“Three thousand applicants, I know.” An acceptance rate of only two percent. Two. Stanford’s was four. The sole explanation . . .

Freaking Gavin Cox.

The only other applicant from her high school to make it into ValleyStart.

Lucy pushed her heels into the floor and all thoughts of Gavin where they belonged—in the past.

“I’ve been focused, Mom. I’m certainly not going to stop now.” Top ten in her class, 4.8 GPA, tennis all-star, two marathons under her belt, and still a lecture on being “focused.” Lucy regretted the bite as her stomach churned.

“Nothing wrong with reminders,” Abigail said, just as one dinged on her computer and phone in unison, the sound as familiar to Lucy as the squeak of her bedroom door.

Lucy stood.

“Wait. It’s just . . .” Abigail’s eyes slowly drifted from her three monitors to Lucy’s expertly draped off-the-shoulder tee and perfectly cuffed dark-wash jeans. “I’ve always given you freedom because you’ve shown that you can handle it. Up until now.”

Now meaning not getting into Stanford.

“But with this, with this new world you’re entering, well, I just want you to be aware of the pressures and the importance of how you present yourself.”

“Present myself? I’m not a poodle in some dog show.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean, Mom?”

“Letting off steam in high school is one thing, but now you’re an adult.”

“So I’ve heard.” Her mom had repeated the same phrase ad nauseam since Lucy’s eighteenth birthday three months ago.

“Believe me, Lucy, it’s no secret how little you’ve wanted to heed my advice lately. If and when that changes, you know where to find me.”

Right here in this same baby-poop-brown office you’ve lived in since I took my first steps . . . which, naturally, you missed.

Heat rose in Lucy’s chest, and all she wanted to do was give her mom a reminder: that the phrase was “work hard” and “play hard.” And the playing bit could yield the same—if not better—results as the working. Connections made things happen. Just ask her Pulse tee.

“Sure, Mom.” Lucy brushed her hand through her long dark hair, forgetting she was still holding the brick of peanut butter. She picked a crumb off a strand by her chin and watched as her mom slipped on her computer glasses and turned the world right in front of her eyes crystal clear, blurring everything else beyond—including Lucy.

Lucy headed for the door. “Just one small thing . . . in order to give me freedom or anything else, you’d actually have to be around.”

She didn’t wait for her mom to look up; she simply wrapped her hand around the metal knob and closed the door behind her with barely a sound, making sure she “presented herself” properly.

How am I even related to her?