Wrong About the Guy

He sat back down.

She said, “I want to go over my short essays with you. And my long essay. All my essays.”

“You guys go ahead,” I said. “I need to change my clothes if we’re going out.”

“You might want to read through that essay again,” George said to me. “If you’re really pla

“It’s fine.” I waved my hand airily. “Good enough.”

He sighed. “At least you’re consistent.”

“If it’s too perfect, they won’t believe that I’m as bad about follow-through as I say I am. Form should follow function or something like that.”

“In that case, you should end it in the middle of a sentence.”

“Is that a dare?”

He held up his hands. “No! Just a joke. Please don’t do anything that will make your mother angry at me.”

“Fine. Then we’ll leave it as is, shall we?” I tossed my head and left them alone in the kitchen.

I figured since Heather was already dressed up, maybe we’d go out somewhere nice, so I put on a short black dress that had an empire waist and lacy bra-like shoulder straps and paired it with cherry-red Doc Martens so it wouldn’t look too sweet. I took out my topknot and braided the hair at my temples back into a circlet around my head, with the rest of my curls set free to tumble in whatever direction they wanted. (Sometimes I thought of my hair as being alive. Like a pet I needed to groom a lot. That’s not weird, is it?) I stopped by my grandmother’s room to let her know we were ru

“Well?” I said when I reentered the kitchen. “What do we think?”

“Oh my God, you look so beautiful,” Heather breathed.

I laughed. “I meant about your essays, not about me. But thanks.” I gave a little twirl that ended in a curtsy. George had looked up when Heather did, but he didn’t comment on my changed appearance, just turned back to her laptop. They were sitting right next to each other so they could both look at the screen—so close their shoulders were almost touching.

“What do you think?” Heather asked him.

“It all looks good to me. I don’t think we’ll accomplish much fiddling around with it more.”

“I’m scared,” she said, and kind of clutched at him, which was so Heather. I once watched a horror movie with her and I literally had bruises on my arm afterward.

“Come on,” I said, and marched over to the table. “Let’s do this thing. We’ll read our apps quickly through one last time and then send them in. Agreed?”

“Let’s do it,” Heather said.

Fifteen minutes later, after we’d both read through our applications carefully, we counted down from ten together and hit submit at the exact same moment.

“Woo-hoo,” I said, and we high-fived. “We did it!”

“We did it,” she echoed.

There was a moment of silence.

I sat back in my chair. “This is really anticlimactic.”

“That’s why we’re going out,” Heather said. “To make it more climactic.”

“I don’t know what kind of evening you have pla

“And on that note . . .” George stood up. “My work here is done. I mean, except for my other work here.”

“I can’t believe we’re not going to see you anymore.” Heather jumped to her feet, her little skirt swinging with the motion. “That’s so sad!”

“You’re done with your application,” he said. “That’s good, right?”

“Unless we don’t get in and have to apply to more schools. Which I probably will.”

“No, you won’t,” I said automatically.

“If you do end up having to write more essays,” George said to her, “I’ll be happy to help you.”

“What about me?” I said. “Will you help me if I need to write more essays?”

“You don’t need my help. You always end up doing whatever you want, no matter what other people say.”

“That’s not true,” I said, stung. “You totally helped me. I wouldn’t have written that second essay if it hadn’t been for you.”

“What are you talking about?” he said. “You wrote that completely on your own. I didn’t even know you were doing it.”

But I wrote it for you. It was weird to me that he didn’t realize that. That the essay was my side of a conversation I was having with him—but apparently he didn’t even know we were having it.

“You wrote a new essay?” Heather said to me. “What’s it about?”

“How I don’t finish stuff I start.”

“Really? You wrote about that?” She looked worried. “That seems a little weird. Do you think colleges will be okay with that?”

I shrugged, not interested in discussing it with her right then. “The point is,” I said, addressing George, who was packing his laptop into its sleeve, “you helped me more than you realize, and I’ll need you if I have to write more essays. Even if it’s just to bounce ideas off of.”

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said lightly, and stood up, tucking the laptop under his arm. “I’ll come back tomorrow to work on your mom’s office, Ellie, but it’ll probably be when you’re in school. Take care, both of you. Congratulations on submitting your applications.”

“You’ll stay in touch, right?” Heather said.

He smiled at her. “Of course. Call me the second you hear from Elton. Good or bad news. We’re in this together.”

“I will,” she said. “And if it’s a yes, then we’ll all go out and celebrate together, right?”

“Absolutely.” He gave her a quick hug and then nodded at me. “Bye. Enjoy your night out.” He walked out of the kitchen.

Heather and I just stood there for a moment, gazing at the doorway.

And I had thought hitting send felt anticlimactic. . . .

twenty-six

Heather called her parents and told them she’d sent in her application. I wanted to call mine but had to wait: it was five in the morning in London.

Heather was very quiet on the drive to Aaron’s, so I asked her if she was okay.

“Yeah,” she said, staring out the window. “It just felt so weird. I thought more would happen at the end. But we all just sort of sat there and then George left.”

I glanced over at her. “Be happy. We’re about to see Aaron.”

“Fun.” She didn’t sound as enthusiastic as I’d expected, but I understood her dim mood; it was sobering sending off the application. It should have felt like the start of something, but instead it felt like something had ended. “Where do you think he was going?” she said after a moment. “George? Do you think he, like, had a date?”

“Nah,” I said. Then: “I mean, maybe. I don’t know. He did keep checking his phone, which isn’t like him.”

“Has he ever mentioned a girlfriend?”

“Never.”

“Do you think he’d tell you if he was going on a date?”

“Probably not.” We were both silent for a moment and then I said, “I bet it wasn’t a date.”

We reached the Marquands’ front gate, and I punched the call button on the keypad. No one responded. “That’s weird,” I said after an entire minute had gone by and I’d pressed it a few more times. “He said he’d be here.”

“Try texting him,” she suggested, so I did.

No response to that either. Since the gate was tall and solid—designed to block prying eyes—I couldn’t tell if there were any lights on in the house or any movement around it.

“Do you have their home number?” Heather asked.

“No. I’ll try his cell but he’s not answering my texts.” I let it ring a few times, and then to my surprise and relief, he actually did pick up, but the first thing he said was “I can’t talk.”

“We’re in front of your house,” I said. “Can you come out?”

“Wait a sec,” he said. “No, wait . . . Don’t wait.”

It sounded like a joke, so I laughed, but he didn’t.

“Just . . . go home,” he said in a strained voice. “I’ll come over when I can. If I can.”