Parallel

that’s great, and while it might be true that I could get a job at the newspaper of my choice if I graduated from there, it doesn’t change the fact that I do not want to spend four years taking art history or poli-sci classes. I actually want to learn how to be a journalist. In a classroom. Preferably at Northwestern.”
    Caitlin glances over at me as she starts the car. “Or, (C), you’re just afraid you won’t get in.”
    “No, I know I won’t get in. So there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
    “But unless you apply, you won’t know that for sure.”
    “Can we drop it, please?” I snap. I know she means well, but I get enough of this crap from my mom. Caitlin backs off.
    “Yes. As long as you promise to edit my personal statement as soon as I’m done with it.”
    “Haven’t I promised that, like, forty times already?”
    “Ugh, I’m just nervous about it,” she says. “I’ve heard that the essays matter a lot—more than at other schools.” Her words are tinged with worry. We both know writing is not her forte—she’s struggled with it since being diagnosed with dyslexia in fifth grade. Caitlin is great at expressing herself, but her dyslexia causes her to use the wrong word a lot, something spell-check doesn’t catch. “I can’t even imagine what I’ll do if I don’t get in.” Her voice falters slightly. It’s uncharacteristic of Caitlin to be so set on something like this—unlike me, she doesn’t have tunnel vision when it comes to her future. But getting into Yale is not just about academics for her. Her grandfather worked as a shipping clerk in the Port of New Haven when he first arrived in the United States from the Ukraine in the 1960s, and from then on was determined that a member of his family would go to Yale. He started calling Caitlin “my little Yalie” the day she was born (he’d already given up on his daughter, who dropped out of school when she got her first modeling contract). Caitlin idolized him. He died three days after her sixteenth birthday.
    “You’ll get in,” I assure her. “And your essay will blow their minds. We’ll make sure of that.” Her expression goes from worried to relieved.
    We pick up Tyler first. As we pull into his driveway, the garage door goes up and Tyler emerges carrying a backpack. He walks quickly to the car, holding the bag close to his body, obscuring it from view. His beer stash.
    “You decided I was right,” Caitlin says as Tyler slides into the backseat.
    “Wrong. I decided it was worth the precaution on the off chance that you were,” Tyler corrects, tucking the bag under his feet.
    “Uh-huh.” Caitlin starts to back out of Tyler’s driveway, then stops. She looks over at me. “Wait, where are we going? You never told me where this guy lives.” I hand her the piece of paper with Josh’s address on it, noticing for the first time his cute, boyish handwriting. Caitlin types the address into her GPS.
    “Remind me how the new kid knows Ilana?” Tyler asks, fiddling with Caitlin’s iPod. “Do you have any normal music on here? ‘Elliott the Letter Ostrich’? FYI, indie bands should be barred from naming themselves.”
    “If by ‘normal’ you mean crappy pop, then no,” Caitlin replies. “And the new kid doesn’t know Ilana. Abby just thought it’d be a good idea to invite him to her party. You know, ’cause we were so excited about it.”
    “Again, I don’t understand why you two are so anti,” Tyler says. “So she’s a little temperamental. So her head outweighs her body. She does have some redeeming qualities.”
    “Such as?” I ask. I’m not just being catty. I’ve tried to come up with reasons to like her. Or at least tolerate her. And I’ve come up blank.
    “She’s fun,” Tyler replies, his euphemism for slutty. “And she’s talented.”
    I snicker. “ Talented , huh?”
    “I’m serious,” Tyler says. “I saw her audition for the play she’s so amped about. She was really good.” He sounds disturbingly sincere.
    “Please don’t tell me you have legitimate feelings for her,” I say. “Caitlin, help me out here. Tell him he’s not allowed to actually like her.”
    “I don’t care who he likes,” Caitlin retorts, a little too quickly. Her eyes are focused on the road. “We’re here,” she announces.
    I look up, startled. “Already?”
    Caitlin points at a two-story brick house at the end of the street. There’s a beat-up Jeep with Massachusetts plates parked in the