In its never-ending quest to give as many trophies and congratulatory awards as possible, FATE has both an Honor List, which refers to the top 15 percent of the student body in terms of grade point averages, and a Dean’s List, which refers to the top 5 percent of every class, both displayed on an LED screen at the top of the Achievement Library’s entrance.

I’ve made Dean’s List twice in the past two years but am always on the Honor List. Corinne is a staple of the Dean’s List.

“Look, you’re a very good student, Henri,” Mr. Vu says. “I don’t mean to diminish your accomplishments. You’re everything we want in a student here at FATE. But you asked for my honest assessment about Columbia.”

“So, one interview and, what, my chances are shot? There’s no leeway? That’s draconian!”

“It’s the cream of the Ivy League crop, these days.” He sighs. “Phenomenal academic offerings here in the cultural capital of the world. That has a lot of appeal for international students, as you can imagine. This also means that Columbia doesn’t need to make concessions. I mean, except for their football team.”

I groan and fall back into my chair, letting myself embrace the drama of the moment. There’s something oddly soothing about Mr. Vu’s ceiling. If I didn’t know better, I would swear he had it painted a slightly warmer, creamier shade than the stark white of his walls.

“I see this every year,” he comments, out of sight. “Amazing students put all their dreams and hopes in a single college, for whatever reason, and crumble when it falls out of reach.”

I don’t ask the question, but he must sense my stiffening like a corpse.

“Please don’t make that face,” he says, avoiding eye contact. He sounds downright in pain at the prospect of my bursting into tears in his office right now. Not that the impulse isn’t there. “I, erm, I don’t have the right pedagogical skills to deal with students when they make that face.”

Last year, when Erica Mayfield and Jim Wardell were having their umpteenth and historically most vicious breakup to date right outside his office, Mr. Vu was spotted backtracking into the men’s restroom with his lunchtime salad bowl and staying there for the remainder of the hour instead of stepping into the teenage melodrama that pulsates FATE’s hallways each day.

“I’m fine, Mr. Vu,” I manage to muster. “But I can’t promise you not to start crying if you give me a pep talk to get excited about my safety schools right now.”