Sticky Fingers

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

Sticky Fingers

Niki Burnham

SIMON PULSE
New York London Toronto Sydney

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Text copyright © 2005 by Nicole Burnham

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Designed by Ann Zeak

The text of this book was set in Garamond 3.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Simon Pulse edition September 2005

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Library of Congress Control Number 2004109060

ISBN 0-689-87649-1
ISBN 13: 978-0-689-87649-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-439-12036-1

For my fantabulous brother, Joe, who might actually read this one. Thanks for the push and all that.

Sticky Fingers

“It’s a thin envelope, Courtney,” I say. A white #10 envelope bearing a Cambridge, Massachusetts, return address. “I nearly flipped past it when I was sorting through the Christmas cards and catalogs. Gotta be bad news.”

Everyone knows acceptance letters arrive in oversize envelopes crammed with info about housing and registration.

“Chill, Jenna.” The sound of a Coke being slurped comes over the phone line. It’s one of those Courtney Delahunt habits that irritate the hell out of most
people, but that I learned to tune out years and years ago. I hear the clatter of the can hitting her desk before she says, “Take a deep breath, say a prayer to the gods of Early Action admissions, and then read the damned thing already. I don’t know why you didn’t just rip it open the second you pulled it out of the mailbox.”

Because I don’t want to see that ugly “We regret to inform you …” sentence in black and white, that’s why. Don’t want to go through applying Regular Action to a dozen different schools and dealing with all the forms and essays and self-promoting fakery. Not to mention paying a couple nights’ baby-sitting income—
each
—for the application fees.

And maybe not getting into my first-choice school even then.

“I think I should wait for my parents.” It’s a totally lame excuse, but technically they’re just as invested in the whole process as I am. Mom spent hours reading over my essays, critiquing them, then reading them again before I mailed out my application a couple months ago. And Dad said he’d put off buying a (desperately needed) new car for himself if I manage to get into an Ivy, just so I won’t have to take
out any more student loans than absolutely necessary.

“And I think you’re just being chicken because this means everything to you,” Courtney argues right back. “Your parents would
want
you to look. Mateus the Great agrees with me.”

“Mat’s over there?” I frown, flipping the envelope over and holding it up under the kitchen’s tacky 1980s track lights. Maybe I can see through it if I get it at the right angle. It’ll probably be less painful if I get a hint of what the letter says and then open it for real.

“He doesn’t have to work until five today. And it’s my day off.”

There’s a scuffling noise, and then Mat’s lightly accented voice cuts in. “And we have the house to ourselves until then, okay? Her parents have a company Christmas party or something in downtown Boston. So open the envelope and give us the news, Jenna. Courtney and I don’t have much time to celebrate, know what I’m saying?”

I hear some clicks, then Courtney pops back on the line, meaning she grabbed a cordless from another room. She makes an exasperated sound I presume is
directed at Mat for stealing the first phone right out of her hand, then says, “Seriously, Jenna. I bet you got in. And if you didn’t, no biggie. You know you’ll get in during the regular cycle if you reapply. Your SAT scores freaking rocked. Your grades are great, and Hemingway could’ve written your admission essays—”

“I get it already.”

“Come on, Jenna.” Mat’s voice is softer this time, more understanding, his South American accent more pronounced. “Otherwise, you’re going to drive yourself crazy for the next few hours, and I’ll go crazy at work tonight wondering what your letter said.”

For a brief moment, I envy Courtney. How easy would life be if I were as laid back as Courtney about school stuff, and if I had a Brazilian boyfriend as gorgeous and understanding as Mat?

Of course, I do have a gorgeous and understanding boyfriend. Scott might not have Mat’s accent, but he has other assets.

Lots of other assets.

“Okay,” I say, trying not to sigh out loud. “Send me good vibes.”

“Vibes a’ comin’,” Courtney says. “Now rip that sucker open!”

Cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, I open the kitchen utility drawer, find the letter opener my parents use for the bills, then slit the top seam of the envelope, careful not to catch the letter inside with the tip of the opener.

I close my eyes, pull out the page, then flatten it against the yellow Formica countertop and make one last wish.

“Read it aloud,” Courtney says.

I take a deep breath, trying to slow down my pounding heartbeat, then open my eyes to focus on the black type. “It says, ‘Dear Ms. Kassarian, we are pleased to inform you that—’”

“You got in!” Courtney’s yell nearly renders me deaf. “‘Pleased to inform’ is always good news!”

“I knew it.
¡Parabéns!”
Mat explains that this is Brazilian Portuguese for “congrats,” then adds, “No way were you getting rejected.”

I keep reading aloud, trying to ignore them long enough to get this through my head. “‘… you have been accepted into the freshman class for the
upcoming academic year as part of the Harvard Early Action admissions program.’ Oh, wow.” I stare at the single sheet of paper, hardly believing the words on the page. Or the logo at the top.

“Oh, wow’ is right!” Courtney says. “I mean, this changes your whole life. And your parents are going to be
thrilled.”

