I feel old, a tattered sail on a boat that has barely weathered the storm. Losing Jenna, or maybe understanding how the people I love will all die someday, makes me feel apart. Funerals are supposed to be for really old relatives, not for friends that were in the isle of green. Not for friends whose lives had only begun.

Yet somehow I also feel far too young to be a high school graduate, too unprepared for what lies ahead. Is the fear I feel about school because Jenna is no longer beside me or because I never wanted to major in English in the first place?

A memory: Jenna muttering to herself as she compiled notes on one of her many spreadsheets. This school didn’t have a program that emphasized pharmacognosy, Jenna’s chosen narrow field of study about turning plants into medicine. This school had poor placement for PhD students who wanted to pursue teaching at a college level.

“No, no, no, no.”

I didn’t look up from my math homework to acknowledge Jenna’s increasingly distressed protests.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice flat. Geometric proofs were kicking my butt, and her racket wasn’t helping.

“Don’t use that tone,” Jenna said. “This is for you as much as it’s for me.”

“And what this is this?” I asked.

“Our futures, Amelia. Our futures. Or do you not want to go to the same school?”

I set down my pencil and uncurled my legs, scooching to sit shoulder to shoulder with Jenna. She turned the laptop toward me and dramatically threw her arm over her eyes while I scanned the screen.

“A&M, University of Washington, University of Alaska … What is this?”

“Candidates,” Jenna said, her eyes still covered by her arm. “For schools. For us.” Duh, her tone said.

I ran my finger along the trackpad. Beside each school was a list of criteria, all rated on a one-to-ten scale: pharmacognosy program strength, English program strength, diversity, on-campus life, off-campus entertainment, proximity to major airport, professor-to-student ratios, number of AP course credits accepted.

The list went on. She had already entered data for at least twelve schools, and their “grades” were typed in bold at the top of each column.

“Jenna, this is ridiculous. You can’t decide where we’re going to college this way.”

She moved her arm, her eyes narrowed. “Why ever not?”

“Why ever not? Because, Miss Prim-and-Proper, you can’t possibly know”—I glanced at the screen—“the overall quality of the locally sourced coffee down to a numerical rating without having tried it.”

“Yes I can,” Jenna argued. “They’re called online reviews. They’re very popular.”

“Okay, but why should that factor in to where we’re going to school?”