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Nonetheless, he keeps all of his despondency well hidden. I doubt anyone other than me could see it at all. He spends the next week helping me prepare, practicing interview questions with me and helping me gather everything else I’ll need. Maybe this is how all couples should do it, I think. One person takes a year off after high school so they can devote all their time to helping their boyfriend or girlfriend get in. The demands of the more prestigious schools are so high, it feels like it requires an entire team of people to properly prepare for it all.
The following week, I make the two-and-a-half-hour drive to the campus for my interview. The neighborhood around the school is a lot like Jameson with giant, pristine houses and perfectly manicured landscaping. But there is something more wholesome about it all. There are people jogging down the sidewalks, dodging kids on bikes or moms pushing baby strollers. There are dogs barking from their leashes and little kids in heavy coats trying to scrape up remnants of snow from the grass to play with. The houses may look the same, but the people seem more relaxed. Normal. Happy. There isn’t an air of fear weighing everything down.
The campus is lined with massive, old trees, and I can already imagine how beautiful they must look in the Spring with fresh green blossoms or in the Fall with gold and red leaves. I watch students shuffle by, bundled up in scarves with bags and arms full of books. My heart leaps with anticipation. Whether it’s here or another school, soon I’ll be starting a whole new life. One that is hopefully more normal than the nightmare I’ve found at WJ Prep.
The stark difference I see between here and my school is solidified as I get so caught up in taking in the sights that I accidentally bump into a tall guy walking in the opposite direction down the sidewalk. I expect him to go off on me, but he simply apologizes with a big smile and carries on his way. The Elites have traumatized me to the point that I’ve forgotten there’s a whole world outside of Jameson without a circle of a select few who think they are so much more entitled to the air they breathe and the ground they walk on than everyone else. It will be a hard thing to get used to once I’m gone for good, but I’m more than ready for the change.
I made sure to arrive early for the interview. I know Coach called in some favors to get this lined up and I want to make sure I don’t let him down. There are a few other students anxiously waiting in the sitting area as I make my way in. The floors and walls are deep mahogany wood with a flawless shine. The upholstery and drapes are deep jewel tones of green and burgundy, and the walls are lined with cases and frames of trophies and black and white photos.
The excitement in my chest builds as I catch glimpses of the shrines to their Olympian alumni. I notice one of the bronze medal winners smiling out from their photo. I’ve read that runner’s stats and mine are pretty on par with how they did in high school. I feel a rise of giddiness at the thought that one day, that could be me.
The possibilities only make me more nervous, but at least I know I’m not the only one. There’s a cluster of students sitting nearby who are plotting their interviews. They discuss questions they assume we can expect to be asked along with rumors they’ve heard about interview sessions that have happened before.
We’re each clutching onto folders of important documents in our sweaty hands. The goal of the interview is to be able to extend a scholarship offer along with our acceptance letter. Demographics and place of birth make a difference in those things, so along with the interview, there’s a round of paperwork and document checks that has to be done. The list of what to bring was lengthy and a little ridiculous, but I assume part of the goal was to test us on following instructions. They can immediately rule out less than ideal candidates that aren’t responsible enough to follow the directions and gather everything that’s asked of them.
I flip through my papers, double-checking everything, as one of the other people waiting spouts off the list of required items. Suddenly, a sinking feeling jolts through me. The other people mention a birth certificate, which I know I remember seeing on the list. More than seeing it, I know I remember getting a copy of mine and putting it into my folder. Yet somehow as I flip through it now, it’s nowhere in sight.
My eyes dart to the clock as another person is called in for their interview. Judging by the time, I am likely the next one to be called, giving me less than half a
n hour or so to figure out what the hell has happened to my birth certificate. I can’t stand the thought of blowing this over something so small and simple after what Coach has done to set it up. He’s done so much for me, and the last thing I want to do is disappoint him. I look back to the Olympian’s photo on the wall and wonder if they would have forgotten something so important.
But I didn’t forget. I know I didn’t. I look around the floor surrounding my seat and retrace my footsteps through the room. I dig through my backpack and check the folder three more times. Still no sight of it. The others sitting nearby start to whisper as they watch me search. They can see the panic on my face and know I’ve shown up without something. Their mouths twist into poorly hidden satisfied grins. This just knocks another competitor off the list for them.
Finally, one of the other girls comes over and tries to help me search. A gesture that never would have happened back in Jameson where the Elites keep everyone at each other’s throats.
“Is there anyone nearby who might have a copy?” the girl suggests as we continue looking with no luck. “Did your mom come with you?”
“No,” I sigh, breaking into an awful sweat. “I know we put a copy of it in there. I don’t know what could have happened to it.”
“It’s not here,” she confirms grimly. “Well…what about your car!?”
“Good idea,” I shoot back nervously, checking the clock again. “I’ll hurry but if they call me, will you tell them I’ll be right back?”
“Of course,” she nods, but I am already racing out the door to the parking lot.
Times like these are when it comes in handy to be a trained runner. I break into a full sprint across the pavement until finally my car is in sight. I don’t even have to unlock the doors to know my birth certificate isn’t inside. I can see the empty seats and floorboards plain as day. But I open it up and search anyway.
I’m huffing and panting for breath as I frantically search everything one last time, partly from my run over here but mostly from panic. It’s still nowhere in sight as I flail my head back against my car seat, feeling dangerously close to bursting into tears. I tell myself I will just have to march back in there and own up to my mistake, hoping and praying that I can somehow charm them enough so that it doesn’t matter. But I know there will be some other star athlete with excellent grades who will march in there with everything they were asked to bring. It’s game over for me.
Just as I’m starting to give up, I hear the faint blow of a boat whistle from the distant shore, sparking an idea. My dad lives near here. A fact that crossed my mind more than once on the drive up here, but I kept pushing it down, telling myself it didn’t matter. Although now it could matter quite a bit. His house can’t be more than five minutes from here.
I hesitate to reach for my phone, but quickly snap myself out of it. There’s no time to have an emotional crisis over this. It’s as simple as he’s the only person within a few miles who could possibly have a copy of my birth certificate, and even that’s a stretch. It’s highly unlikely that he’ll answer the phone, have what I need, and be available to get it here in the next ten minutes. But I have to try.
My heart pounds relentlessly as the phone rings, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my urgent predicament or my nerves over talking to him again. Not just talking to him but asking for his help. Something I’ve always been convinced I would never, ever do.
4
Chapter Four
By some miracle, not only did Theo answer the phone, he had a copy of my birth certificate on hand and was able to show up with it just in time. I was in such a rush by the time he arrived that it barely phased me to see him again and accept his help. I took the document and raced back inside, barely stepping foot into the waiting area just as my name was being called. I saw the girl who had been helping me with her lips parted, ready to defend my tardiness. But I was able to breeze right past her and into the interview on time.
I was so flustered and relieved by the time I sat down that I didn’t have time to be nervous about the questions being thrown my way. The essay in my application cited my mom and stepdad as my inspirations in life, being the only people in my corner to set an example and help me along the way. I felt a slight tinge of shame as I backed up the sentiment in my answers, knowing it was Theo that helped me out today. But I quickly remembered everything he’s put me through up until now and swallowed down any feelings of guilt.
I walk out of the interview feeling like I did my best, reliving the sight of the panel’s pleased and impressed expressions. I’m more than ready to get into my car and go home and forget about all the pressure until the next one of these interviews pops up, when I will bring five copies of my birth certificate just to be safe.
“Ophelia!” Theo’s voice calls out from behind me just as I unlock my car doors.
I cringe and slowly turn around to see him running towards me. “Oh,” I huff. “You’re still here.”
