One Moment in Time (15 page)

Celia. Paige. Asking me where I am, telling me it was rude to just walk out of their room the way I did.

A text from my mom, asking me to please call her.

A bunch of missed calls from a number I don't recognize.

Another text from my mom, asking me to call her, that it's important.

One from my brother, telling me to call Mom, that she wants to talk to me, that it's important.

Something about the tone of the texts from my family makes my heart slide up into my throat. And that, coupled with the missed calls from the number I don't know, makes me instantly nervous. Is everything okay? Did something happen to my dad?

“Is everything okay?” Abram's asking.

“I'm not sure,” I say. My hand is shaking as I go to call my mom back. “I have a bunch of texts from my family. I need to call my mom.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, looking concerned.

I take a few steps away from him as I dial.

My mom picks up a second later.

“Quinn,” she says.

“Mom,” I say. “What's wrong? Is everything okay?”

“No, everything's not okay!” she says. But her voice sounds more exasperated and annoyed than sad or upset, and some of the tension flows out of my shoulders. “Where the hell have you been, young lady?”

“I was out on a boat with my friend,” I say, before realizing that maybe I should have made up a lie. In my house, anything that's considered frivolous or fun isn't really an excuse—for anything. I can't even remember the last time my mom or dad did something just for fun. They're always working, and when they're not working, they're doing errands or projects around the house.

“Why didn't you answer your phone?” my mom demands. She sounds like it's the worst offense in the world, not answering your phone, when she's one of the hardest people to get ahold of in, like, the entire world.

“I just told you, I was out on a boat,” I say.

“And you couldn't bring your phone?”

“No, I brought it, I just couldn't hear it.” Seriously? Is she going to make me get into the nuances of wrapping your phone in a Ziploc bag and how that makes it almost impossible to hear or feel, even if you have it on vibrate?

“Okay,” my mom says. “But please, Quinn, make sure to have your phone on you for the rest of your trip. You know your father and I worry.”

They do? “Okay,” I say. “Sorry.” It's an automatic response. I didn't even do anything wrong—but she always makes me feel like I need to be apologizing.

“So I'm sure you must know by now that you haven't gotten into Stanford,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “Um, I got an email.”

“And that's why you've been avoiding me?”

“I wasn't avoiding you. I was just trying to come up with a plan.” At least it's a half-truth. (A full truth if the plan was losing my virginity to a guy I just met, ha-ha.)

“Well, Daddy's making some calls,” my mom says. “But the more important part, and the reason I'm calling you, is that I may have gotten you an internship this summer at Biogene.”

“What?” My head is spinning, because she's throwing so much information at me that I'm having a hard time parsing it all out. Plus, a bunch of sorority girls have plopped down in the sand a few feet away and are giggling at each other while they take selfies. “Wait, I don't . . . what are you talking about?”

She sighs. “Quinn, can you please go somewhere where you can hear me?”

“I'm on the beach, Mom,” I say. “I can't really get away.” I move a couple more steps away from the college girls. “Okay, what were you saying about calls to Stanford?”

“What I was
saying
,” my mom says, “is that your father
has made a few calls to Stanford.”

“Yeah, I got that part. To who, though?”

“To Dr. Ellsbury and a few of his friends in admissions.”

“Dad has friends in admissions?”

“Of course, Quinn, your father has friends everywhere at Stanford.”

“Why didn't you mention this to me before?”

“Because there was no need for you to know before.”

Her reasoning is confusing—why would she not want to tell me my dad had friends in admissions? Why would she let me think this whole time I'd been rejected, when she knew she could just have my dad make a couple of calls and it would all be fixed? And then I realize she
hadn't
let me think that—I never called her back after she sent me that text yesterday. But still. You'd think at some point during the whole application process she would have mentioned my dad being friends with people in the admissions department.

I'm not sure what's more depressing—that my mom didn't tell me so I would keep working hard, or that she actually has to use her connections now since I didn't live up to her expectations.

“What's he going to say to them?” I ask. I try to imagine the phone call. Will it be cut-and-dried, just a quick conversation? Or will he have to fly out there and wine and dine them first, take his friends out for a nice dinner and a round of golf before he can bring up the idea of his daughter
getting into their school?

“He's going to tell them that there must have been a mistake, and ask if there's anything he can do to make them see what an asset you'd be to the university.”

I know exactly what she's talking about. Money. My dad is going to offer to donate a ton of money to the university, maybe now, or maybe later, after they let me in. He's going to use his connections and his wealth to try to get me in, even though Genevieve in admissions specifically told me that there was no appeals process, that all their decisions were final.

I grip the phone in my hand. It's despicable, when you think about it, my dad using his position and money to break the rules. I think about all the other kids who didn't get in, the ones who've worked just as hard as I have. I think about them opening their rejection letters and having to tell their families they didn't get into Stanford. Those kids can't just have their dads make a phone call or write a check and have everything turned around.

It's not fair.

On the other hand, the thought that the whole Stanford thing might not be over, that I might be able to go there after all, is exciting.
I could go after all.
I'd be in California at this time next year, walking around Palo Alto with all my new college friends. And honestly, is my dad making a phone call really that bad? Isn't that how things work? I was willing to
go to the interview at Biogene that my mom got me due to her connections. How is this any different?

“And what were you saying about the internship at Biogene?” I ask.

“The woman from Biogene left a message saying they filled it,” my mom says. “So I got you an interview for another position. It's tomorrow at eleven o'clock, if you can be ready. It's a different woman in charge, but she can still meet you in downtown Sarasota. She's been trying to call you, but of course you haven't been answering.”

