Page 2 of Last First Kiss
Alejandra and I split from the group and jump in her car—although it’s more like my car because Alejandra has become a passenger princess since I got my license last year, and refuses to drive anytime I’m with her. I don’t mind, though. I enjoy driving; it gives me a sense of calm.
When we get back to our neighborhood and turn intoour driveway, I spot two gold envelopes sticking out of our mailbox, and I completely forget how to breathe.
“Holy crap,” I whisper.
Alejandra must have seen them too, because she flies out of the car. A few seconds later, she’s running back, waving the envelopes around. When she reaches my window, she slaps them against the glass, grinning broadly. The insignia is impossible to miss, printed big right on the front. Finally, the school we’d been waiting for.
Alejandra turns toward the house, and before I can even step out of the car, she’s halfway up the front steps.
“Wait!” I shout, taking off after her.
She heads into her room, but I veer into mine to grab the box with all our letters. This was one of my mom’s favorites—she got into woodworking when I was five, and this was the first she’d ever carved by hand. It’s not perfect, a little uneven around the edges, and the hinges don’t quite line up, so the box doesn’t close completely, but it’s my favorite thing she ever made.
I use it to store items that matter most to me: letters she wrote for every year up to high school graduation, old photos of me, Alejandra, Diana, and our moms, and some notes my best friends and I have passed back and forth over the years.
As soon as the box is in my hands, I run to Alejandra’s room, accidentally slamming the door behind me as I collapse onto her bed, my heart pounding in my chest.
Alejandra sits crisscross in front of me as I lay the letters before us.
“Are you ready?” she asks softly.
I nod, my throat suddenly too dry to speak. I stare at the five envelopes in front of us, my chest rising as I take a deepbreath.
“No matter what happens, even if we don’t end up at the same school, it’s you and me forever,” she says, looping her pinky in mine. Her voice is steady, but hides a tremble. She leans in, pressing her forehead gently against mine. “It’ll always be you and me. We’ll figure it out.”
I close my eyes for a second, trying to anchor myself to her words, letting her touch soothe the nerves, the excitement, and the fear the way it always does.
When I open my eyes, she’s still there, steady and sure, the way she’s always been. I give her the tiniest nod.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Let’s do this.”
Together, we reach for the first envelope in our lineup.
We rip the envelopes open, hands shaking as we read silently.
“I didn’t get in,” I say, hope slipping away.
I knew most of the letters would probably be rejections—I barely met the GPA requirements for the majority of the schools Alejandra and I applied to—but even knowing it was coming, seeing it hurts.
“You?” I ask.
“Me neither.” She shrugs, but when she sets her letter down, I glimpse the first line, and my stomach twists. She got in. For a second, I can’t breathe. I stare at the page, trying to keep my face still as something inside me crumbles. We’re not going to get into the same college, and it’s all my fault.
“This one was a backup, anyway. We didn’treallywant to go there!” she says with a bright smile, already reaching for the next envelope. “Let’s open another one.”
I nod, forcing a smile as we rip another envelope open.
“Waitlisted,” I say, almost in shock. It’s not an acceptance, but it could be.
“Oh my God, that’s amazing!” Alejandra says, smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You didn’t get in?” I frown, looking down at her letter. The excitement I felt is fading almost as quickly as it came.
“No, I did,” she says. “But it doesn’t sound like a good option if you’re waitlisted.” She sets the letter aside, and I mentally kick myself for not being a better student.
We open the other two envelopes, and it’s the same deal: I’m waitlisted, she gets in. Then we both get waitlisted, and that pit in my stomach worsens.
Alejandra is now staring hard at our last letter, and I can tell it’s hitting her now. We have one shot left, and the odds aren’t in our favor.
