Chapter Thirteen
“Bad Blood (Taylor’s Version)”
by Taylor Swift feat. Kendrick Lamar
Meera
Ron and Valeria are mumbling to each other when I catch up to them. Leaning against my locker, I hold out a homemade energy bar for Valeria to take. “Sorry I missed the movie marathon. Was it fun?”
They exchange wordless glances; then Ron slams his locker shut and nods. “Yeah. And how about you? How was the party at Seth’s?”
“Oh my God, it was so cool—” I freeze. My blood turns to ice as I stare at my friends, my jaw dropping. Shit. They beat me to it. “Wait, how did you find out?”
“That’s your way of apologizing?” Valeria rolls her eyes and yanks the energy bar from my fingers. She takes the first bite and adds, “We saw you in the background of someone’s Instagram Story from the party. Why didn’t you take us along?”
I look from Valeria to Ron, frowning. “Because this was my first party invite. I couldn’t bring people with me! That’s against, like, party rules.”
Ron runs his fingers through his shaggy hair, staring at me head-on. “Yeah, and I’m sure a bunch of underage-drinking, pot-smoking teenagers care about rules.”
“Come on, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. Don’t be mad. Don’t be mad.” I tug on Ron’s baggy T-shirt until he relents and smiles.
“You’re a dumbass,” he says. He tucks his books under his arm, mumbles, “Bye,” and heads down the hallway to class.
Valeria’s still studying me as I take my stuff out from my locker, her eyes sad.
“What?” I ask.
She exhales loudly and shakes her head. “Just don’t lose yourself in this whole Plan thing, Meera. Because then you’ll lose us too.” With that, she walks away without looking back at me, the half-eaten energy bar clenched tight in her fist.
Ugh. I don’t get her and Appa’s obsession over this losing-myself bullshit. You can’t lose a nobody, and that’s what I am. A stinking nobody. I grumble under my breath and head to homeroom.
It’s only during third period, PE, that I notice people milling around the track, discussing NYU acceptances.
They must have come in last night or sometime today.
I didn’t apply to NYU or anywhere else because, well, my parents don’t have the funds to pay for college, and there’s no way for me to get a scholarship with my poor grades and complete lack of athletic ability.
My Indian grandparents are upset I won’t get an Ivy education, but they don’t have much money to contribute, either.
Community college it is. I don’t care too much about that decision; I’d rather help out at the café for as long as I can until eventually taking over the business.
Madre Maria and Café Kismat are home and always will be.
A bunch of people didn’t get into NYU, and they’re all commiserating with one another like a pseudo support group while the ones who did get in are dancing around instead of doing their stretches.
Coach Lauv instructs us to run a few laps after our warm-up.
I don’t share third period with Ron or Val, so I look around for someone to talk to while I stretch.
I grab my ankle and pull it up to my butt with a pained groan, pausing in my scan when I see Lucy.
She’s wearing the pink-and-yellow PE uniform like the rest of us, her short shorts and tank top showing off her toned figure.
She stands with her arms by her side, looking at the crowd of girls screaming with joy about their friends getting into NYU, and her eyes are red rimmed.
“Hey,” I say, walking over to her. She makes a small strangled noise when she notices me, and her body twitches. Gosh, she’s been jumpy lately. I stretch my left hamstring and add, “So? Did you hear from NYU?”
Lucy holds my gaze for a second before her head lifts and she sneers, “None of your business, Meera.” Then she dashes ahead along the track, and I stay behind, knowing she’s too fast for me to keep up with her.
I watch her run, her ponytail swishing around like a red-hot flame, and a sickly sensation spreads across my limbs: anxiety. She doesn’t want to talk about NYU. Instead of showing off like the others, she’s staying silent. Does that mean she got—
Lucy
Wait-listed.
As I run my first lap around the track as fast as I can, desperate to leave Meera and the others behind, the W-word is the only thing on my mind. I got wait-listed at NYU. Me. Those debate team students with their B-minuses got in, and I didn’t? How is that possible?
A burning ache shoots up along my feet inside my sneakers. Years of working out ensure I don’t need to stop to catch my breath, so I keep going. Coach Lauv cheers as I streak past him, leaving nothing but dust in my wake.
The faster I run, the faster my thoughts catch up to me.
Sushant was so happy this morning when he spun me around and kissed me in front of everyone.
We’re supposed to go out to dinner tonight at his favorite pizza place (the only one in town that makes pizzas with real cheese).
It’s a double date with Julien and Natalie to celebrate his Syracuse scholarship.
“And we can celebrate your NYU acceptance too,” he told me, kissing my cheek while I giggled. “There’s no way you won’t get in.”
Wait-listed.
I finally pause midway through my second lap, resting my hands above my knees. My lungs burn, refusing to take in oxygen, and I know the running has nothing to do with this wave of nausea plaguing me. Inhale and exhale, Lucy, I remind myself. That’s all you have to do.
I catch my breath for a minute until Coach Lauv blows his whistle, and off I run again. I have a straight-A average. I’m captain of the cheer squad. I was the star of the track team last year. Three of my teachers wrote me glowing letters of recommendation.
The only thing that could have hurt my application is my essay.
