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I hurry back to the hotel room and snap open my viola case, the minor chord still ringing in my ears. I trace my fingers over the scar, and then I start playing. It doesn’t sound the same. I lock it back in its case so I don’t have to look at how I’ve damaged it.
Arjun hasn’t replied to any of my messages, so I send another few.
What are you up to?
Did you get my last text?
Hey, not sure if my phone is working. Text me back if you get this.
Then I wait and wait and wait.
Aba isn’t back yet, so I start a shower to wash the day off me. I do what I always do in showers now: plant my feet firmly so I don’t lose my balance.
With a fingertip, I trace the jagged pink-white scar on my thigh, remembering how it soothed me to dig the blade into my skin. Sometimes I ache to feel a little of that pain again.
Twenty-six
Tovah
I NEVER THOUGHT I’D BE the type of person to get senioritis, but I’ve been wrong about a lot this year. Second semester in student council means decorating prom posters and ordering crowns for prom royalty. I’m grateful for the mindless break from the rest of my classes.
I squeeze down on a tube of gold puffy paint as Lindsay and Emma Martinez, the student council president, chatter about prom.
“We’re definitely getting a limo,” Emma says.
“We’ll probably get a hotel room.” Lindsay blows on the paint, waiting for it to dry. “Not sure about a limo yet.”
I concentrate on the W at the end of PROM TIX ON SALE NOW, but I screw it up and dribble gold all over the poster. With Adi and Aba on the East Coast, I’ve felt off this whole week. The house is half-empty, and I’ve cooked dinner for Ima and me most nights, usually something easy like stir-fry or spaghetti. The hard part is sitting across from her at the table with two empty chairs next to us.
It makes me wonder how it’ll feel when she’s gone.
“That looks great,” says Ms. Greenwald as she circles the room. “Keep up the good work, you three.”
I’m sure Zack would find some way to make this poster cool. I slip my phone out of my pocket to text him a photo of my artistic masterpiece—Ms. Greenwald doesn’t care if we’re on our phones as long as the work gets done—but before I can, I see something: the e-mail I’ve been waiting months for.
I push myself to my feet so quickly my knees pop.
“Be right back,” I tell Lindsay and Emma, hoping they don’t notice the tremor in my voice. “Bathroom.”
Ms. Greenwald nods at me as I head out the door, teacher-speak for I trust you not to abuse your bathroom privileges.
My wobbly legs carry me down the hall to an empty bathroom. My fingers are so clumsy I miss my phone password a few times before I can read the e-mail.
Dear Tovah, it begins again. Like we’re on a first-name basis. Like we’re friends. The admissions committee has completed its review of your application, and we are so sorry to tell you that we are unable to offer you admission to Johns Hopkins.
The so is what gets me. Johns Hopkins is so sorry.
My phone lands on the linoleum with a soft thwick.
I press my hands against the porcelain sink. “So sorry,” I tell my reflection.
Then I feel it. Deep inside my chest cavity, next to my stomach, this twist that makes me bend over, my head between my arms as I stare down at the sink drain. At the swirls of hair trapped inside it. The makeup smeared on the sides.
My heart slams against my rib cage over and over and over like it’s trying to escape, and my vision blurs. I push the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, willing the tears not to start. I push so hard that when I take my hands away, there are spots in my vision. I’m shaking so badly, my breathing ragged.
They didn’t even wait-list me. They absolutely, positively, definitively do not want me.
My first-semester grades were flawless and my additional letters of recommendation emphasized how good a fit I’d be for Johns Hopkins. But that wasn’t enough. None of it was.
