College applications are due next year. I have about twenty of the best colleges in America on my list and my guidance counselor has told me to cut out five of them. Why she would ever get in the way of my ambitions is beyond me. She says I will ‘burnout’ and spread myself too thin if I put in that many applications. I tell her that I need options and she looks at me dubiously. Privately, I think that burnout is something only tired old people experience.
“You’re a very gifted student,” she says. “And you’re the only one who receives a full scholarship here. I think if you concentrate your effort on fifteen schools instead of twenty, you can secure a good aid package from a prestigious school.”
“A full scholarship,” I echo. “What about the three other scholarship students?”
She gives me an impatient look. “That’s not relevant, but Two Bridges implements a similar need-based scholarship as the country’s top universities. We assess the students primarily on merit before weighing the family’s need.”
She goes on to talk about the process, her words blurring into a mosquito’s drone. I step out of my body, watching myself sit with the perfect posture and nod at the appropriate conversation points. I pretend not to notice the weird trinkets on her desk, the metal dog paperweight and random fake crystals. Behind her, African tribal masks hang on the wall next to cheesy motivational posters.
Even the other scholarship students are rich.
The realization sinks into my stomach like a bad meal.
When I first enrolled in Two Bridges, I was invited to a small dinner for scholarship recipients. I imagine it was a candlelit affair, filled with fancy paper and academic speeches. At the time, I was sad I couldn’t go. I had to stay at home, playing translator for my mother to get the plumber to fix a clogged toilet. But given how things ended up, I’m grateful I didn’t out myself early on.
How can I be the only one on full scholarship? I remember the letter I received for the dinner, the stationary that even smelled rich. At the very bottom, the names of the four scholarship students were listed. It’s most likely still in my room, but I don’t remember the names. If I wanted to, I could expose all of the scholarship students.
But I’m not cruel. I would only do that as a last resort, if Natalie chose to use her trump card.
Without the distraction of Maia, Ainsley, and Yuey’s respective companies, I’m forced to focus on school more than I normally do. The guidance counselor helps me sort my college list into three tiers: reach, target, and safety. I shoot for Harvard, Yale, University of Pennsylvania, NYU, and UCLA. I don’t want to live with my parents when I go to college and my counselor encourages me to apply out of state for all other options. I can’t imagine having to turn in work while fighting my siblings for the bathroom.
“It’ll be good for your growth and development,” she says.
If I get to have my own space, I’ll do more than grow. I’ll conquer the world and breathe my dreams into reality.
A handful of students still come to class while the rest have been whisked away on tropical holidays. Some stay because of family obligations, but others remain because their families cannot afford to go elsewhere. Students like Mikael and Natalie sit in my classes. I’m willing to bet that some of the others are also scholarship students, but I didn't check the old letter.
In English class, we get a head start on our college essays. The teacher doesn’t push us as hard as she normally does, giving us a whole class period to brainstorm topics. She encourages us to focus on a singular struggle, telling us to be mindful of the word limit and be realistic.
“You are high schoolers. The college admission officers don’t expect you to have cured cancer or contribute to quantum physics. Pick a problem or experience that you’ve been through and be specific about the lesson you learned.”
I write down a few struggles that I’m comfortable talking about. We’re told to share our ideas in pairs and I brace for the nightmare of being paired with Natalie. Teachers tend to push us together, assuming that we’re friends because we’re both young Asian girls.
Instead, the teacher has us draw names out of a hat. I cross my fingers and pray to whatever god that was listening to not be seated next to her.
To my horror, I draw Mikael’s name. The blond haired, brown-eyed Swedish boy offers me a smile when I show the class the paper. Natalie shoots me a withering glare, but I try to communicate to her through facial expressions that it was no fault of my own because no human being can control chance like that. I catch a glimpse of myself through the school windows and realize I just look constipated.
We sit together and I make a point to keep my distance. I didn’t want Natalie to get any ideas and out me in the heat of the moment. Mikael notices, but he makes no remark. He offers to go first, holding up the looseleaf with his scrawl. One of his notes stand out to me.
“The reddest apple? What’s that?”
“It’s my most embarrassing story. We don’t have to talk about it.” A flush creeps up his neck.
“I won’t judge you,” I offer, suddenly more intrigued.
“It happened in art class. You probably heard about it. That thing with the colorblind girl.”
A few vague details surface. We were learning color theory before we started painting that day. The teacher was showing us various images on the projector. Yellow sunflowers. Blue skies. Red apples. The primary colors in nature.
I tell him what I recall and he nods along.
“Do you remember the debate over the apples?”
The teacher had asked the students to pick the reddest one on the board to make a point about which colors to mix red with. I tuned out the class discussion, completing homework for another class under the table. I was discreetly completing a short vocabulary sheet for history since I spent most of the previous night poring over confusing science problems.
“One of the students kept getting called on to guess the colors. She was getting everything wrong and it was pissing the teacher off. She lost it when she showed the slide with the apples. Our classmates kept laughing and everyone thought she was doing it on purpose.”
“But she wasn’t.” I meet his steady gaze.
“No. She was colorblind and the teacher was bullying her for it. I brought it to the attention of a counselor and we had an assembly afterward. The whole anti-bullying initiative."
I remember crowding in the auditorium and hearing my friends grumble about how pointless the meeting was. Safe to say the assembly didn’t work because of what was happening to Natalie. This morning, I woke up to read more mean comments on her page.
“You were trying to be a good person. That’s not embarrassing.”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t told anyone else about it. I might not even write about this story for the essay.”
“You’re always trying to help people.” It was less of a compliment and more of an observation. He flushes again.
“I do what I think is right. You would do the same.”
No, I wouldn’t. I feel Natalie’s eyes on my back.
“You’re a bigger person than me. I would never have time to tutor another student.”
Translation: I don’t help the competition.
“She asked me to help her,” he says, quickly picking up on the context. “The teacher also promised extra credit if I sat with her everyday. It was a good deal.”
Somehow, I manage to underestimate again. Would he have done what he did if there was nothing in it for him? There was a reason why he stayed at first ranking.
“She admires you.” I choose my words carefully, remembering what I told Louis two years ago.
“I know. I was a big help to her. But what about you?”
“Me?”
“Your story. The ideas you have for the essay.”
I think about all the challenges I faced making sure no one in the school knew I was on scholarship. None of the words on the paper reference this struggle, the battle to maintain my facade.
“The people that I help the most are my family.” I almost tell him about the summer at the bakery but decide against it.
“That’s not true. You help your friends all the time.”
“I don’t–”
“You always get food for them. In class, you’re the one grabbing the supplies. You’re always considerate, but I don’t see them doing the same for you.”
I try to rise to their defense, but nothing comes out of my mouth. “You don’t like Maia and Ainsley,” I say instead.
“They’re snobs,” he shrugs. “They don’t think anyone else is more important than themselves. No offense.”
Isn’t that everyone in this school? But another voice in the back of my head chimes in.
He notices me. What does that mean?
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtQgvCLXJ4H
and then Add to home screen.