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Chapter One
Isobel
"Goingonvacation?"
I blink, tearing my eyes from my computer screen to find the old woman in the seat beside mine, gazing at me expectantly.
"Um. No. I'm going to my sister's wedding." I shut my laptop, giving her the same pained, obligatory smile I usually reserve for the girl in my chem class who licks her fingers before turning the pages of oursharedlab packet. Not that it matters. I could probably bare my teeth and growl at this woman, and it wouldn't put her off. We've been on this plane for three hours, and she's tried to make conversation with me at least six times, apparently mistaking my utter lack of interest for shyness.
Isn't there a rule in the airplane safety pamphlet about leaving the stranger next to you alone, or is that just common courtesy?
The woman (whom I mentally dubbed "Old Bat" before the plane had even taken off) lights up, clasping her hands to her chest like I told her Evie cured an incurable disease (Jokes on her. Evie isn't scheduled to cure pediatric pleuropulmonary blastoma for another four years. Considering my sister still hasn't deviated from the life plan she finalized at age fourteen, I'd hold her to that). "Howexciting! A destination wedding? Are you the Maid of Honor?"
Holy hell,I feel like I'm staring into an intellectual black hole.
"Yup." I'm not, nor did I expect to be, but Old Bat doesn't need to know that. My sister is six years older than I am. By the time I was old enough to speak in full sentences, she was off to boarding school. We never had those formative years of bickering and bonding, and now the only thing we have in common is our eye color and the undying urge to please our parents. This trip, a full week in Bora Bora for her wedding, will be the most time I've spent with any of my family members in years.
I've met my future brother-in-law, Reuben, only once, and that was at my grandmother's Passover seder last year. We didn't speak much, but from what I could tell, he seemed like exactly the kind of guy Evie would always end up with– intelligent and easygoing enough to balance out her Type-A neurosis. They met on the very first day of medical school but didn't start dating until they were placed into the same pediatric oncology residency, falling in love over kids with cancer and after-work espresso martinis.
Old Bat beams. "Oh, I was the Maid of Honor for my sister. She got married in Florida the year…..oh. When was it? Well, anyway, they divorced only a few years later because-"
Alright, I'm out.
My noise-canceling headphones died just as I was getting on the plane, but Old Bat doesn't know that. Not bothering to make up an excuse, I pull them out of my bag and snap them on while she's halfway through the word "potpourri." I can see her offended pout in the corner of my eye, but I stare determinately down at my phone, aimlessly scrolling until she's safely turned away to talk to the poor flight attendant. Reflexively, I reopen my laptop, hitting refresh on my email for the third time in the last fifteen minutes.
Why hasn't it come yet?
Everything I've worked for, the parties I didn't go to, the countless late nights in the library, has all come down to one email.
Going to Harvard Medical School is what the Bradley familydoes. My great-grandfather started the tradition before going on to become one of the founding fathers of cardiothoracic surgery. My grandfather followed in his footsteps, innovating a procedure that has saved thousands of lives. Then my father, who met and later married my equally brilliant mother there, undoubtedly hoping to create an elite, hybrid generation of Doctor Bradleys to conquer the world one medical innovation at a time.
It half worked.
I know I'm not an idiot, but as I head into the final semester of my undergraduate education, it seems pretty ridiculous to pretend I'm a match for my sister. Evie graduated a year early with honors, perfect test scores, a letter of recommendation from the Dean, and a handful of prestigious internships under her belt. All with a flawless manicure, a pack of loyal girlfriends, and an apartment that could have been on the cover of Organized Living.
I am graduating a year late because of that semester off. I've been advised (ordered) never to mention a non-existent social life and an academic record that's good but not exceptional.
Also, her boobs are like twice the size as mine. Talk about some bullshit.
Something in my chest knots painfully, and I force myself to take a long, slow breath. It's going to be fine. I'm being ridiculous. I might not be as utterly, incomprehensibly perfect as Evie, but that doesn't mean I won't get in. I've worked hard, I have recommendations from my professors, and I've been volunteering for over two years. If all that doesn't seal the deal, I'm not too proud to rely on the three generations of Harvard alums who share my last name for some of those sweet nepotism points.
"Good afternoon, passengers. The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign-"
The clouds clear away as the plane drops lower, and now beyond the wing of the plane, I can see a beautiful island settled atop crystal clear ocean. My parents went all out, buying out half of a boutique Bora Bora resort for Evie and Reuben's wedding, the very same one that they were married at nearly thirty years ago.
The immediate families of the bride and groom will be arriving today, five full days early, and we'll be joined by the rest of the guests the night before the wedding. Evie wanted my parents to get to know Reuben's by doing what she does best: organizing (she emailed everyone a five-page, color-coded schedule, which includes helpful reminders to regularly re-apply sunscreen and hydrate). Our parents and I will be subjected to five full days of forced bonding activities and wedding organizing with these strangers before my sister deems us sufficiently integrated and we're permitted to return to our separate corners of the country.
Beneath me, the plane jerks, and I grip my armrests so hard that my knuckles turn white, prompting an alarmed look from Old Bat.
I know it's not normal to feel this way before seeing your family and that there's probably a therapist out there who will someday make a lot of money off me, but normally I can handle it. I was counting on having a med-school acceptance to lessen their general disappointment in me, though, and my Harvard-free inbox has notched my anxiety up to a near-critical level.
They're going to ask about it,of coursethey're going to ask about it, and I feel sick just thinking about the pursed lips and quiet sighs I'll get when I tell them, "No, I haven't heard yet."They haven't said it out loud, but I can't quite manage to dismiss the gnawing suspicion that I've already been sort of…. written off.
Having high-powered surgeons as parents tends to translate into a certain level of emotional neglect. I'm used to that, but it's been impossible not to form parallels between those months before Evie applied to medical school and when I did. They were so excited for her. My mother was constantly calling to discuss application essay questions and which apartment buildings they ought to look at, while my father conveniently invited an old friend who works in the admissions office to dinner.
There'd been none of that for me. Is it because they think I don't have a chance of getting in, or-No.I shove the thought aside.
They've been busy, that's all. Evie's wedding is coming up, my mother is up for that big award, and my father's practice partner retired earlier than planned, so his caseload has been crazy. Those are all perfectly valid reasons for them not calling me every hour to talk about Harvard. I'm being selfish. This is Evie's wedding week, and no matter how shitty our parents make me feel, I refuse to make it even a little bit about me.
