It isn’t until I reach my car that everything hits me at once. That’s when I fully realize what just happened. That’s when my own voice echoes back in my ears.
Oh God. Oh. God.
OH. MY. GOD!
What was I thinking? What was I doing? It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. I wasn’t in control of any of my arms or legs or stupid flapping lips. It just poured out of me.
I sit in my car and stare out the windshield at the street. I feel numb. I feel pointless. I feel sick.
I open the car door and retch all over Watts’s curb.
Well, if I didn’t totally turn her off already, then that should do the trick.
I close the car door and press my head back hard against the seat. Why didn’t I reschedule the interview? Why didn’t I just call her up and say, You know what? I’m not feeling my best today, how about we postpone until next week? What was I thinking going to the most important interview of my life the day after I found out that my boyfriend has been cheating on me with my best friend? Who does that?
Stupid people, that’s who.
Stubborn people.
People who make horrible, life-changing decisions they can’t take back.
People like me.
There’s no chance I’ll get into Columbia now. Why would they let in someone like me? A crazy, babbling, bitter fool who pisses off the dog and mistakes the Kalahari Desert for New Mexico.
I hastily wipe at the tears that are streaming down my face and turn the key in the ignition. I don’t even know where I’m going to go. I’m certainly not going to go home, where my dad can grill me about how the interview went. And there’s no way I’m going to school and facing Laney and Austin. I just want to drive and drive until I’ve lost the way back.
I shift into gear, yank on the steering wheel, and slam my foot on the gas.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself parked in front of the Windsor Academy. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t remember making any of the turns or changing any of the lanes. It’s like my body steered here on its own.
I stare up at the black iron security gate and the impressively large sign with the school’s initials—WA—positioned in the center.
I could drive up, push the call button, and ask the receptionist to open the gate, but I have no idea what I’d say. “Hi, will you let me in so I can cry on your beautiful lawn?” So I just continue to stare at the sign, wondering what things would be like if I were on the inside, instead of the outside. If I weren’t a massive screwup.
Right then, an SUV pulls up to the call box, and a moment later the gate swings open. I make a hasty decision and plunge down on the accelerator, just managing to squeeze through before the gate starts to close again.
The exhilaration of being inside these walls hits me immediately. Of course, I’ve been inside before. Once. In sixth grade when we got to tour the campus before I submitted my application. It hasn’t changed much. The grass is still the most vibrant shade of green. The flower beds are still blooming with color. There are no students milling around in their gray and blue uniforms right now. They must be in class. I check the clock on my dash. It’s two forty p.m. They probably have at least another period before the end of the day.
I park and wander up the paved walkway to the main entrance. The Windsor Academy has seven total buildings on campus. Royce Hall—the iconic one that’s on the home page of their website—is the colonial-style building that was clearly modeled after the famous Ivy League colleges in New England. I slowly make my way up the grand curving brick staircase to the front entrance.
It’s immaculately clean and white inside. And it smells so good. Like fresh paint and new carpet. I bet they change the carpets here once a week!
The receptionist is not at her desk—she’s probably grabbing a fancy coffee drink from that gorgeous student union that looks like a train station—but I remember where the dean’s office is. I remember where everything is. It’s like my visit here in the sixth grade was the one time in my life when I had a photographic memory. My brain just right-clicked and saved forever.
When I reach the dean’s office, I find the door closed. I reach out to knock but a voice stops me. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I turn around to see a tall, lanky guy in a Windsor uniform sitting in the small two-chair waiting area.
“She’s on the phone. Dean Lewis doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s on the phone.” The way he says this last part, I get the feeling that he’s mocking her.
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Thanks.”
I take a seat in the chair next to him and place my backpack on the floor. I can feel the boy’s eyes on me from the moment I sit down. Like he’s sizing me up. He’s probably thinking the same thing I’m thinking.
What is she doing here? She doesn’t belong here.
“So, what’s your story?” he asks.
I turn and look at him closely for the first time, noticing that he doesn’t look like he really belongs here either. I mean, he’s wearing the traditional boy uniform—gray slacks, a white button-down shirt, a silver and blue striped tie, and a navy blazer with the official Windsor Academy crest sewn over the left breast pocket—but there’s something about the way it fits him, or the way he’s choosing to wear it, that just doesn’t work. His blazer is too big on his lanky body, his shirt is wrinkled and untucked and the buttons are misaligned. His tie is hanging loose around his neck, and his pants are covered in what looks like pizza grease stains. Plus, his hair is kind of a mess. It’s dark and longish, curling over the collar of his blazer.
