“I think you assume they’re better people than they are.” He turns away from me, looking into the grove of trees that lines the road. I turn to look too. Many of the branches are yellow or gray, and I suspect the trees are probably appreciating this break from the seemingly ceaseless California drought.

“Fifty-thousand-dollar preschool?” I ask.

He nods.

“That must have been just insane,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “The point is to be a feeder into elementary school and then high school. After that we had the highest rate of acceptance into Ivy Leagues in the country.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m sure.” I try to imagine what it would be like, for a letter from Warren or Harvard to be the expectation, not cause for celebration.

“We, uh...” He clears his throat. “We also had one of the highest rates of suicide.”

My heart drops.

“Not to mention eating disorders, drug abuse.” He shakes his head. “It’s so much pressure, you know.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “My close friend, he was, um... He passed away. I think—I think—” He stumbles over his words, letting out a sob.

I move closer to him, putting a hand on his back.

He takes a long, shaky breath. “I think he started to feel like if he couldn’t be perfect, he didn’t want to be alive. Which makes no sense, you know? Because it’s impossible to be perfect, and—” Tears run down his face. “And he was such an amazing guy. He made so many people so happy. I mean his laugh... Goddamn, I’d do the stupidest shit to make him laugh because it was just such a happy sound—it was contagious, you know? And that’s the thing, he had all these things in his mind he thought he had to be, but damn it, if he was just here right now, and I could talk to him and make him laugh about something stupid? That would be the best thing in the world.”

I lean forward, pulling Braden into a hug. He wraps his arms around me, slowly at first, like he is unsure. But then I feel his body give in, falling into mine. I can feel him shake as he sobs into my shoulder, trying to catch his breath.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Just breathe. It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Chapter Sixteen

Braden

The email from UCLA comes while I am at the student union working on homework. I prefer to work here between the food court and the big shady patio. The library is too quiet, like a tomb, my room too easy to nap in, and the dorm lounge too rowdy and filled with people wanting to offer you a beer. Here, with the smell of Subway bread, and coffee brewing at the ever-crowded Starbucks, there is the perfect amount of activity for me to concentrate.

I type a reply quickly.