Dalton:Sorry. Busy this week
Tennis season has officially started. I show up to one of his matches, but he hardly acknowledges me. When I see him in the halls, he just turns the other way. I thought we were friends. Shouldn’t he be happy for me? I know it’s a stressful time for everyone, waiting to hear back from their dream schools. Hopefully things will go back to normal in the next few weeks.
But he’s not the only one acting differently. People are suddenly staring at me in the hallways. I keep checking to see if there’s food on my face. Or if I spilled something on my uniform. Then something happens in AP Calculus. After raising my hand to answer a question, someone calls me by a nickname.
“Nice one, Angel Tree.”
This gets a big laugh from the class. I turn around, sensing an inside joke has been shared.
“What’d you say?”
Of course, no one answers this. So I have to look it up after class. An Angel Tree is a charity program that donates gifts to children who are in need. I remember seeing it in grocery stores growing up. Mom was never the type to sign us up for something like that, so I don’t understand what it has to do with me. No one from school has ever given me anything. So how am I considered charity?
Then I remember my tuition. Someone must have found out the school waived it for me. I think it might have been Dalton at first, but he’s never once asked me about it. Maybe someone snuck into the student finances office and went through my file. Who am I kidding, though? It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure it out. Bucknall is one of the most expensive prep schools in the country. It’s obvious I couldn’t go here otherwise.
I’m sorry my parents don’t own stocks in Palantir. There’s not much I can do about it now. I ignore the whispers and focus on the last semester. Someone puts a Christmas tree sticker on my locker. I take it off, but another one replaces it the next day. I wonder if they treat all the “Angel Tree” students this way. They probably all think their parents are technically paying for me since I got in for free. Maybe that’s why Dalton doesn’t want to be friends with me anymore. Who wants to be seen with the charity case? I guess I’m back to being the son of the hotel maid.
There are only a few months left of school anyway. After graduation, I’ll never have to see these people again.
Dalton gets off the waitlist in May. I only know from a post he shared online. Although the caption makes it sound like he was accepted a while ago.After months of thought, I’ve finally made my decision to attend Princeton University in the fall... I wish I could call him up to tell him congratulations, but things are still off between us. So I decide to text him instead, hoping it will break the ice. After all, we’ll be going to college together soon. I hit send and stare at the phone until he finally messages back.
Dalton:Thanks. You too
I was expecting a longer response. At least he didn’t ignore me this time. I draft another message but stop myself from sending it. I don’t want to come off as desperate. I hate how much I keep thinking about him. But it’s unfair how he’s treating me. Maybe I’ll say something when I see him in person.
It’s build-your-own-pasta week at school. I place my things into my locker and head to lunch. A crowd has formed around the senior announcement board. They placed a giant world map on it two weeks ago. Beneath it are pins for seniorsto write their names to share where they’re going for college. It’s getting more and more filled up each day. I walk over and take another look.
It’s no surprise people are going to places like Swarthmore, Carnegie Mellon, and Columbia. Dalton has already pinned down his name. It’s right above mine under Princeton University. That’s when I notice someone else is there. Looks like Cornelia is going with us. How wonderful. She’s hated me since we spoke at Dalton’s party a year ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the one who ordered the maid outfit and had it sent to the café. The Amazon box was addressed to my name. I remember what she said when I told her Mom was the housekeeping manager. “Sorry. Didn’t realize there was a difference.”
I can’t really be surprised she got in, too. Dalton told me she got a perfect score on herSat. She’s also the first-chair violinist in orchestra and is vice president of our class. She must have gotten in the same day I did and recently made her decision. I think about this for a moment. Dalton must have known this already. Yet they’ve been hanging out regularly. I saw a photo of them together the other day. Why is he still friends with her, though? Is he only mad at me for getting in?
Maybe he thinks I didn’t deserve it. That she worked hard for her spot at Princeton while I didn’t. A case of affirmative action for first-generation kids like me. He’s probably not the only one who thinks this. The next day, I overhear a conversation in class. Apparently, the seniors are throwing a party for everyone who’s made their decisions. But I don’t get the invite. I guess mine doesn’t count or something. No matter how good my grades are, I must have been given some kind of advantage.
I wish I could prove it wasn’t handed to me. They don’t understand how hard I have to work. I don’t have tutors wholook over all my essays. Or parents who can pay for mySatprep courses. No one in my family has gone to college. I have to figure out everything myself while working part-time to pay my own phone bill.
It shouldn’t matter anyway. Because I got in at the end of the day. And no one here can take that away from me. I remind myself of this as I focus on final exams and finish the semester as salutatorian. This means I get to wear a special gold cord during graduation. I’ve missed prom and a few other events at school this year. But I make sure to walk in my cap and gown in honor of Mom and the promise I made.
The sun shines through the ceiling of the gymnasium. Aunt Hi?n waves from the third row when they call out my name. I have this small fear that the other seniors might play some dumb prank when I cross the stage. Thankfully, nothing happens, except the applause is slightly dimmer. As valedictorian, Cornelia gives the closing remarks. Then we toss our caps in the air.
Dalton approaches me after and we congratulate each other. It’s the first time we’ve spoken in weeks.
“I’ll see you at Princeton,” he says.
I smile. “Can’t wait.”
Then he heads back to his friends. Hopefully this means things will be different in the fall. And I can prove to him that I belong there, too.
The months pass by quickly. I pack up my things and take the train to campus. Princeton is divided into seven residential colleges, each with its own dormitories, dining halls, and social activities. I was hoping that Dalton and I would be placed in the same one. But he lives on the other side of campus, so we haven’t run into each other.
I’ve texted him to meet up a few times. His answers are always the same.
Dalton:Schedule is crazy. Maybe next week
It’s annoying because I still see his social media. Seems like he’s found a new group already. I can’t help but look up all the people he’s added. One is a Vanderbilt, another is a Rothschild, and one is the son of a prime minister. This must be the type of friend he’s looking for. I bet my social status would improve if I change my last name to Disney. But why should that even matter if we all ended up at the same school?
There are no fraternities at Princeton. They’ve been replaced by private social houses known as eating clubs, which I’ve read about in Fitzgerald’sThis Side of Paradise. It’s a row of brick mansions on Prospect Avenue, where they host fancy dinners and throw all their parties. Apparently, some are extremely selective when it comes to the selection process. They mainly care about your connections and what your parents do for a living. While the clubs are reserved for upperclassmen, they occasionally make an exception for first-years. I’m not surprised when I learn Dalton is one of them. The news spread fast when he got into the Ivy Club, which is the most elite club on campus.
He’s really making a name for himself. I can’t help but be a little jealous. If only there was a way I could get in, too. Maybe Dalton would want to be friends again. I spend my free time reading every article I can find on the Ivy Club. Unfortunately, my parents can’t donate a second library for their mansion. As I’m looking up past members over the years, I notice several of them are Wilson Scholars. Named after President Woodrow Wilson, who was a member of the Ivy Club, the scholarship aims to provide “cultural enrichment opportunities” at Princeton.
