The Do-Over

I once pulled a hotel’s fire alarm because my parents were sleeping in and I wanted to get to Disneyland before there was a line to see Belle.

“Emilie, I have a note here that says you need to go to the office.” Mr. Seward, my second-hour teacher, waved a hall pass in front of his face.

“Oh.” I put down the book I wasn’t supposed to be reading, stood and grabbed my bag from the floor beside me. I’d been in the middle of a fairly intense sex scene, so my cheeks instantly got hot as I felt porn-busted.

“Oooh—Emmie’s in trouble.”

I smiled at Noah, Josh’s best friend. He was a tennis player who’d never said a single word to me until I started dating Josh. Who, coincidentally, I missed this morning because Nick and I got into school just in time for first hour. So far, this day was not going how it was supposed to.

“You know me,” I said to Noah as I shoved my book in my bag, grabbed the pass, and exited the classroom. I missed Nick Stark’s oversized jacket as I walked down the empty hallway. I’d been frozen solid since the minute I’d handed it back to him in the parking lot. I knew Josh wouldn’t have anything that utilitarian in his locker—his light-knit navy cardigan was as warm as it’d get—but I was so cold that I’d probably swing by to pick it up.

I looked down at my phone, but the only message I had was from my awful boss at work, trying to get me to come in when I wasn’t scheduled.

Not on Valentine’s Day, sir. Or Stankbreath, which is what I referred to him in my head.

Which sounded mean, but he really was awful. He’d been known to clip his fingernails in the break room, scroll through Tinder while working even though he was married, and he’d never heard of the term “personal space.” How else would I know so much about his breath?

I put the phone in my dress pocket and wondered what the office summoning was about, but I wasn’t worried. I’d just been notified the previous week that I’d won the Alice P. Hardy Excellence in Journalism High School Fellowship, so it was probably about that.

I still had to pinch myself over that one. Not only had I been accepted into the prestigious summer journalism program, where I’d get to stay in an apartment in Chicago and work alongside fifty other high school students for an entire month, but it was going to be 100 percent paid for.

I was beyond excited for the work, but even more thrilled about how good it would look on my college applications. Most of my friends didn’t care about that yet, but I was going to make sure I got into the college of my choice if it killed me.

“Hi, Emilie.” Mrs. Svoboda, the school secretary, smiled and gestured for me to go to the counseling office. “Go on back to Mr. Kessler’s office. He’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks.” I went back and lifted my hand to knock on the counselor’s half-closed office door when he bellowed, “Here she is now. Come in, Emilie.”

I walked into his office and saw the woman who’d interviewed me for the fellowship. She was sitting in a chair, holding a cup of coffee and giving me hard-core eye contact.

“Oh. Um, hi.” I hadn’t expected to see her, but I quickly recovered and went in for a firm handshake. “Nice to see you again.”

The woman—Mrs. Bowen—fumbled for my hand and looked shocked by the shake. “You too, though I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

Even with that warning, I didn’t expect something bad bad. I expected her to say I needed one more reference, or perhaps that it was imperative they get a headshot from me stat.

I perched on the edge of the chair in the corner. “Oh?”

“Unfortunately there was an error in the scoring of fellowship applications. It has come to our attention that some numbers were added incorrectly.”

My heartbeat picked up a little. “Which means…?”

“Which means that you actually didn’t win a fellowship.”

It sounds cliché, but I felt the blood drain from my face. Like, I felt it. I saw sparkly stars in front of my eyes and my hearing turned furry as the ramifications of her statement sunk in.

No getting far away for the summer.

No prestigious program to list on my college applications.

Being left behind while Josh attended his prestigious summer program.

No Northwestern.

“Emilie?” Mr. Kessler narrowed his eyes and looked like he was afraid I was going to faint. As if. There were a hundred things I felt like doing at that moment—most of them violent—and fainting wasn’t one of them.

I tucked my hair behind my ears and worked for a polite smile. “So that’s the final and confirmed tally, then?”

Mrs. Bowen’s lips turned down and she nodded. “We are so terribly sorry.”

“Well.” I shrugged and smiled. “What can you do, right? These things happen. I appreciate the opportunity.”

The woman tilted her head, like she couldn’t believe I wasn’t freaking out. Trust me, lady, I’ve learned that freaking out never changes a thing. She added, “I just cannot apologize enough, Emilie.”

“I understand.” I cleared my throat and stood. “Thank you for letting me know.”

I left with my head held high and went straight to the bathroom. I hated crying, but there was a huge ball of devastation sitting right on top of my sternum that threatened to knock me over if I didn’t take a minute.

I texted both of my parents and neither of them responded.

It was so undignified, sitting fully clothed on a toilet and crying, but it was just such a blow. Everything I’d been working toward might’ve just been ripped out of my hands.

Because when the topic of college was first broached after the divorce, my parents were very clear that if I planned on going away to school, I was going to have to find scholarships. The dissolution of their marriage had apparently wreaked havoc on their savings, what with all the fighting through lawyers and such, so there was nothing set aside for my education.

I’d taken that to heart and dedicated myself to educational excellence. Since that fateful conversation, I’d earned all As, thrown myself into writing for the school newspaper, and I’d taken the ACT five times even though my score had been exemplary the first time.

Every little point counted, after all.

But in order to go somewhere like Northwestern—my dream school—without my parents bankrolling the excursion, I needed perfection. Impeccable extracurriculars, letters of recommendation, a plethora of volunteer hours. I needed everything.

And even with those, I might still fall short.

The other thing that I didn’t like to admit to myself was that I didn’t want Josh to beat me. We had the same GPA—the same weighted 4.4 GPA—and it irked me when he pulled ahead. I couldn’t stand the smug look that crossed his face when he was winning, and if Josh was doing better than me, affection was not the feels coming over me.

I spent a few more minutes getting control of my emotions before I wiped at my eyes and stood. It was Valentine’s Day, dammit. I was going to soak up every glorious minute of that and not think about the rest until tomorrow.

There were two more written-in-red events left on my to-do list—gift exchange and saying those three big words. I was going to throw myself into checking off those boxes and forgetting the rest.