“Them? What about me? I was so sure when I saw the envelope that it was going to be a serious smackdown. But it says that they’ll mail more information in April, including financial aid applications, housing forms, and a guide to undergraduate activities.” The whole “guide to undergraduate activities” is hysterical, since I know they’re trying to make the fact they don’t have fraternities and sororities look okay.

Of course, Mat and Courtney probably don’t know that’s what it really means, and I’m not going to clarify. Courtney’s dying to do the sorority pledge thing next year, but me, well, I’d rather chew on broken glass.

I read through the whole letter again, not even hearing what Courtney and Mat are saying on the
other end of the line. Tears start rolling down my cheeks as reality sets in, and I don’t care.

This is the best Christmas present ever.

All those evenings I skipped going to movies—even the ones I was dying to see—or made excuses to not go out with Courtney, Scott, Mat, and all our other friends. All the times I came straight home after volleyball practice or tennis without stopping to have pizza or hang out with my friends, just so I’d have an extra hour to study or to check over a project one last time.

All the nights I left Scott’s house early, despite the fact that every fiber of my being ached to stay just so I could feel his arms around me for one more minute, or so I could kiss him one more time.

I stare down at the letter and smile to myself. Courtney’s right: This changes my whole life. In just eight months I’ll be going to Harvard, and even better, so will Scott. Because if I managed to get in, he definitely did. He’s always done a smidge better than me at everything, so getting into Harvard is practically guaranteed now.

Maybe on our first day he’ll pull me over to the
library stairs and give me a mind-bending kiss, just like the one he gave me for luck when we went for our tour. And this time, it’ll be because we’re celebrating that the sacrifice paid off for both of us.

“Jenna? You’re awfully quiet. You okay?”

‘Oh, yeah. Definitely yeah.” And then I let out a shriek meant to render Courtney deaf.

“Hey, how was Stop & Shop today? Lots of fun and excitement?” I try my best to sound casual, but I know I don’t. I’ve been dying for the last four hours, waiting for Scott to get home from working the cash register, ringing up artichokes and Tuna Helper for grouchy customers who don’t give a rip that he’s going to be leaving it all for freaking Harvard in a few months.

“Tons of fun,” he says, his tone dry and sarcastic. “Someone actually bought okra. It was the highlight of my entire day. Seriously, what do people do with okra? But I know you’re dying to ask about my mail. What was in yours?”

“I have an envelope in my hand right this minute. White with a crimson logo for the return address.”

“Me too. I read it outside, standing in the snow by the mailbox. The wind nearly blew it out of my hand, but I couldn’t wait. Was yours thick or thin?”

“Thin.”

“Mine too,” he says.

I grin, then wrap my finger through a stray chunk of mud-brown hair that’s fallen into my face and loop it back over my ear. He got in and now he’s teasing me. Jerk.

If I hadn’t gotten in too, I think I might be offended.

“Totally blows,” he adds, and I freeze at his tone of voice. “At least I have the applications for Brown, Cornell, and B.C. almost ready to go. And I told you I decided to go ahead and apply to UMass, didn’t I? I mean, Harvard’s still my focus, but whatta pain in the ass. I’m going to be using every obscenity in the book while I’m filling all that stuff out again.”

“So … you’re saying you didn’t get in?” Part of me wants to think he’s kidding, but I can tell from all his false bravado that he’s so
not.

“Nope. You know, I didn’t realize until I got that damned letter how much I’d been counting on it.
But now that I’ve had a few minutes to absorb it, I’m not that worried. The rejection was a form letter, but one of the
good
form letters, you know? They encouraged me to apply Regular Action and said my chances of getting in are high, that I’m a very strong candidate, yadda yadda yadda.”

I stare at the wall, trying to process what Scott’s saying. The guy practically maxed out the SAT. Plus, he’s in AP everything, has fantastic grades,
and
he’s a total jock. Harvard couldn’t want a more perfect applicant. How could he not have gotten in?

And how in the world had
I?

“Jennn-na? Earth to Jenna Kassarian? What’d yours say? Same thing, I bet, that you’re a strong candidate. There’s no way you got the total rejection form letter.”

I take a deep breath, trying to figure out how I can tell him. Scott’s totally cool about most things. We don’t really compete with each other—only in a good-natured, push-each-other-to-do-better kind of way—because we both have the type of personality where we’re very competitive with ourselves. And thankfully, he’s not one of those guys who feels inadequate
if his girlfriend gets a better grade than he does or beats him at sports or video games or whatever. He’s happy as long as he did the best he could.

But I have a niggling feeling he’s not going to take this well. Not on the inside.

“Holy shit. You got in, didn’t you?” He sounds quiet, and I wonder if he’s annoyed, but then he says, “Jenna! Tell me you got in!” And it’s total excitement.

“Yeah, I did,” I manage, even though I hate to tell him this way, after he didn’t and I know he’s really bummed about it.