Page 8 of No Place Left to Hide

Welcome to Yale College! It is with the greatest enthusiasm that I write to congratulate you on your admission to the class of—

I jump from my chair. “I got in!”

“You got into Yale!”

I turn to her, she grabs my hands, and we’re jumping up and down and screaming in each other’s faces until we’re both out of breath and sink to the floor in a fit of exhausted gasps. The Yale logo fills my screen, the bulldogs and the congratulations replaying on loop with the letter telling me to be proud of my accomplishment and how delighted they are to accept such an extraordinary student to their community.

This is how my mom finds us, laugh-crying on the floor. She hovers in the doorway, looking severe in her pencil skirt and high pony—her hair the same chestnut brown as mine.

She looks confused for a beat, staring down at us like we’ve lost our minds, but then the light bulb clicks on. “You got into Yale?”

I climb to my feet, smooth my uniform, and nod. For the first time in six months, my mom smiles at me. Her eyes are alight with happiness thatIcreated, and she wraps me in what’s possibly the tightest hug of my life.

I finally fixed it. Yale fixed it.

Her tears dampen my face, but I don’t care. She holds me for a long time, long enough to make the chasm I’ve felt between us these last few months feel so much smaller.

“I knew you could do it,” she says, her voice full of emotion. She abruptly pulls back. “Oh my god, I have to call your father. He’s going to be so proud of you!”

She kisses my forehead and backs away.

I grip her hand to stop her. “Wait, can I be the one to tell him?”

As much disappointment as I’ve weathered from my mother, it’s nothing compared to his. The only thing I want in this world is to see his face, tell him the news, and watch that look of constant disdain melt away. To see his pride.

“Of course! It’s your news.” She cups my face. “He should be home soon—we have that charity event, so he won’t be working late for once.”

Oh shit, that’s for the food drive. I collected all the donations from the school this morning, and they’re taking up most of the backseat and the entire trunk of my Subaru. I forgot to drop them off after school.

She doesn’t need to know that though. I’m absolutelynotfollowing up the joy and congratulations by telling her I dropped yet another ball.

As my mom disappears down the hallway, Jena takes me by the shoulders and spins me to face her. “Now wehaveto go to that party. Everyone’s going to want to celebrate with you!”

Maybe it’s the achievement high, or maybe it’s because I feel freed from everything that’s held me back for the last six months, but I’m considering it.

Jena winks at me and turns, motioning to the button on the back of the jumpsuit. I fasten it for her, my wordless permission for her to steal my clothes, as per usual.

“Plus,” she continues, “Felix texted me on the way over here to say that Dylan asked about you while they were warming up for the game. Specifically, whether you’d be at tonight’s party. I think he’d really love to see you, but if you’d rather stay home alone and not make out with the guy you’ve been obsessed with for years, I guess I understand…”

Decision made. “Fine. I’ll go to the Ivy party.”

She squeals and runs out of my room to ask my mom, spinning some story about meeting up with Felix for a celebratory dinner. She implies we’ll be here in town, not an hour and a half away at the coast, and my mom agrees, only tacking on a quick “Be home by midnight.”

That sense of freedom grows. She didn’t ask any questions. Or verify where I’ll be. Or go over the Goodwin rules of decorum. Or impress how important it is to avoid another family scandal. She simply agreed.

In record time, Jena’s ushered me out of my uniform and into a more PNW beach-party appropriate outfit: a black turtleneck sweater tucked into a gold sequin skirt, with fleece-lined tights underneath to combat the cool coastal air. Standing beside her in my full-length mirror, I know I look amazing, but Jena looks runway ready.

“You hate me, don’t you?” she says, with a wink.

“Always.”

She laughs. “Says the rich bitch that just got into Yale.”

Igot intoYale.

Holy shit.

We throw on some flats—because, sand—and kill time by touching up our makeup and refreshing our hair until around five when we hear the sound of my father’s tires on the driveway. I snatch my keys and my favorite Chanel bag off the vanity and sprint out the front door.

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