpkin pie.”
I wake up with a start.
The air in my bedroom is heavy with the spicy sweetness of my mom’s Pepper Pumpkin Pie, her one contribution to the meal my grandma insists on cooking every year—in our kitchen. “Thanksgiving isn’t a time for recipes,” goes Grandma’s annual refrain, aimed directly at my mom, who doesn’t like to make anything twice. “Thanksgiving is about tradition.” Apparently, adherence to tradition requires a modern gourmet kitchen. Grandma refuses to have Thanksgiving any place but ours.
Still in my pajamas, I pad down the back stairs.
“There she is!” my grandpa announces when I enter the room, opening his arms wide for a hug.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Grandpa,” I murmur into his neck. “I’m glad you told me about the stars.” I went to bed thinking about all those nines, wondering what to make of them. He squeezes me tighter, and I hold on, not wanting to let go yet. When I finally do, I walk over to where my grandmother is standing, her manicured hands covered in cornbread crumbs.
“Your mother forgot the sage,” she tells me, leaning over to let me kiss her cheek. I do, glancing over at my mom in the process. Mom just shakes her head. Don’t ask.
“Want me to run get some?” I ask cheerily, setting my phone down on the counter and heading for the coffeepot. “Whole Foods is open till two. Fresh, not dried, right?”
“That would be lovely, dear,” Grandma says. “And could you get some scotch? Your mother forgot that, too.”
“No, Rose, she cannot buy you scotch,” my mom answers before I have a chance to. “She’s seventeen. And since when do you drink scotch? There’s a bottle of Jack Daniels in the cabinet.”
“Scotch has fewer carbs,” my grandmother retorts. “But bourbon will do.”
“Okay, so fresh sage.” I dump vanilla creamer into my coffee, then dig around the Tupperware drawer for the lid to my travel mug. “Anything else?”
“Who’s Josh?” I hear my grandfather ask. “And why will he ‘miss you today’?” Grandpa has my phone in his hands, the screen lit up with a new text.
“Josh is my boyfriend,” I reply. “And he’ll miss me because I told him I’d be hanging out with a nosy old man all day.” Grandpa swats me on the butt with my phone, then hands it to me.
“Do we get to meet this boyfriend?” my grandmother asks.
“Eventually,” I tell her. “Before I marry him, for sure.” I blow her a kiss, then dart up the back stairs with my coffee before the inquisition can continue.
“Is it really that serious?” I hear my grandmother ask.
I return to my room just long enough to put on jeans and throw my hair into a ponytail. As I’m passing my desk on my way back out, I hit the space bar on my laptop, illuminating my screen. With my grandparents’ unexpected arrival yesterday, I forgot to check my email when I got home from the picnic last night. My acceptance email could be in my in-box right now. Heart pounding, I click on my mailbox icon, and a pop-up box appears:
Server error. Your message was not sent.
What message?
I click on my out-box, and an email opens.
No.
I stare at my screen, dumbfounded. It’s an email to the Yale admissions office with a document attached. There’s only one person other than me who uses my laptop.
She didn’t.
With shaking hands, I click on the attachment. It’s the file I dragged to the trash yesterday morning. The Yale application I never intended to send.
Oh, yes. She did.
Fury rips through me. So searingly hot that it burns everything else out. I yank the power cord out of my laptop and storm down the back stairs into the kitchen.
Mom doesn’t look up from the mixing bowl she’s washing. “Would you mind also getting so—”
“How could you?” I demand, cutting her off. She looks up in surprise. Her face falls when she sees my computer.
“Abby, I just—”
“You just what, Mom? You just needed to know whether I could get in? Whether your precious daughter was good enough for an Ivy?” My voice is shaking and my eye sockets are radiating heat. The edges of things are starting to blur.
“No! It wasn’t about that. I—”
I don’t let her finish. “You went through my files? Who does that?” I slam my computer down on the counter, not caring whether it breaks. My grandparents gape at me, stunned into silence. I don’t behave like this. I’m not careless with expensive electronics. I don’t scream at my mother.
I am screaming at her now.
“I didn’t go through anything,” she says quietly. “I needed to send an email yesterday, and I’d left my computer at the museum. Your trash file was open on your screen.”
