Chapters (43)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Ben Philippe
- Back Ad
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
“Exactly!” I say. “Cori doesn’t even have access to that unhinged level of psychosis. Trust me, Cori will have at least forty new followers on social media after the end of the night.”
She opens her mouth to counter the thought.
“If Corinne stops getting in her way,” I complete.
In essence, it’s the same thing as being Henri, Halti, H, Double H. People have different expectations of you. It’s often a lot easier to simply adjust to these expectations instead of being yourself. Give or take one renowned Columbia playwright.
“Fine,” she relents, after scoping the premises one more time. “This had better work, Uptown Updogs.”
For you and me both, sister, I think. Otherwise, it’s very possible that I’ll be a pariah by association after one party with Corinne Troy.
Seven
As the evening goes on, “Cori” actually, mercifully, starts to find her footing. After getting her a nonalcoholic drink (because the last thing this party needs is a sloshed Cori Troy) and introducing her to a group of kids complaining about Mrs. Carroll’s last exam, I let her mingle on her own, keeping an eye on things from across the room.
Ming is somewhere upstairs by now. However much he may rant about feeling like he doesn’t belong at these things, at the end of the night, I’ll always find him chatting up a couple of people with genuine interest about their favorite TV show or album or the last YouTube wormhole they fell into. The number of girls who have a crush on him around FATE is nowhere near as insignificant as he likes to believe.
For my part, I end up chatting with Abdel and Gary, two seniors from my Shakespeare class. It is a party, after all. Somehow, we find ourselves discussing everyone’s favorite and least favorite topics.
“I’m so nervous,” Abdel mentions after reciting some great fact he recently learned about Stanford’s artistic endowment. “If I don’t get in, I’m just going to take a year off and reapply next year. I already told my dad. Like, that makes more sense than spending four years at a college I hate.”
Gary and I sip our beers and nod in pretend sympathy.
“What about you, HH?” Abdel says loudly over the music, which has kicked into old loud pop from the 2000s.
“Columbia, baby!”
“Early admission?”
“Nope. Spinning the wheel of regular admission.”
“God,” a voice comes out of nowhere, throwing an arm around me. Unlike Hooper, this one is not remotely welcomed.
“Hey, Marv.” I Smile. This is the smile of thinly veiled disgust.
“Haltiwan-ker.” He grins, playing with my ear, enjoying the discomfort. “Please tell me you guys aren’t actually talking about colleges too,” he bemoans.