Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [45]
I told her 680.
"Nice," she said. "Congratulations."
Ethan went next. Fourteen ten. No surprise there. I forget what Annalise got—something in the low eleven hundreds.
"Well?" I looked at Darcy.
"Oh. Right. I got a thirteen hundred five."
I knew instantly that she didn't have a 1305. The SAT is not scored in increments of five. Ethan knew too, because he kicked me under the table and hid a smile with his ham sandwich.
I didn't care that she lied per se. She was a known embellisher. But the fact that she lied about her score to beat me by five—that part really figured. We didn't call her on it. There was no point.
But then she said, "Well, maybe we'll both get into Notre Dame."
It was her Ethan power move in the fifth grade all over again.
Like a lot of kids in the Midwest, my dream growing up was to attend
Notre Dame. We're not Irish or even Catholic, but ever since my parents took me to a Notre Dame football game when I was eight, I wanted to go there. To me it was what a college should be—stately stone buildings, manicured lawns, plenty of tradition. I wanted to be a part of it. Darcy never showed the slightest interest in Notre Dame and it irritated me that she was infringing on my terrain. But I wasn't too worried about her taking my spot. My grades were higher, my SATs were probably higher, and besides, more than one student from our high school got into Notre Dame every year.
That spring, the acceptance and rejection letters trickled in slowly. I checked the mailbox every day, in agony. Mike O'Sullivan, who had three generations of alumni in his family and was the president of our class, got into Notre Dame first. I assumed that I would be next, but Darcy got her letter before I did. I was with her when she got the mail, although she wouldn't open the envelope in front of me. I went home, hoping guiltily that she had received bad news.
She called an hour later, ecstatic. "I can't believe it! I got in! Can you believe it?"
In short, no. I couldn't. I mustered up a congratulations, but I was crushed. Her news meant one of two things: she had taken my spot, or we would both go to Notre Dame and she would upstage me for four more years. As much as I knew I would miss Darcy when I went away, I felt strongly that I needed to establish myself apart from her. Once she got in, there would be no perfect resolution.
Still, I wanted that acceptance more than I had ever wanted anything. And I had my pride on the line. I waited, prayed, even thought about calling the admissions office to beg. One sickening week later, my letter arrived. It looked just like Darcy's. I ran inside, my heart pounding in my ears as I sliced open the envelope, unfolded the paper that held my fate. Close… you are very highly qualified… but no cigar.
I was devastated and could barely speak to my friends in school the next day, especially Darcy. At lunch, as I fought back tears, she informed me that she was going to Indiana anyway. That she wanted nothing to do with a school that would turn me down. Her charity upset me all the more. For once, Annalise spoke up. "You took Rachel's spot, and you didn't even want to go thete?"
"Well, it was my first choice. I changed my mind. And how was I supposed to know it would happen like this?" she said. "I assumed she would get in; I only beat her by a few points on the SAT."
Ethan had had enough. "You didn't get a damn thirteen hundred five, Darcy. The SAT is scored in increments of ten."
"Who said I got a thirteen hundred five?"
"You did," Ethan and I said in unison.
"No I didn't. I said a thirteen ten."
"Omigod!" I said, looking at Annalise for support, but her gumption had run out. She claimed that she had forgotten what Darcy said.
We argued for the rest of the lunch hour about what Darcy had said and why she had applied to Notre Dame if she didn't want to go there. We both ended up crying, and Darcy left school early, telling the school nurse she had cramps. The whole thing blew over when I got into Duke and talked myself into being happy with that result. Duke had a similar look and feel