“My trash file. TRASH. What were you planning to do if I’d gotten in?”
“What’s going on in here?” My dad enters the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower. “What’s all the shouting about?”
“Did you know about this?” I demand, pointing at my laptop. “Did you know that Mom fished my Yale application out of the trash and sent it in without telling me?” From the look on my dad’s face, it’s pretty obvious that he didn’t.
“She filled the entire thing out,” my mom tells him, immediately defensive. “When I saw it in the trash, I thought maybe she’d gotten cold feet at the last minute, and I didn’t want her to miss out on a life-changing opportunity out of fear that she wouldn’t get in. She’s worked so hard, I just thought—”
“But that wasn’t your decision to make!” I shout.
“Abigail, don’t talk to your mother that way,” my dad says sternly.
“No, Robert, she’s right. Abby, I—”
I don’t wait for her apology. Before she can finish, I spin on my heels and fling open the back door. “You should eat without me,” I announce just before the door slams shut.
My car steers itself toward Caitlin’s, even though I haven’t made a conscious decision to go there. But when I pull up in front of her house, I know exactly why I’ve come, and it’s not to vent about my mom. It’s to apologize. And for the first time since we said those horrible things to each other, I’m not worried about what I’ll say to her.
I’ve rung the doorbell twice when it occurs to me that the Moss’s family Volvo is gone, and Caitlin’s Jetta is parked in the garage. Yesterday’s newspaper is still on the porch.
Charleston. Duh. That’s where Caitlin’s grandmother lives and where her family spends every major holiday.
Disappointed but not defeated, I sit down on the porch step and dial her number. This time, I leave a voicemail.
“Hey, Caitlin. It’s me. Abby. I’m at your house, sitting on the porch, wishing you were here so I could say this in person.” I take a breath, certain of what I want to say, but not sure the order in which to say it. “I’m so sorry, Cate. I’m sorry for what I said to you in the cafeteria, and for bringing up Craig—that was totally bitchy and awful and I’m sorry—but I’m really, really sorry for telling Tyler you liked him. For assuming I knew what was best for you. For thinking it was up to me. I can’t even imagine how angry you must be. Well, actually I can, because—” I start to tell her about the Yale application, but stop myself. This isn’t about what my mom did. This is about what I did. “Please let me make it up to you,” I rush on. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” I pause, wondering whether this message is still coherent, as it’s morphed into words spewing out from a mesh of tears and sniffles. I’m debating whether to beg her to call me back or just apologize again when I hear the second beep.
The line goes dead.
Suddenly, the depth of the chasm between us is unbearable. I don’t want to be in a fight with her anymore. She’s my best friend. She’s part of who I am.
I’m not Abby without Caitlin.
Please, God, give me my best friend back.
I’m redialing her number when she calls me back.
“I’m so sorry,” I say instead of hello. “Please don’t hang up on me.”
“I called you,” she points out.
“Oh. Right.” I say lamely. I can’t tell her from her voice if she’s listened to my message or not. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “Not that you called me,” I add quickly. “For what I did.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she says, and then her voice breaks.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” I tell her, tears streaming down my face now. “I’m the one who lied to Tyler, and who said those awful things.”
“I said awful things, too,” she says. “And, in a way, I lied, too. I didn’t tell you why I was really mad. It wasn’t just the Tyler thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“My Yale application was due the next day, and—”
“Oh my God. Your essays.” I completely forgot. An excuse almost as bad as the offense itself. What kind of friend forgets something like that? I knew how important it was to her that I read them. Her dyslexia has made her super self-conscious about her writing, and these essays meant everything to her. “I’m such an a*shole,” I say. “No wonder you were mad at me that day.”
“Well, that and my sucky SAT score.”
“Your what?”
“Yeah. It was a pretty shitty week.” Her voice is thick with disappointment. “Almost as shitty as this one’s been.”
“Did you . . .” I trail off. I can’t imagine that it’s true.
“I didn’t get in,” she says. “Found out yesterday, right before we left. Wait-listed.”
“Oh, Cate . . .” My heart literally aches in my chest. “But you still have a chance of getting in, right?”
