“Do you have one too?” Shola asks Levi, her voice turning up in panic. “I thought Wood Valley recommends against them.”

“I’m using the lady my sister used when she applied to Harvard,” Levi says. “She’s the one who suggested I take up fencing a few years ago, because it’s one of those sports that’s not available everywhere.”

“Your sister goes to Harvard?” Shola repeats. Although she likes Levi the person, because everyone likes Levi the person, she hates Levi the applicant. She calls him “an admission officer’s wet dream.”

“Went. She graduated last year,” Levi says.

“So is this another one of those things everyone does and no one talks about? Everyone pays for a private college counselor even though we are not supposed to?” Shola asks.

“Not everyone,” I say.

“This feels like the time I found out all those summer community service programs you guys do cost thousands of dollars, when you could, like, drive fifteen minutes to Skid Row for free,” Shola says.

“Hey, I don’t pay to work at the RRC,” I say defensively.

“Didn’t your parents give a giant donation last year?” Shola asks, and I regret telling her this fact, which, for the record, wasn’t some quid pro quo to let me volunteer, but something I was genuinely proud of. Because of my parents, the Reading and Resource Center was able to hire another full-time coordinator and triple the number of new books in their library. “Sorry, that came out wrong,” Shola says.

“My guy has that sleazy-car-salesman vibe. I kind of hate him.” I paddle over to her so that our rafts are side by side. “You would definitely hate him. But, Shols, don’t worry. You don’t need some idiot holding your hand. You’re going to get in everywhere.”

“I really wish you’d stop saying that,” Shola says, and when she gently pushes my flamingo away from her unicorn, I pretend not to notice.

—

“Great job on that essay, Chloe! Really unique perspective on your mom’s career,” Dr. Wilson says over the phone half an hour later. I’m in my bedroom, wrapped in a towel, while both of my parents are also on the line downstairs in my dad’s office. I bet my mother is still in her bikini. Thank God we aren’t on FaceTime.

“I appreciate that but I switched essays, remember? I wrote instead about discovering who I am in college?”

“Right, right, forgive me, of course. Yes, loved the new one. Even better than the one before. More honest,” he says. “The real you.”