I paused for a moment outside the royal-blue doors of Bainbridge Secondary School. Around me, groups of kids were buzzing about lakeside bonfires, evenings spent driving around town, and thankless summer jobs whose only benefit came in the form of cute coworkers. Even though I’d gone to school with these kids my whole life, I hadn’t seen any of them since I’d left for the summer debate intensive at the University of New Hampshire.
But I wasn’t looking for a catch-up session. Instead, I pressed my back against the ridges of the oak tree outside the door, pretending to be supremely interested in examining my senior year schedule as Keely Young, Ingrid Abramson, and Emily Hines walked across the parking lot toward the entrance. Once my best friends, they’d pretty much ditched me midway through freshman year, when I quit the field hockey team to concentrate on my grades. Ever since, they’d made it clear through sideways glances and snide comments that I’d made the wrong decision.
Among the kids streaming into the entrance, the three of them stood out. Keely’s highlighted blond hair and glowing skin made it seem like she’d breezed in straight from a Nantucket beach. Ingrid was now sporting a tiny silver stud in her nostril, most likely obtained during her two-month-long backpacking trip through Europe. I’d read all her Tweets about it, but seeing her in person — the way the stud glimmered in the light, the way her scarf was perfectly draped around her neck, the way her shoulders were held back in stark contrast to Keely’s signature slouch — I felt a wave of betrayal.
It should have been me. In eighth grade, she and I would spend hours clipping articles from travel magazines and dreaming of trips we’d take when we were older. We’d even made a list of everything we’d do: getting as many piercings as possible, being driven through Paris on a Vespa, meeting a hot boy on a train (her), and being mistaken for a native Parisian and being kissed by any boy at all (me).
Jealousy knifed through my stomach. I couldn’t help but wonder what else she’d crossed off the list.
“So I think this year I’m only going to date guys from the U,” Emily said in a vapid voice that made it clear her main extracurricular of the summer was watching way too many episodes of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. She was wobbling on five-inch heels as if she were a baby deer nursing a shin splint. “I think that dating high school guys when you’re a senior is kinda pathetic, you know?”
“Eh, it depends on the guy. You know what I think is even more pathetic?” Keely asked in an actress-y voice that forced me to look up despite myself. We locked eyes and I immediately glanced away, but not quickly enough. Keely was about to go on the attack, and I was going to be the victim. “Girls who don’t date at all in high school. Like, they think a guy will wreck their GPA.”
Emily snorted. “Or they make up a boyfriend and put him all over Facebook. I think that’s even worse.”
“Seriously, I’m done with Facebook anyway.” Ingrid sniffed. “It’s so … insular. Everyone who’s anyone uses Instagram.”
“And then uploads the pictures on Facebook. Besides, I saw you just posted your new Europe album, so don’t even talk to me about quitting,” Keely said. “Although even the losers are joining,” Keely hissed as she walked by me. I lowered my head until I heard the fading echo of Emily’s heels clicking on the ground, surprised that another insult hadn’t been lobbed in my direction. Keely’s assertion wasn’t entirely correct. Because while they certainly thought I was a loser, I definitely wasn’t on Facebook. They’d made sure of that back in ninth grade.
Once they were a safe distance away, I walked through the double doors of Bainbridge Secondary School. The lobby smelled the same as it always did: a combination of Lysol, floor wax, and Axe body spray, courtesy of the freshman boys. To me the scent was as welcoming as apple pie or the perfume-filled air of a department store. It was the scent of home. The nostalgia caused my shoulders to drop and my gaze to lift. Here, I didn’t have to worry about snarky comments and former best friends.
To my left was the Bainbridge trophy case, where no fewer than ten different plaques chronicled my achievements: HAYLEY WESTIN: OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT IN PHYSICS. HAYLEY WESTIN, SCHOLAR-ATHLETE OF THE YEAR. HAYLEY WESTIN, NATIONAL MERIT SCHOLAR. I smiled to myself as I looked at my name etched in metal. I tried not to think about the fact that I had more awards than friends. After all, these awards had led me to my Ainsworth scholarship nomination, which was all I’d wanted since freshman year. The Ainsworth was a big deal, a scholarship for ten students nationwide that paid full college tuition and room and board, as well as a $5,000-a-year travel stipend. I had to win it. It was the only way my mom wouldn’t have to worry, where I wouldn’t have to choose the major that promised the most money upon graduation. The Ainsworth didn’t ask that their nominees be oboe-playing phenoms or Olympians. All the Ainsworth asked for was excellence. The plaques all proclaimed that was what I had. I just hoped that the nominating committee would agree.