“Yeah. Won’t know till February, though. So I’m applying to some other places. I figure Grandpa Oscar would be just as proud to have a granddaughter at Wash U or Duke.” She makes an effort to sound upbeat. “What about you? Did you hear from Northwestern?”
“Not yet,” I tell her.
“You’ll get in,” she assures me, because that’s what best friends do.
“My mom sent in my Yale application without telling me,” I say. “Or tried to, anyway. I found it stuck in my out-box this morning. Like fifteen minutes ago, actually. Unsent, thank God.”
“She filled the entire thing out without telling you?”
“No, I filled it out. She found it in the trash on my computer.”
“Why’d you fill it out if you weren’t going to apply?”
“I was confirming that I didn’t want to go there,” I explain.
“By filling out the application? How very Abby.” The familiarity of her voice, its distinct mixture of wit and frankness, delivered with Caitlin’s impeccable timing, fills me with an incommunicable joy.
“I missed you,” I say. “So much.”
“I missed you, too.”
Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. We just sit there, relishing the rightness of the world.
Okay, so maybe the world isn’t all the way right. By the time I get back in my car, I’ve declined four calls from my mom and ignored three texts. Just because I might be able to identify with my mom’s I-know-better mentality doesn’t mean I’m in the mood to talk to her right now. And frankly, I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with Grandma Rose, or the stamina to endure her four-hour meal. With Caitlin out of town, the only place I can imagine going is Josh’s.
I’m halfway to the Wagners’ before it dawns on me that I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth. Fortunately, there’s a Rite Aid with a bathroom between Caitlin’s house and Josh’s. I buy deodorant, a toothbrush kit, and a travel-sized bottle of Awesome Apple body splash, which I proceed to spritz on every bare inch of my skin.
Excellent. I now smell like a green Jolly Rancher.
It’s not until I’ve parked in Josh’s driveway that I realize I haven’t told him that I’m coming. I contemplate pulling back out but decide there’s a pretty good chance someone has seen me pull in. Not the impression I want to make on the family members I haven’t met yet. As I’m debating my options, my phone rings.
“You’re outside my house,” Josh says as soon as I pick up.
“This is true.”
“Does that mean you’re eating with us?”
“If I’m still invited.”
“Of course you are. What happened to the marathon meal?” he asks.
“Long story,” I tell him. “So is it okay that I’m here?”
“More than okay,” he says. I hear him unlocking and opening the front door. “Are you coming inside now? Or do we need to bring the turkey to the driveway?” Josh steps out on the front porch in bare feet, wearing wrinkled khakis and a gray sweater and looking exceptionally cute.
“I’m coming in,” I reply. Phone still glued to my ear, I get out of the car and walk toward him. “Please excuse my appearance,” I say. “I left in a hurry.”
His forehead wrinkles in concern. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. No.” I sigh and hang up the phone. “I dunno. My mom found my completed Yale application in the trash—where I put it and wanted it to stay—and secretly sent it in. Or tried to. I found it in my out-box this morning.”
“Wow. Did you confront her about it?”
“Yeah.” I don’t have the energy to rehash all the details, so I don’t. Josh doesn’t ask for them.
“You need a hug,” he declares, pulling me into one. Just as I start to relax against him, I feel his nose against my neck.
I jump back. “Don’t smell me! I haven’t showered. And I went a little overboard with the Jolly Rancher spray.”
“That’s it!” he exclaims. “That’s what you smell like. A green one.” He smiles and leans forward to sniff me again. “Do they make the other flavors, too?”
“No. I don’t know.” I move out of his sniff zone. “Can you please not smell me?”
He laughs. “It’s kinda hard not to.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Some first impression I’m going to make.”
“The only person you haven’t met is my brother, and you definitely shouldn’t worry what he thinks.” At the mention of his brother, Josh’s expression darkens.
“Ouch, bro.” I hear the voice before I see its owner. “That hurts.” I look past Josh into the unlit foyer, where his brother stands in shadows.
“So this must be the girlfriend,” he says, stepping into view.
Tall, dark hair, piercing green eyes. Gray Yale Lacrosse T-shirt.
My breath catches in my throat. The guy from my dream last night.