I’m a good writer; my English teacher’s told me that enough times.
But maybe the problem is what I wrote, not how I wrote it.
The essay topic was “Reflect on your most impactful relationship. What lessons has it taught you? What realizations have you had because of this person?”
When I saw the topic, my brain instinctually thought of Meera.
Headstrong, stubborn, does-what-she-decides Meera.
My first love. She taught me so much about love and spirituality and friendship…
and myself. She sparked the biggest realization I could have ever had about who I truly am.
But I’ve never said that word—the one Julien said during the museum trip—about myself in my head or out loud, forget writing it down in an official college essay.
So I wrote about my dad and my parents’ separation, how it taught me the fragility of relationships.
If Dad had agreed to see the Christian counselor Mom had suggested instead of filing for divorce, I might still have a whole family.
I wrote about how my parents’ marriage ending unexpectedly after twenty years together taught me that if you love someone, you have to do the work and keep holding on even when things seem rough.
You hold on together. You love hard, you love forever.
Maybe the teenaged-girl-from-a-broken-family thing made my application too mainstream, and that’s why I got wait-listed.
Fair enough. I finally stop running and lean my weight against a pole, thinking.
Funny how I don’t take my own advice. Holding on to Meera would have meant letting go of the girl I’ve been for all these years.
And I can’t let that girl go—not just yet. Maybe not ever.
“Hey, Lucy.” Brittney, the girl I beat to become cheer captain earlier this year, smiles scathingly at me. She holds her phone in her hand and wiggles it in my face. “I got into NYU. And Stanford. And Berkeley.”
I force myself to smile back, lifting my face to look her in the eye. “Congrats, Brittney.”
“Rumor has it that you didn’t get into NYU, though.” She walks forward, tutting in Mean Girl fashion. “I’m so sorry they couldn’t see how precious and practically perfect you are.”
“Thanks,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. I’m stretching my calves when Brittney the witch speaks up again.
“Guess you’re not gonna get to go to New York with your himbo boyfriend after all.”
Something in me snaps. I raise my gaze, my eyes stormy, as my chest heaves with the knowledge that even if I do follow Sushant to New York, my dream of working in publishing will be on hold for a whole year.
Because would a publishing house offer so much as an internship to someone who didn’t even go to college?
“Did I hit a nerve?” Brittney purses her lips as a few boys jog past us. “You stole cheer captain from me. Maybe this is the Universe’s version of payback.”
The word “Universe” makes me think of Meera, which brings up the question What would Meera Rao-George do? in my head. Instead of overthinking my own instincts like always, I let the fury build in my veins and explode. I move forward and shove Brittney onto the ground.
“Ow!” she exclaims, rubbing her elbow. “That’s gonna leave a bruise!”
“Oh, I’m gonna leave a lot more than just a bruise,” I shoot back, lunging for her just as she gingerly stands.
Before I can reach her, someone grabs me by the waist and pulls me away.
I kick and yell, and we both tumble down.
I get onto my knees and crawl around. It’s Julien, breathing hard as he shakes his head at me.
“What is going on here?” Coach Lauv walks over to us and surveys the scene. “Why are you kids on the ground?”
“Lucy pushed me!” Brittney squeals, showing Coach the barely-there bruises on her elbows. “I don’t know what made her do it. I was just telling her about my college acceptances, and”—she sobs exaggeratedly—“she must have gotten jealous!”
Coach Lauv glares down at Julien. “And why are you sitting down, Mr. Perrin?”
“I was breaking up the fight.” He stands and extends a hand to me, and I take it.
“You’re supposed to be playing field hockey with the other boys,” Coach says to Julien, his voice stern. He crosses his arms and looks toward Brittney, who cries out in pain again. Oh, for heaven’s sake.
“Detention,” Coach finally says, turning to Julien and me. “After school today.”
Julien and I both open our mouths in protest, but Coach Lauv shushes us. “If you argue with me, I’ll make it a whole week. Now get back on the field!” He marches ahead to check on some other students.
“I’ll see you this afternoon, then,” I say to Julien, sighing. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not be sorry,” he says, teeth gritted. “American coaches are— Oh, merde. Forget it. I’ll see you later.” He speeds off toward the field hockey game.
I leave Brittney and the crowd of girls sympathizing with her so-called bruises and run into Meera. I guess she’s been watching the commotion play out. “What?” I ask her, my voice elevating. “What do you want from me? Why do you appear everywhere I go?”
“Sorry,” she mumbles, a pinch between her eyebrows. “I just hope you’re okay.”
“You shouldn’t care if I’m okay,” I tell her, stepping backward, “since you’re supposed to hate me! So just let me be.”
“I don’t hate you.”
That makes me stop. “What?”
“Well.” Meera flicks the end of her braid, not meeting my eyes. “Not as much as I used to, at least.” She exhales, then runs ahead, her pace considerably slower than mine.
Try as I might, I can’t get my heart to stop hammering in my chest. I put a hand over it, hoping I can somehow magic it into slowing down, but all that does is make me aware of the blood rushing into my ears and all the oxygen that can’t make its way to my lungs.
Because Meera Rao-George doesn’t hate me.
The question is: Why not?