“The Ivy League colleges are racist against Asian students,” Yuey says. “We need to have higher test scores than white applicants to even be considered for admission. But that’s never been a problem for me.”
She smirks and I can’t help but think that was something Ainsley would say. But unlike Ainsley, Yuey had grades worth bragging about, perfect marks I would kill for if she weren’t my friend.
On paper, she’s the ideal Ivy League student. She plays the piano, disappearing every month for recitals. She competes in martial arts, demolishing her opponents with force and precision. I would know, having watched her previous matches. She even helps with her family’s company in her spare time. Even with her nepotism privileges, she’s a well-rounded student with grades to show that she can handle rigorous academics and extracurricular activities that show she has a personality. Columbia University, which is her first choice, will love her.
Ainsley relies solely on nepotism. With a few flourishes of a pen and help from a former admissions officer, she transforms from a girl with good grades to an eager member of the student body who will definitely contribute to campus life for the lucky university that accepts her. Never mind that she will never lift a finger to join a club, or god forbid, volunteer to help the less fortunate. She’s too rich to care about defying the model minority myth.
Thanks to her family’s connections, she can still say that she engages in philanthropy by taking notes at meetings for charity foundations. She can also pretend that she’s engaged in entrepreneurship with an internship at her family’s company, in which she stares at a computer in a spare cubicle, and in her words, “does nothing.” But she’s still obsessed with seeming better than her fellow students, so she started a nonprofit to give away her old clothes, which she has named “The Closet.” She has encouraged her fellow students to donate to those in need and the less fashionable. Many girls join because they understand that the nonprofit is an excuse to buy new clothes with their parents’ bottomless wallets.
Ainsley would rather die than have a poor person wear her clothes. Secretly, she sells the items to a luxury thrift store for a profit and confides in Maia and me about the charade. Her application to Yale, where she has legacy, would say otherwise.
Maia is a simpler person. She will not lie or indulge in vanity projects for a college application, not when her family’s oil money can pay her way in. She would rather focus on enjoying her life, while her father’s government contracts will most likely get her into Georgetown. Beyond paying for tutors and other students to take her test, she won’t put in more effort. Why sweat it when she can have as much retail therapy as she wants at life’s slightest hardships?
I have no one vouching for me in those ivory towers. Aside from Yuey and Mikael giving me advice on the little ways I can improve my application, I don’t have much guidance. Prestige aside, I want to go somewhere that would guarantee that I make a lot of money. It’s why, even though my mother insists I submit an application to Harvard, I still do the math and look at how much graduates at other colleges were making.
Mikael won’t tell me what his first choice is. I can easily imagine him at MIT or in a prestigious engineering program in a small college. Maybe he’ll study in Sweden, where the rest of his family is, but the thought gives me a pang of despair.
I still spend my Thursdays with him, but it doesn’t feel like I’m doing enough to impress the colleges. I try other clubs over the next few weeks to pad my resume.
Student government is a popular option. I sit in on a few meetings and decide to campaign to be the student body secretary. I assume that I’ll get the position because it’s a seemingly insignificant role, but three other girls also want the spot. It becomes a popularity contest. I lost by a landslide. The position goes to the girl best connected to the existing student council. I’m so embarrassed that I can’t look at a student government flyer without also thinking about my loss.
Ainsley tells me to get over it. Maia reminds me that student government events are boring anyway. It’s their version of tough love even though they helped me make my posters.
I apply for academic clubs next. Math team, mock trial, and science bowl all have try outs within the same week. I complete complex math puzzles, fake confidence for arguments, and speed through science questions.
The clubs feel like an extension of my classes, challenging me in ways I hadn’t thought possible. I don’t feel like I belong in some of the spaces, not because of social isolation but because of the way other students genuinely love what they are doing. Most of them joined the clubs in their freshman year and rose through the ranks to become upperclassmen coaches to the newbies. It feels weird and shameful to have someone my age or younger be my senior to guide me through the process.
In mock trial, a sophomore tells me to improve my posture and speak louder when making my arguments. I end up getting chosen to be a back up witness for the end of the year competition against the Bayard Institute team. The message is clear. I’m not good enough for the actual team, but I still have to put in the work to be an understudy. I try not to feel crushed by this.
In the math team, someone my age corrects my proof. They teach me a way to solve the puzzle faster, but I still feel behind. All of the club members seem to have calculators wired into their brains. They remind me of human computers, living and breathing math. Numbers and equations are their religion. At least here, they treat all members equally because we function as part of the same machine.
In science bowl, the questions are fun, but the competition is fierce. There are ten students who want to join and three existing team members will be graduating this year. According to the club advisor, the team competing in regional competitions consists of four students and one alternate. This means the science bowl team has more spots available than normal. Because Two Bridges normally sends a team to compete in the national competition, anyone good at science sees this as a resume boost.
One by one, students are culled through practice questions from previous competitions. A classmate asks me to drop out of the running, telling me that my high ranking makes my participation in science bowl useless.
“You don’t need this. You’re number four in the entire grade. Don’t be greedy and let me win.”
I stand my ground regardless, slightly offended by their statement. The audacity doesn’t surprise me. Most students are shameless about what they would do to get the attention of admissions officers. Considering the sabotage that happens in class group chats, I did appreciate this person’s attempt to be honest. If they see me as a threat, then that means my charade was working. No one suspects that I need to try harder than everyone else because my family is poor. In fact, I seem privileged, which delights me.
Unfortunately, that student’s efforts are worthless because we’re both eliminated from consideration in the next round when we mess up our questions. As much as I would have enjoyed being in a club with national recognition, I am grateful not to be in the spotlight. I didn’t want anyone to question my image and dig into my background.
I am exhausted by the end of the week. All of the effort I put in for club tryouts catches up to my body. I catch myself nodding off in some of my classes, mortified by the drool escaping from the corner of my lips.
My membership in the math team and mock trial demands regular afterschool participation on Mondays and Tuesdays respectively. The Wednesdays and Fridays I have left to myself are still spent studying with either Yuey or Mikael. I can’t remember the last time I went straight home from school. I become accustomed to getting home at sunset, saddled with extra work from the clubs.
One week, I juggle building a new radio, memorizing a witness role, and completing a puzzle sheet in addition to the readings, essays, and problem sets I already have to do for my classes. Despite the fatigue, I tell myself that this was work that I asked for.
How am I going to stand out by being an ordinary student? I didn’t have a trust fund that would save me if I failed at my endeavors. And as much as I try to hide my status as a scholarship student, I know that I’ll need another one to fund my entry into the college that accepts me.
I must endure my work even if it costs me my sanity.
11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRs4jnhIy2A
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