“Abby, this is my brother,” Josh grumbles. I’ve never heard him grumble before. It doesn’t really suit him.
“Hi!” I chirp, attempting to mitigate the grumbling by going as far to the opposite extreme as possible. “I’m Abby!” The chirpy voice also keeps me from fixating on the fact that I had a dream about Josh’s brother last night, a dream in which Josh’s brother gave me a pumpkin pie. How is that possible? I’ve never seen him before today.
“Sorry for my brother’s rudeness,” he replies, extending his hand. “I’m Michael.”
An intense sense of déjà vu stalls my next thought. I just stand there, staring at him—trying to place him in a moment—any real moment. But I can’t.
“You gonna leave me hangin’?” he teases, nodding toward his outstretched hand.
“Oh! Sorry!” I put my hand in his. The moment we touch, recognition ripples through me. I want to ask him whether we’ve met before, but I know there’s no way we could have.
“Are you all planning to spend the day on the front porch?” comes their mom’s voice from inside.
“How are you with a fire extinguisher?” Josh asks me. “I told my dad I’d help him fry the turkey.”
Michael steps back to let us inside. “Yeah, you’d better go help your dad,” he says pointedly. Without a word, Josh walks past Michael into the house. Michael keeps his eyes on me.
I meet his gaze. The sense of recognition, of unplaced memory, is overpowering. Those green eyes. The shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar on his cheek. I blink rapidly, trying to snap out of it.
“Do you have something in your eye?” Michael asks, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
I quickly look away. “No, I . . . I should find Josh.” Eyes glued to the ground, I brush past him and step inside the house.
Two hours and one almost-fire later, the five of us sit down to eat. After the scene I witnessed on the porch, I assumed Josh and Michael would be at each other’s throats all afternoon, but they appear to be making an effort to stay civil for my benefit. This, apparently, requires that neither of them speak. The only sounds at the table are the clinks of silver hitting porcelain china.
“So, Michael,” Martin says, breaking the silence, “what classes are you taking this semester? Anything in the physics department?” It’s almost December and they don’t know what classes he’s taking?
Michael responds with a patronizing smile. “Unfortunately not, Marty.”
Martin doesn’t react to the diminutive. But he doesn’t say anything else, either.
“So what colleges are you applying to?” Michael asks. I assume he’s asking Josh until I realize that everyone at the table is looking at me.
“Oh, um . . .” My mind is suddenly blank. “Journalism schools,” I say after a few awkward seconds. “Northwestern, Indiana. A few other places.”
“Why not Yale?” Michael asks, popping a piece of fried turkey skin into his mouth.
I shoot Josh an annoyed look. “I didn’t tell him,” Josh says quickly. “He goes there, that’s why he’s asking.”
Michael looks at Josh, then back at me. “Didn’t tell me what?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “I thought about applying there, but decided not to.” Suddenly, my mother-daughter drama seems so childish.
“Why?”
“I want to go somewhere with a journalism program.”
“A girl who knows what she wants,” Michael says, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m impressed, bro.” Beside me, Josh bristles. I want to look away—I should look away—but I can’t. Michael’s gaze is magnetic. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a look pass between Josh’s mom and stepdad.
“Mrs. Wagner, these biscuits are delicious,” I say, changing the subject.
“Oh, good!” she replies, sounding pleased. “It was my attempt at Southern cuisine.” She picks up the one on her plate, examining it. “I was expecting them to be fluffier.”
“I think they’re perfect,” I tell her.
“Yeah, Mom. Nice work.” Michael leans over and pecks her on the cheek. She lights up.
Michael immediately turns back to me.
“So why do you want to be a journalist?”
The question catches me off guard. Nobody ever asks why. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just wondering what prompted the decision. You seem pretty certain about it.”
“Oh, I uh . . .” I look down at my plate, embarrassed that I don’t have an answer. Because my friend’s mom was a journalist, and I liked the way she dressed. Is that really my reason? “I like to write,” I say lamely.
“She’s being modest,” Josh chimes in. “She’s a phenomenal writer. And she’s editor in chief of our school paper.”
“Well, if you want to be a journalist, you should definitely apply to NYU,” Michael tells me, barely acknowledging Josh. “My best friend from high school goes there, and he interned at the Huffington Post last summer.”
