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I would dounspeakablethings to get through this day faster.

My thumb taps impatiently against the top of the desk as I watch the second hand tick closer to the bell with full-body apprehension. I’m not even pretending to listen to what Mr. Peters is saying about the homework. He’ll put whatever the assignment is up on the student portal anyway, and I can deal with that at home.

When I have my answer.

3:19 p.m.

One more minute.

Mr. Peters clears the phlegm from his throat, and my attention snaps back to him. For a second, I think he’s asked me a question, but he’s not looking at me. He’s gesturing to the class at large with his wrinkly hands.

“Final reminder: your French Revolution paper is due first thingon Monday, but you can turn it in through the portal over the long weekend if you prefer. Donotforget about this assignment. Tomorrow is a teacher workday, and I don’t want to listen to any whining about extensions. There won’t be any.”

I want to roll my eyes. I haven’t forgotten an assignment in my entire life. It’ll take more than a three-day weekend to throw me off. Besides, I’ve had that paper done for a week and a half. These things aren’t difficult for someone like me.

The bell rings—beeps actually, seven quick jabs of sound slicing through the excitement in the air—and I’m at the head of the aisle before anyone else can even gather their things. Mr. Peters holds up a hand to stop me before I pass his desk. He looks a bit like an elderly Stanley Tucci, complete with thick, black-framed glasses. He’s one of the oldest teachers at Waldorf and probably should have retired a decade ago.

When he smiles, it reveals a piece of salad stuck in his yellow dentures. “Good luck today, Brooke. You’ve got Yale in the bag.”

God, I hope he’s right.

“Thank you! Fingers crossed!” I say, like I’m hopeful. Like I’m excited. Like I’m sure of the result, when I’m absolutely not.

I scoot from the room and into the crowded hallway, focusing on Waldorf Prep’s checkered marble flooring to avoid anyone else stoking the fires of my anxiety with more well-wishes.

Ivy Day has been looming on Waldorf’s Google Calendar for six months. If I wanted to, I could walk down the hall and pick out every other Ivy hopeful by sight alone. All of us vibrate with a similar kind of urgency, rushing from the school like someone’s chasing us, only that someone is our future. And we can’t escape that.

The best we can hope for is to be locked in our rooms, away from prying eyes, when the inevitable rears its ugly head. Because at fouro’clock today, those of us who applied to the Ivies get our answer. It’s a day I’ve been preparing for in one way or another my whole life. Today’s the day that could change everything or nothing at all, and that pressure makes it hard to function.

Yale is my family’s legacy, and I’d do anything to make it mine too.

I already have.

Every time I look up, friends smile at me across the hallway or people I barely know wish me luck. Teachers give thumbs-ups or pat me on the shoulder. Other Ivy hopefuls give me the nervous-eyed nod. Everyone knows what’s at stake today. And for the millionth time since the fall, I kick myself for not applying early decision. I could have had my answer months ago, but I missed the deadline because of…the incident. Yet another thing I lost because ofher.

I grin back and straighten my shoulders, pretending I’m not falling apart on the inside. I can’t change the past. Early decision is behind me, and Ivy Day is here.

Besides, Goodwins don’t get to fall apart.

They don’t get rejected by Yale either.

I make a quick stop at my locker and cram in everything I can afford to leave behind for the weekend. My history book lands in a heap at the bottom, and I leave it there. I need to get home and hunker down to refresh the application portal in privacy.

A group of girls from my AP Chemistry class stop at a locker a couple down from mine.

“So is it apartyparty, or is it just for Ivy hopefuls?” one of them asks.

“It’s a party party. Beau said it’s for everyone to celebrate Ivy Day, but it’s really an excuse to get people to his beach house. He’d throw a party for the full moon if it meant being the center of attention.”

I groan into my pale pink peacoat. I completely forgot aboutBeau’s party. Jena’s going to want to go to that damn thing and there’s no way I have it in me. Especially if I don’t get the answer I want today—I can’t stomach the idea of walking into Beau’s beach shack with a no, while everyone else celebrates their dreams coming true.

Besides, my parents haven’t let me go to a party since September anyway.

I have to get the hell out of Waldorf before Jena has a chance to ambush me with whatever argument she’s been undoubtedly practicing since news of the party spread at lunch. I can hear it already:Brooke, obviously this party is for you. Why would Beau throw an Ivy party for a bunch of people he barely knows? This is the perfect time for you to reenter the social scene!

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