Getting Over Garrett Delaney(6)
Author: Abby McDonald

I think not.

Mom turns to go, and I flop down on my — crisply made — bed. “Wait,” I say, stopping her. “Did the mail come? Is there anything from camp?”

“Why don’t you check your in-box?” Mom winks. I leap up.

There it is: a single white envelope. “Why didn’t you say something?” I cry, tearing it open in such a rush that I rip part of the letter itself.

“Slow down!” Mom laughs, but I’m already eagerly scanning the printed letter, my eyes racing over the small type.

Dear Ms. Allen:

Thank you for your application to our summer program. However, we regret to inform you that due to the high number of eligible candidates this year, we have decided to limit intake to those who have completed at least their junior year of high school. . . .

I stop. That can’t be right. But no, there it is, spelled out in hateful Times New Roman.

We regret to inform you . . .

I lower the letter, numb. “I didn’t get in.”

“What?” Mom snatches it and reads it through. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. But see here: ‘Your application was strong, so we welcome you to resubmit for next summer’s session.’ See? It was just the age criterion.”

“Not age,” I tell her through gritted teeth. “Grade.”

She doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty. “Maybe it’s for the best. You wouldn’t want to go and be the youngest there, behind everyone.”

I don’t even bother trying to explain that I wouldn’t be behind everyone, that I’m ahead pretty much most of the time. Instead, I stand there, rereading the letter, feeling my last sliver of hope fall to the floor and shatter into a million tiny pieces.

No lit camp. No summer quoting poetry under the stars with Garrett. Nothing.

I’m on my own.

3

Garrett got in, of course. He’s been published (twice!) in obscure New England literary journals, and he won a statewide contest for the best poem inspired by the work of Walt Whitman. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they gave him a special TA position or invited him to run some of the workshops. I can see him now, strolling on the lakeshore, deep in meaningful discussion with the beautiful literary wunderkind professor (because of course there’ll be a beautiful literary wunderkind professor, some charming twenty-four-year-old with published short-story collections and a taste for eager high-school seniors).

I torture myself for the rest of the week, trying not to wince every time Garrett slips up and shares some other enthusiastic news about his dorm assignment or lecture schedule. He thinks I’m devastated over the loss of my summer of intellectual and creative discovery, and sure, I am, but mainly I’m devastated over the loss of my summer with Garrett.

“Hey, it’ll be OK,” Garrett assures me yet again. I’ve escaped Shabbat dinner early for a party one of the outgoing seniors is throwing, out by the woods. He checks that the Vespa is securely locked and then turns back to me. “I’ll e-mail all my notes — you can do all the classes right along with me. It’ll be like an independent study program.”

“Right.” I try to act like the writing is what matters in all of this. “I’ll have finished the Great American Novel by the time you get back.”

“Not so fast,” he says with a laugh. “Try aiming for the Fairly Good American Novel first.”

We walk slowly up the driveway. “So . . .” I pause, doing the math on the few, precious days we have left together. “This is our last night hanging out?”

Garrett grins. “You make it sound like it’s forever, not just six weeks.” He puts his arm around me, hugging me close. “We’ll just have to make it unforgettable, OK?”

I nod, not trusting my voice, and follow him up to the door, past the parade of shiny status cars. It figures. Paul lives a couple of blocks over from Garrett. The house isn’t gated, as such, but the dead-end road makes it pretty clear there’s no point coming out here unless you’ve got an invitation.

“Hey, Garrett, you made it!” A bunch of seniors absorb him into the crowd the minute we step through the column-flanked door. Garrett has never been the highest on the Sherman High popularity rankings — though he’s swooned over in certain drama/lit-magazine circles, he’s not one of the undisputed clique kings. But tonight, there’s backslapping and general bro fist-bumps, as if they’re all actually lifelong friends and not separated by class or status. It’s a weird thing I’ve noticed about seniors the summer after school finishes: enthusiasm and camaraderie sweep through the graduating class, washing away all grudges and cafeteria hierarchies in their path, until girls who’ve spent four years bitching about each other suddenly start hugging, tearful, the best of friends, while the guys who spent their free periods stuffing geeks into bathroom stalls laugh with their former victims about how it was all just high school — no hard feelings, right?

The force is so strong, even a lowly sophomore like me gets caught up in it for a moment. Julie Powers traps me in a fierce bear hug as I loiter, waiting for Garrett.

“I can’t believe it’s over!” she cries, clutching me. Her mascara is flaking in a flutter of black freckles across her flushed cheeks; I’m clearly not the first victim of her nostalgia tonight.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, waiting for her to release me.

“It’s like, what do we do now? Who are we?”

“The ultimate existential question.”

She pulls back and frowns. “What?”

“Nothing.” I smile. “Have a great summer!”

I detach myself and move deeper into the party. Our high school is on the smaller side, so I know pretty much everyone by sight. There’s the usual crowd of varsity kids over by the keg, and the skater crowd is sprawled out in the living room, playing Xbox on the wide-screen TV, while a group of girls dance at the other end of the room, sloshing brightly colored punch from plastic cups.

I take up residence in the kitchen, surveying the spread: chips and dip as far as the eye can see, pizza, a mountain of cookies —

“Boo,” Garrett whispers, inches from my ear.

I yelp. “Oh, it’s you.” I smack him. “You scared me. Why do you always do that?”

“Because you always make that funny sound.” He laughs and hands me one of the bright-red cups. I pause. “Diet Coke,” he reassures me. “I wouldn’t lead you astray, not when you’re so young and impressionable.”