I grip the phone even tighter. My stomach rolls when I think about how I didn't call my mom back yesterday. God, how
stupid
was I? Letting a dumb email I sent to myself when I was fourteen give me some kind of crazy breakdown that led me to LOSE MY VIRGINITY to a guy I don't even know and forget about everything else I have going on in my life? What the hell was I
thinking
? What if my mom had gotten me an interview for today? What if I hadn't been answering my phone, and I'd missed it?

Not to mention the fact that Celia and Paige are mad at me.

“Hello?” my mom says, sounding exasperated again. “Quinn, are you there?”

“Yes, I'm here,” I say, all businesslike. “Can you text me the information for tomorrow's interview?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“And Quinn?” Her voice softens. “I want you to know that everything's going to be okay. I don't want you to worry about this, okay? We're going to take care of it. As a family.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You're welcome, Quinn.”

We hang up the phone, and I just stand there, not moving, trying to process what just happened. Suddenly, everything blooms back into my life. Stanford. The internship. Everything I've ever wanted. But instead of feeling happy, I just feel . . . “defeated” isn't the right word. More like . . . empty. It's supposed to be exciting. And it is, at least a little bit. But not the way it's supposed to be. It's like a shiny penny that's been dulled.
It's fine,
I tell myself.
You're just surprised. It's going to take a little while for this to sink in.

“Hey,” Abram says as drops of cold water hit the back of my neck. I turn around to see him standing there on the sand, smiling, ocean water dripping from his fingers. He must have dipped his hand into the ocean and then flicked me with the cool salt water to get my attention. It has the desired effect—not only does he get my attention, but he shocks me out of my reverie. “Everything okay?” he asks when he sees my face.

“Yeah,” I say. “Everything's great. Better than great, actually. That was my mom. She got me an interview with this biotech company tomorrow for an internship. And
there might be a way I can go to Stanford after all.”

“Wow,” he says, sounding like he really means it. “That's awesome.”

“Yeah.”

But he must hear something in my tone, because he says, “Isn't it?” and he sounds kind of concerned.

I want to ask him if he thinks there's something wrong with the fact that my parents might be paying my way into a school I'm not even that excited about anymore, if he thinks it's weird they weren't even mad or disappointed, that they just immediately shifted into fix-it mode. My mom didn't even ask me how I felt about not getting in. She didn't even tell me what the new internship entails, or how she was able to get me an interview. It's easy to figure out, of course—either she knew someone, or she promised something to Biogene's drug reps, or . . . who knows. The reasons don't really matter.

“Quinn?” Abram asks. “Are you okay?” He's tilting his head, looking at me like he's worried.

For a split second, I want to tell him I'm not okay, that I don't know how I feel about any of this, that I have the sneaking suspicion my parents only wanted to get me into Stanford so they could look good to their friends, that as soon as it was something that affected them, they immediately started doing damage control. That maybe they should let me fight my own battles, that maybe not getting into
Stanford was just a lesson I needed to learn, that maybe it happened for a reason, that maybe if Stanford didn't want me, I should have just accepted it. I mean, what kind of message is it to send to your child that you can buy your way out of anything? What's going to happen when I get older? Are they going to keep bailing me out? Are they going to keep doing things like this for me? What if I don't have the kind of money they have? Are they teaching me not to work hard?

But I
have
worked hard. I've worked hard for four years, studying when I didn't want to, skipping out on things when my friends were off having fun. I joined clubs and extracurriculars that were awful, that ate up all my free time and left me feeling overwhelmed and depressed.

And since I've done all that, don't I at least deserve a chance? It's not my fault the system works this way.
Every
system can be manipulated, at least to some extent. It's why they ask on your application if you have any relatives who went to Stanford. It's why children of famous people score leading roles in movies or end up with hit songs. Do you really think Robin Thicke would be such a huge star if his father wasn't Alan Thicke? There's no way.

It's just the way of the world. And yes, I don't feel extremely excited about going to Stanford right now, but that's just because it's so new. I'd made my peace with the fact that I wasn't going. So of course it's going to take me a little while to adjust.

“Hello?” Abram asks. “Quinn?”

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “Sorry, I just . . .” I look into his eyes, at the way he's looking at me, and my heart squeezes.

Suddenly, I realize I need to get away from him. I can't think straight when I'm around him. He clouds my judgment—so much that he almost caused me to lose everything I've ever wanted.

“I have to go,” I say.

He frowns. “You have to go?”

“Yeah, I need to get back to my hotel. I . . . I have my interview tomorrow, and I need to make sure I have something to wear.” It's a lie. I know exactly what I'm going to wear—the gray Donna Karan suit that's folded neatly in my dresser, nestled next to one of those portable steamers so I can make sure I'm wrinkle-free. My mom packed the suit for me, making sure it was the last thing that went into my suitcase and double- and triple-checking I had it before I left.

“Okay,” Abram says. “Well, can I take you to dinner later?”

“Sure,” I say, even though I'm not sure at all.

“Do you want to meet at the Hub again? The place we ate last night? Like around six?”

“Sounds good.” But even as I'm saying the words, I know I won't be there. He's bad for me. I've always known that, but now it's more apparent than ever, one of those huge truths that can't be ignored.

Abram takes a step toward me, and I can tell he's going
to kiss me. But at the last second, I move away.

“I'll see you later,” I say.

I turn and start walking across the beach, my heart ripping into pieces and my eyes filling with tears.

It's just hormones.

It doesn't mean anything.

You just met him.

He's bad for you.

Your feelings can't be real.

I repeat the mantras over and over.