“Really? Wow.”
“I could give you his email if you want.”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I tell him. “NYU is on my list, but since the deadline isn’t until January, I’m waiting to hear from Northwestern before I send in any more applications.”
“How is Ben liking New York?” Mrs. Wagner asks Michael.
“He loves it,” Michael replies. “He met a girl last summer that he professes to be in love with.”
“Ben in love!” his mom exclaims, smiling at the thought. “Have you met her?”
“Not yet,” Michael replies. “She’s in high school, in Seattle. Ben was hoping she’d end up in New York next year, but according to him she has her heart set on Yale.”
“‘Here she comes again!’” Our heads swivel to Martin, who is now singing in a pretty decent falsetto. “Duh nuh nuh nuh na na nah.” Martin taps the tablecloth with his finger as he sings, “‘She’s my best friend’s girl!’” Anger flashes across Michael’s face, but Martin doesn’t notice. “Watch out, Ben!” Martin jokes, an oblivious smile on his face. He’s not thinking about his alleged affair with his best friend’s wife, because he doesn’t know that he should be. He chomps happily on a biscuit, waiting for the rest of us to laugh at his joke.
I glance at Mrs. Wagner. Her eyes are glued on Michael, as if willing him not to say whatever it is he’s about to say.
“Michael.” Josh’s voice is firm, the way a parent might speak to an insolent child. Michael’s head snaps toward Josh, but his eyes catch mine instead. Our gazes lock for half an instant. Less than a second. And then, inexplicably, he smiles. Not an icy smile, but a warm one, directed entirely at me. “I think you should reconsider Yale,” he says then, as if we’re the only two people at the table, and for a moment I forget that we aren’t. “I mean, c’mon,” he continues, “Northwestern may have a great journalism school, but how many of its graduates have won the Pulitzer for reporting?”
“Nine,” I say, and smile. “To your four.” Michael laughs. I look around the table and realize that Josh and his parents are staring at us. Flustered, I pick up my fork and promptly drop it. And now I’m sweating profusely as everyone watches me fumble to pick it up off the floor.
“I’ll get you another one,” Josh says, and stands up. I can feel Michael watching me from across the table, wearing a ridiculously attractive I’m-amused-by-you smile. Resolving not to make eye contact with him for the rest of the meal, I stare at my plate. My peas are shriveled and dry.
“So how’d you and my brother meet?” I hear Michael ask.
Josh responds before I have a chance to. “In astronomy,” he says as a fork appears in front of my face. I take it and spear a single green pea.
“So I guess that makes you star-crossed lovers, huh?”
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway five minutes before curfew. I’m mildly offended that no one is waiting up for me. I left twelve hours ago and haven’t answered their calls. I could be dead on the side of the road.
I park behind my grandparents’ Buick and use my key to go in through the front door, not wanting to wake anybody up with the sound of the garage door opening. My mom is sitting at the top of the front stairs, a coffee mug between her hands, waiting for me. She looks tired.
“How was it?” she asks when I come through the door.
“It was . . . interesting,” I say, closing the door gently behind me. “How’d you know I was there?”
“Josh called,” she replies. “Don’t be upset with him. He didn’t want me to worry.”
“I’m glad that he called you.”
“Don’t be upset with me,” she says then, her voice even softer now. “I was only trying to help.”
“I know.”
“I just want you to be happy,” she tells me.
“I know that, too.” Shrugging out of my coat, I climb the stairs and sit down next to her. “I’m sorry I yelled.”
She puts her arm around me. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a camera to record your grandmother’s face when you did.” We both giggle, and the tension between us evaporates. I lean my head against her shoulder. “I thought the woman was going to have a heart attack in our kitchen,” she says.
“How’d the meal go?”
“About like it always does. Oh, although apparently your grandparents are on the South Beach diet. Neither of them would touch my pie.”
“Ooh, does that mean there’s some left?”
“Almost all of it. Want some?”
“Yes, please. After the day I had, I could use a slice of normal.”
“What happened?”
“Imagine the most awkward social encounter you’ve ever experienced. Then add biscuits and turkey and multiply it by five.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. Over store-bought cherry cobbler, Josh’s brother accused their stepdad of sleeping with their mom while their dad was still alive.”