All of the boys I’ve seen in CoyCoy55’s SnipPic feed look so sharp and put together. Their hair is cut short and always gelled into place. The knots in their ties are always tight and precise. They look like catalog models. This guy looks like he just rolled out of bed after sleeping in yesterday’s uniform.
He’s staring intently at me and I soon realize that I haven’t answered his question. “Um, I’m here to talk to the dean,” I say vaguely, trying to keep my voice light and conversational.
He snorts and gestures to the waiting area. “Well, that’s obvious. But why? Normally anyone waiting around here who’s not in uniform is a sixth grader applying for admission.” He leans back in his chair with a dark chuckle. “All of those young innocent hopefuls, so eager to have their hearts blackened by this soul-crushing institution of higher learning.”
I gape in surprise. Was that supposed to be a joke?
“I’m not a sixth grader,” I tell him. “I’m a senior.”
He gives me a once-over. “But you clearly don’t go here.”
Ouch.
Okay, that stings.
I cross my arms over my chest and direct my attention forward, determined to just ignore him. “No, I don’t.”
“Well, you’re lucky.”
I turn back to him with a scandalized look. “Are you serious?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Dead serious. Trust me, you do not want to go here.”
This guy is starting to grate on my nerves. “And why not?”
“Because this place sucks out your soul and turns you into a zombie. A very intelligent zombie with excellent future prospects. But still a zombie.”
I let out a sharp gasp. “It does not.”
I think back to all those photos on CoyCoy55’s SnipPic feed. She definitely didn’t look like a zombie. She looked amazing. Like she was having the time of her life every single day.
What is this guy’s problem? Does he not realize how fortunate he is to go here? Does he not understand what a gift he has? I take in his slothful, slacker appearance once again and feel a trace of resentment rise up in my throat. If he hates it here so much, why doesn’t he just drop out? I would gladly take his spot.
“It certainly does,” he counters. “I’ve been here since the seventh grade. I’ve seen it happen. The spirit-crushing. The mind control. The destruction of dreams. It’s pretty gross.”
“But,” I argue, flustered, “this is one of the top ten private schools in the country.”
He drops his head back and lets out a mocking laugh that sends prickles of agitation down my arms. “So you read that list too, huh?” Then he leans forward and stares at me with his dark, intense eyes. “Did you ever stop to wonder who’s actually creating those lists? Maybe they’re zombies, too.”
I shake my head and angle my body away from him. I’m not listening to this nonsense anymore. He’s clearly deranged. He’s probably on drugs. I mean, look at him. He looks like he walked through a car wash with his clothes on.
“So, what’s your name?” he asks in a totally normal voice, as if he wasn’t just likening this school to a bad horror movie.
I blow out a huff. “Like I’d tell you.”
He seems to find this amusing. I can hear the smile in his voice. “Ah, I get it.”
Against my better judgment, I face him again. “You get what?”
“You’re a zombie wannabe.” He tilts his head to the side, thinking. “Hey, that’s actually a really great band name.”
I feel my face getting hot. “I’m not a zombie wannabe,” I snap. “Just because I want to better myself and go to a great school doesn’t mean—”
“So you do want to go here?” he says, like he’s just solved the cold case of the century. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re hoping there’s an open spot. Well, I’ll tell you right now. There’s not. Zombies rarely ever leave. That would require independent thought and that’s not a zombie’s strong suit.”
I press my lips together hard. I want to scream at this guy. But I know that won’t do any good. So I go back to ignoring him.
He’s quiet for a moment. I hope that means he’s decided to ignore me, too. But then he says, “So where do you go to school now?”
I don’t respond. I can feel him watching me again.
“Let me guess. Southwest High.”
I grit my teeth. I will not give him the satisfaction of engaging. I will not.
My silence causes him to laugh again, and out of the corner of my eye I see him swivel and face forward, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet out in front of him. I steal a peek at his shoes. They’re caked in dirt.
“Trust me,” he says quietly. “You’re better off.”
Right then, the office door swings open and we’re greeted by Dean Lewis. I recognize her from her picture on the school website. She’s a pleasant-looking woman with shoulder-length blond hair, a slender face, and reading glasses hanging around her neck by a bejeweled cord.
She looks like everything else in this place: lovely and wonderful and perfect.
Dean Lewis glances between me and the obnoxious guy. “Who was first?” she asks kindly.
“She was,” the guy says, and I brave another look at him. This time in surprise. “You’re in much more of a hurry to get in there than I am,” he explains.
Well, I’m certainly not going to argue with that.
Despite how agitated this boy has made me, I force a breezy smile onto my face, grab my backpack, stand up, and follow Dean Lewis back into her bright and spacious office, which, I immediately remark, smells like daisies.