It’s a clunky and older model laptop that was probably too bulky to travel with. I imagine that Chantale had it so that it never goes to sleep and simply forgot to close it before leaving.

Tok. I shake the mouse to wake the screen and upon closer inspection, it’s a custom email in-box notice. A new email comes through, and yup, another tok. I lean into the screen, curious but careful not to touch anything. People get anxious letting someone else hold their locked phones, so it’s safe to say that the same level of privacy applies to someone’s personal email account.

Man, Chantale is nearly as organized as her daughter. Her in-box is a web of folders, subfolders, in-progress drafts, and color-coded labels. Students. HR. Administrative. Assignments. One labeled BS.

Oh. It’s not her personal email at all. This is her work email: @columbia.edu.

Columbia. Dot. Edu.

There it is.

For months, all I’ve wanted is a recommendation from a Columbia Someone. And Chantale is certainly that, so of course it’s crossed my mind. But she’s a.) terrifying, as we’ve already established; and b.) if her review of me dating Corinne was as tempered as I see no reason to actively disapprove, imagine how lackluster a college recommendation would be? I see no reason to actively reject Henri Haltiwanger, nor do I see any reason to accept him.

But here is her email. Open. There is her keyboard, just waiting to be typed on. I think of how easy it would be—unethical, if not downright illegal, but very easy—to send an email from her account to someone in the admissions department.

What was that thing Marvyn had once said? The whole place runs on emails and favors, Haltiwanker. Violation; definite violation there.

I could write it, I realize. That glowing, amazing recommendation letter I couldn’t secure from voice-of-her-generation Donielle Kempf or the real Dean Chantale Troy . . . I could write it for myself, right here, right now.

The dominoes fall uncomfortably too quickly in my mind. I find myself sitting down at the laptop and moving the cursor around before I even realize what I’m doing.

“Jesus, what the hell am I doing?” I stand back up as quickly as I had seated myself. Palm Tree is by the door and takes a moment from gnawing on his back thigh to give me a curious look.

“Don’t look at me like that, dude,” I say. “I didn’t do it!”

I quickly collect my coat and shoes and make sure his bowl of water is full.

“I’ll see you tonight, okay, bud?” I put Palm Tree in his crate and slam the door, fully shaking myself out of the potential lapse in judgment.

Decisions had better come out soon, because college admissions are officially driving me bonkers.