Parallel

considered it. It’s hard not to be enticed by all that history and prestige. But that’s not a reason to apply.
    And fear isn’t a reason not to.
    I push this thought from my mind. Yes, the fact that the odds are stacked against me has intensified my conviction. Why shouldn’t it? Strong sense of self. That’s my thing. I know what I’m good at, and I stick to those things. What’s wrong with having a realistic grasp of my potential? It’s not like I’m resigned to mediocrity. I just know my limits.
    Your limits or the edge of your comfort zone?
    “Enough,” I mutter. I’m ready to stop thinking about this. I promised my mom that I wouldn’t make a hasty decision, and I haven’t. I’ve thought it through and come to a reasonable and rational conclusion. Yale is not for me. As if to make the point, I drag the “Yale Application” folder from my desktop to the trash where it belongs.
    I don’t even know why I bothered filling it out. There’s a good chance I’ll hear from Northwestern today, and if I do, that will be that. Early Action decision letters were sent on November 20, and a bunch of people on the NU admissions blog have already gotten their acceptance email. Mine could arrive any minute. Just thinking about it makes me shaky. For the sixtieth time today, I click on my mailbox icon.
    No new messages.
    I wonder if Caitlin’s heard from Yale yet. Even though we haven’t spoken since our fight, I’m praying she gets in early. Thanks to Grandpa Oscar, it’s the only place she’s ever wanted to go. Unceremoniously, I pick up the phone and dial her number. Her voicemail picks up immediately.
    “Hi, this is Caitlin. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.” Beep.
    I quickly hang up.
    In twenty-eight days, I’ve called her twenty-eight times. Sometimes it rings a couple of times first. One time the line just went dead. Most of the time it goes straight to voicemail. I’m terrified of an in-person confrontation—I avoid her at school and stopped going to the frozen yogurt place we both love—but I’ve called her every single day since our fight. I’m not sure what I’d say to her if she ever picked up, but I keep calling anyway. Afraid of what it’ll mean if I stop. In my head, I know there’s a good chance our friendship is already beyond repair, but in my gut, I still believe there’s a scenario in which we move past this and go back to being Caitlin and Abby. The hardest part is knowing what to do in the meantime.
    Time to get moving. The crew team’s first-ever pep rally picnic starts at noon, and I’m still all sweaty and windblown from practice this morning. Ever since my foot healed, Coach Schwartz has had me jogging with the team before practice and doing push-ups and crunches with them after, so I end up just as nasty as everyone else. Since I’m pretty close to pre-injury form, I thought about asking Coach P to let me run in the state cross-country meet this weekend, but decided that I couldn’t abandon my teammates for the Head of the Hooch. It’s the biggest regatta of the fall season. Coach wants us at the boathouse ten minutes before the picnic starts to hand out our boat assignments. Close to a dozen college recruiters will be there, so everyone is on edge—Josh in particular. This is the first (and only) time this season that scouts from the West Coast will see him row, so if he wants a crew scholarship to a PAC-10 school, Saturday is his make-or-break moment. Not that he has anything to worry about. Our star stroke hasn’t had an off day all season.
    And, since we started dating, neither have I. The past twenty-six days have been like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Feast and famine. Fire and ice. My days break down into two categories: moments with Josh and moments without him. When I’m with him, my mind turns off. I don’t think. I don’t plan. I don’t worry. There’s no room for thoughts or plans or worries. Every space and crevice is stuffed with happiness, so full it feels like my soul might burst at the seams. Minutes speed by, rushing us to the next and then the next, until our time is up.
    That’s when I’m with him. When I’m not, time slows down. Seconds crawl by. I watch the clock, counting the hours until I see him again, as I think and plan and worry. About him, about us, about the future. I replay our last kiss and try to plan for the next one. I wonder if he’s feeling what I do, simultaneously convinced that he can’t and he