Dad and I walk up the cobbled path framed by lush green bushes to the curved, wooden front door. I knock, and Jenna appears. When I see her, I always feel like I’m gazing into a mirror. We have the same ivory skin tone, same auburn hair.
“You’re early!” she says, giving us a panicked smile. She hops up on tiptoes to kiss Dad’s cheek and hug him, and he grins down at her.
Then she turns to me. “What the hell is wrong with you? How could you get kicked out of school?”
“Nice to see you too,” I mutter. Like I said, she always gives you her opinion straight.
She turns to our father and gives him a smile. “Dad, I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk to you about a paper I’m writing for philosophy. I’m having trouble grasping some concepts.”
Brownnoser.
Inside Jenna’s chic condo with the white sofa, matching loveseat, and light-yellow walls with cream crown molding, we discover she’s not alone. A guy is sitting in her armchair, putting on his tennis shoe.
Dad’s nostrils flare as he takes in the scene. “Did your boyfriend spend the night?”
“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend.”
The guy gulps.
“Excuse me?” Dad’s hands go to his hips.
My sister waves dismissively. “C’mon, Dad. I’m an adult.”
“And a horny one at that,” I murmur.
“At least I didn’t get kicked out of school,” Jenna retorts.
The guy rushes to put on his other shoe, then jumps to his feet and pulls on a Yale Lacrosse hoodie. Jenna shows him out, saying good-bye to him—whoever he is—at the door and clicking it shut. Given that she didn’t introduce him to us, I imagine this was a one-night stand. I don’t blame her though. That lacrosse player is cute.
“I don’t pay for this condo so you can entertain boys here,” Dad says, and I can barely contain my laughter.
Jenna ignores his red-faced glare. “Ready to go?” she asks, picking up her purse.
She makes a big deal of showing us around campus, even though Dad went to school here and I attended family day last year with my parents. Dad speaks to Randy on his cell phone about campaign tactics while Jenna plays tour guide.
“There’s the bell tower.” Jenna points at it. “I always forget its name.”
I roll my eyes. “Great tour, Jen.”
She ignores me. “And there’s the Commons.”
“Jack Goodwin asked me to tell you he said hi, by the way.”
This distracts her from the tour. “Is he still dating that girl Savannah?” She looks at me sideways, and I nod. “I really screwed up with him, huh?”
“Yeah, kinda,” I reply.
“Is he happy though?”
“I only met her for a few minutes, but they seem happy. Savannah was nice.”
Jenna gives me a tiny, sad smile. Jack was the first boy she ever loved. I feel kinship with her at the moment, because even though she’s incredibly smart and confident, she’s made mistakes. Just like me.
“So Oll told me you broke up with Ben,” she says softly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m getting there, thanks.”
“Why’d you do it?”
If I don’t give her some other juicy tidbit, she’ll interrogate me until I’m begging her to listen to all my deepest, darkest secrets. “Have you ever thought about hooking up with a construction worker?”
Her eyes light up. “You did not.”
“Did.”
“Oh my God, I want all the details! Go you.” She elbows me.
Luckily, Dad finishes his conversation and pockets his phone. He rubs his eyes. He suddenly looks tired.
“You okay?” I ask him.
“I’m sure the polls will go back up. If not, your mother will kill me.” He laughs nervously and won’t meet my gaze. Guilt presses on my heart.
I suddenly don’t feel like doing this college interview. I don’t feel like doing much of anything.
Jenna leads me to the admissions building, where I have an appointment with the director of admissions, Gregory Brandon. I googled him last night and found out he attended Georgetown University in DC, where he was on the crew team. I didn’t find much else. I wish I knew more about him, so I can schmooze if I have to.
“Good luck,” Dad says, squeezing my shoulder. “Just stick to the script, and you’ll do great. You plan to major in business, and you know Yale has the best program to help you achieve your goals. Be honest about why you were expelled.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I choke out.
“I’ll be back to pick you up in half an hour.”
I watch as he walks off with my sister, sliding an arm around her shoulder, listening as she talks. She’s not perfect by any means, but she’s never dragged our family into the headlines. Meanwhile, I did something so stupid Dad’s poll numbers are dropping faster than rain in a monsoon.
I try to shake it off. Concentrate. The biggest moment of my life is about to happen—the moment I’ve been working toward for years.
My college interview.
I pull open the door to the admissions building. The blue Yale logo is painted on every wall, and sunlight pours in through the windows. The atmosphere instantly improves my mood. I confidently walk up to the receptionist, a woman wearing a Yale Bulldogs sweatshirt.
“I’m Taylor Lukens. Here to see Mr. Brandon.”
“I’ll tell him you’re here,” the lady says with a smile. “Please have a seat.”
I sit down and smooth out my gray pencil skirt. I paired it with a white satin blouse and heels. It’s a sophisticated outfit, one I picked out myself. Even Mom approved it, which means the sky is falling.
This interview is a chance to make sure I have my ducks in a row before I submit my application in a few weeks. I can ask the admissions officer questions about my draft essays and review which extracurriculars I should highlight above others. It’s also my chance to make a great impression.
Unbuttoning my tote bag, I quickly check my portfolio for the thousandth time to make sure I packed copies of my résumé. I run through answers in my head. “I plan to major in business with a minor in politics. I love community service—I’ve been on three different Habitat for Humanity projects.”
When I make sure my phone’s ringer is turned off, I find a text from Ezra: Good luck. xo.
Best. Boyfriend. Ever.
I watch five minutes tick by on the clock. I flip through a copy of last year’s yearbook, the Yale Banner, sitting on the coffee table. The pictures of students laughing in the stands at homecoming make me smile.
Finally a tall African-American man emerges from an office. He wears round glasses that remind me of Harry Potter’s, a Yale lapel pin on his suit jacket, and a black, white, and blue Yale-themed tie.
“Taylor?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, standing to shake his hand. He introduces himself and invites me into his office. He gestures at a seat in front of his desk and sits down in front of an open file folder labeled with my name. Probably my test scores, transcripts, and résumé I sent ahead of time. My entire life is in there.
“I’m glad you could stop by,” Mr. Brandon says. “I understand several of your family members attended Yale.”
“Yes, and my sister’s here now. She and my father are grabbing coffee while I meet with you.”
Mr. Brandon clicks his pen. “Have you been to Blue State Coffee yet?”
“No.”
“You should go try their mocha latte. They sprinkle chocolate chips on top of the whipped crème.”