And I’ve got a Twitter war to win.
Pepper
By Saturday, everything is back in order, and so am I. My uniform is perfectly pressed, my college admissions essay polished, my tweets queued for the weekend. Pooja’s brother’s handiwork hacking into Girl Cheesing’s Twitter has been undone. The photos of both grilled cheeses have been sent to Hub Seed, and both will be sent from their main Twitter account today at two o’clock.
Which happens to be the exact time I will be settling into my chair for my first college admissions interview with a Columbia alum named Helen.
“You look nervous, Pepperoni.”
I cut a side glance when I hear Jack approach, determined not to look at him. It’s weird enough, seeing him on a Saturday. But even in the side glance, something seems off — he’s standing up a little straighter, wearing his school uniform with a little more care. Even his usually unruly hair seems to have been tamed to some degree, looking very much like some well-meaning parent ran a comb through it. I can’t help but look him up and down because it’s uncanny how much he looks like Ethan.
He catches me looking, and I brace myself for the snarky remark that’s sure to follow. But instead, his cheeks redden like he’s more embarrassed to be looked at than I am to be caught looking.
I clear my throat, shifting my weight onto my other foot. “For a college admissions interview? Please. I could do these in my sleep.”
Jack stretches one of those wide, tall boy stretches, looking more like himself again. He loosens the tie on his school uniform and stares down the hallway at the rooms where other students are coming and going.
“Well, your resume is longer than a CVS receipt, so I don’t doubt it.”
“Did you just get out of yours?”
“Yeah. I’m all set. Headed straight for the Ivies.” His eyes cast off to the side, and there’s this edge to his voice that doesn’t match his words. Before I can ask, he blows out a breath and says, “So, who are you meeting with? Yale? Harvard?”
He says their names with a faint mockery, emphasizing it with a click of his heel. I wonder what his deal is. He goes to this school too, and he’s clearly interviewing — it’s not like he isn’t every bit a part of this.
“Columbia.”
Some of the bravado seems to leak out of Jack’s expression.
“What?” I ask, off his look.
He hesitates for a moment. “You know Columbia’s interviews are on their campus, right?”
My blood turns into ice. “What?”
And then, suddenly, it makes sense: why I don’t see Pooja or the other Columbia hopefuls here. Why there isn’t a sign-in for the Columbia rep yet. I just assumed it was because I was here absurdly early, the way I always am. It didn’t once occur to me it was because I’m an idiot.
How could I have let this happen? Instead of doing anything productive that might help the situation, my feet are rooted to the floor, my brain pressing back and back and back, into the haze of the last few weeks. The homework that barely got finished before sunup. The endless texts from Mom and Taffy. The color-coded pages of my planner looking like someone puked a rainbow onto it. And somehow, despite every precaution, I let one of the most important things fall through the cracks.
Oh my god. I’ve been so wrapped up in tweeting I might have just blown my chances at college.
Jack’s hand is on my shoulder. I don’t know how long it’s been there, because suddenly he is very close to my face.
“What time is your interview?”
“Two.”
“Okay. It’s one-thirty. You should still be able to get a taxi.”
It feels like the space between my ears is roaring. “I don’t have my wallet.” The interview was only a few blocks away from home; I didn’t think I’d need it. And now if I go back, my mom will know I screwed up, she’ll see it all over my face, and then she’ll be disappointed, and I think I’ll maybe just snap. I think I’ll maybe come completely unglued. It’s all bubbling to the surface all at once, the last few weeks of doing her Twitter bidding, the last few years of this stupid city and this stupid school and this interview for a college I don’t even know if I want to go to—
Jack is pressing something into my palm. A MetroCard. “It’s a spare. You can give it back on Monday.”
I’m still shaking my head, half of me here and half of me in the living room, where this imaginary fight is happening with my mom.
“I can’t believe I screwed this up.”
“Pepper, it’s fine. Just take the M4.”
“The what?”
“The bus.”
And then, senseless with the kind of panic only academia can incite, I am blurting for the entire hallway to hear, “I’ve never taken the bus in New York.”
Jack opens his mouth like he’s going to make a remark, but then thinks better of it. “Okay. That’s — well, this one’s easy. The stop’s like two blocks from here, and it’s a straight shot to the main campus, thirty minutes tops.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“What?” Jack asks. Not unkindly, not impatiently. Which is why, before I make a conscious decision to, I’m admitting the second, far more embarrassing truth.
“I’ve never left the Upper East Side by myself.”
Jack laughs, the way you laugh at a friend who just rolled off a good one-liner. A beat passes. I can’t even make my face move.
“Oh. You’re serious?”
The word comes out in a croak. “Yeah.”
Jack yanks his sleeve up and checks his watch again, seeming to weigh something he decides on a moment later, when his eyes lift and immediately meet mine.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
He starts walking down the hallway to the front exit of the school, his legs so long, I have to scramble to catch up.
“Wait, you’re — you’re coming?”
“Yeah. But you owe me.”
I’m too relieved to protest.
“No more tweeting on Sundays,” he says. “We both lay down our keyboards for a full twenty-four hours. Those are my terms.”
“Done.”
I wait for him to list off whatever the rest of the terms are, but that seems to be the extent of them. A few moments and some extreme power walking later we’re on Madison Avenue, Jack cutting the corner before I do and yelling, “Run!”
I take off just behind him, my hair whipping out of its perfectly coiffed ponytail, the Oxford shoes my mom bought for the occasion scuffing on the pavement. He barely reaches the bus as the doors shut, banging a hand on the glass with that endearing, sheepish Jack grin, just as I skid to a stop and half stumble into him from behind.
“Sorry, sorry,” I blubber at his back, nearly tripping as I try to pull myself off him.
Either because of Jack’s awkward charm or because the two of us make quite the pathetic pair, the bus driver rolls her eyes and opens the door. We’re still stumbling as we pile on, trying and failing not to crash into each other as the bus starts back up again, until Jack practically falls half into my lap when we finally find two spare seats.
He opens his mouth to apologize, but before he can, I start to laugh.
“Oh, god,” says Jack, leaning back into his seat and taking a quick glance to survey the other passengers on the bus. “Is this it? Did you finally crack under the pressure?”
“I just — oh, man.” I’m so out of breath from running, I’m on the verge of wheezing. “I remember one time — in Nashville — my sister and I were running, and we beat my mom to the bus, and it just … took off. Without her. We were like, five and eight, probably.”