“In front of you?”
“I think it might’ve been because of me, actually. If I hadn’t been there, I think Michael would’ve left before dessert. But it doesn’t end there. Turns out their dad was the one having the affair, and their mom has been keeping it a secret. I guess the woman their dad was sleeping with lost an earring in a hotel room, and the concierge left a message about it on his home number. Michael heard it and assumed the earring was his mom’s, and that she’d been with Martin.”
“Well, at least the truth is out now, right? So maybe they can get past it?”
“I hope so.”
I follow her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where we both have a double slice of pie and a tall glass of milk. As we eat, I tell her about my dream. The pie, the gate, Michael’s piercing green eyes.
“It’s weird, right?”
“That you dreamed about him? Nah. You and Josh had just been talking about him.”
“But I didn’t know what he looked like,” I point out. “No mental image. And there aren’t any framed photos of him at the Wagners’ house, either. I looked this afternoon. Besides,” I say, licking pie off my fork, “in my dream he wasn’t Josh’s brother. He was . . . I dunno. My boyfriend or something. And he was giving me pie. This pie, in fact. Which, by the way, is awesome as always.”
“Hey, at least he has good taste,” Mom says, polishing off her piece.
I smile, picturing Michael’s face in my head. “Smart, good-looking, and great taste in pie,” I muse. “I could do worse.”
“We’re talking about your dream guy, not your boyfriend’s brother, right?” She’s teasing, but I feel myself flush.
“Right.”
“And your boyfriend’s brother? What’s your take on him?”
“I dunno,” I admit. “He’s hard to read. But there was something about him. . . .” I trail off, imagining my palm on his chiseled cheek, then catch myself. He’s my boyfriend’s brother. “He goes to Yale, actually,” I say, clearing my throat and the image from my mind. “He was encouraging me to apply.”
“Did you yell at him, too?”
“Very funny.” I open my mouth to make a snarky comment but yawn instead. “Uh-oh,” I tell her, “I feel a pie-induced coma coming on.”
“Works every time,” she replies, stifling her own yawn. She reaches for my empty plate.
I kiss her good night and head up to my room. There, on my desk, is my laptop, my out-box still open on my screen. My mom must’ve brought it back up. My vision blurs for a sec, and I picture myself standing next to Michael in front of a massive wrought-iron gate, a newspaper tucked under my arm. It’s the same sidewalk we were standing on in my dream last night. Where is that? The location feels familiar, but I can’t place it as anywhere I’ve ever been. As if prompted, I open my bottom file drawer and pull out the stack of college brochures I’ve been meaning to organize but haven’t yet. The Yale one is at the bottom, a few errant coffee grounds stuck to the back of it from its brief stint in the kitchen garbage can the day I got it. The image on the cover is an imposing stone building, what looks like a Gothic cathedral but probably isn’t. The library, maybe?
On impulse, I flip the brochure over. There it is. Phelps Gate, according to the caption beneath the photo. In the photo, there is a student passing through the oversized archway—the same archway Michael walked through in my dream. Michael, a guy I’d never met before today. Michael, my boyfriend’s brother, a guy who just happens to go Yale, a place I’ve never visited and, before this moment, couldn’t have connected to a single piece of architecture. Yet somehow, I dreamed about him, standing behind this iconic gate.
My instinct is to doubt myself. Maybe the gate wasn’t this gate. Maybe the guy I saw wasn’t Michael. Because, really, how could it have been?
But it was.
I stare at the image, imagining myself walking through that gate and stepping into the campus beyond it. A thought pops into my head, strange and powerful: This is your destiny.
“I don’t believe in destiny,” I murmur, but this is a lie. I just never considered that mine could be anything other than what I planned.
I riffle through the college brochures until I find the most worn of the bunch, its purple corners bent and soft from use. “This is my destiny,” I repeat to its immutable cover, tracing the capital N with my finger. But my voice sounds flat and unconvincing.
I look back at the Yale brochure and make a decision. If they send a scout to the Head of the Hooch, I’ll talk to him. And if he tells me I should apply, I will.
I drag the email to my drafts box, just in case.