Friday afternoon, the world looked like it had been ironed.

  Mom had gotten someone to cover her shift at the store—no small miracle, judging by how many phone calls I’d heard her make through the bedroom wall all week. When she’d called Northbridge on Monday, she’d asked all the usual questions—How did you get my daughter’s name? Who recommended her? What exactly is this interview?—but she’d only gotten as far as the front desk.

  “I’m just the secretary, Mrs. Sinclair,” the woman had said, apologetic and bright. “Ms. Cho handles admissions personally. She’ll explain everything when you’re here.”

  Mom had wanted to push it off, find a slot later in the month when she could maybe breathe. The secretary had been very nice and very firm.

  “Ms. Cho’s calendar is extremely full until end of term. A spot just opened for this Friday. If you can’t take it, I’m afraid we’ll have to look at next year.”

  So Mom had said yes. Of course she had. You don’t hang up on that kind of chance.

  Now we were pulling into the Administration lot, the car’s engine sounding too loud in a place this quiet. The sign out front was stone, not metal, NORTHBRIDGE ACADEMY carved deep and painted a weathered green, with a crest I’d memorized over the past few days. Beyond it, the campus spread out like someone’s idea of “school” if they’d only ever seen it in movies.

  Wide lawns rolled away from the lot, edged with tall oaks and maples that probably looked like a brochure in October. The main building sat at the top of a gentle slope, old brick and white trim, tall windows and a central cupola that made it look more like a manor house than anything I’d ever associated with bell schedules. To the left, a newer glass-and-steel complex caught the light—a science and innovation center, all clean lines and reflections. Beyond that, I could see the curve of a turf field, a track hugging it, and the gleam of tennis courts. There was a hint of chlorine on the cold air, like the scent of the I’m-better-than-you pool I’d seen in the brochure.

  Students in dark blazers and navy pants or plaid skirts moved between buildings in small clusters. Some wore school ties, some had them loosened; a few had added scarves in school colors. Their backpacks looked expensive in understated ways—leather, not nylon. A girl laughed and tipped her head back, teeth white against brown skin. Two boys jostled each other near the steps, one balancing a lacrosse stick casually on his shoulder. Nobody was running. Nobody was yelling. The noise was low, like someone had turned down the volume on chaos.

  Mom parked in a visitor space marked ADMINISTRATION ONLY in neat letters and killed the engine. For a second, she just sat there, hands still on the wheel, knuckles a little white.

  “Wow,” she said, because there was really no other word.

  “Yeah,” I managed. My throat felt dry. My jeans suddenly felt too stiff, my borrowed cardigan too cheap, my boots too scuffed. I’d braided my hair more neatly than usual, pinned back the wisps, put on the good lip gloss Sketch said didn’t look like I’d eaten a donut. It all vanished against the backdrop.

  Mom looked down at her own clothes—nice blouse she only wore to church, slacks she’d ironed twice. She smoothed her hand over her thigh like she could erase every wrinkle. “Place like this,” she murmured, half to herself. “I’ve only ever seen it in movies.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  One of the blazered kids glanced at our car, then away. Not rude. Just…uninterested. We were background in their world. That somehow made it both easier and harder to breathe.

  “You okay?” Mom asked, finally turning to look at me.

  “Nope,” I said honestly. “You?”

  “Also nope.” She laughed once, sharp and a little breathless, then opened her door. “Come on. If we sit here any longer we’ll grow roots.”

  We stepped out into air that felt somehow cleaner than the same air in Canton. The admin building up close was even more intimidating—stone steps, tall columns, heavy door with brass handles polished to a gleam. A banner hung from the second-floor balcony: WELCOME, ADMITTED STUDENTS, in tasteful navy on white. Someone else was getting good news today.

  Mom’s eyes tracked everything, wide but trying not to be. She watched a group of girls in matching swim parkas trot past, damp hair braided, laughing. For a second she looked like she wanted to apologize to them for existing in their space, and then her jaw set. She straightened her shoulders.

  “Remember,” she said softly as we climbed the steps. “They invited you.”

  Inside, the lobby was all warm wood and soft light. Hardwood floors, not linoleum, rugs instead of mats. A big framed photo collage on one wall showed kids doing everything from robotics to theater to rowing. The front desk wasn’t a chipped laminate counter; it was an actual reception desk with a person behind it who smiled like we belonged there.

  “Good afternoon,” the woman said. “Welcome to Northbridge. You must be the Sinclairs?”

  Mom blinked. “Yes. Linda, and this is my daughter, Diana.”

  “Wonderful.” The woman checked something on her screen. “Ms. Cho is just finishing with another family. You can have a seat, and she’ll be right out.”

  The waiting area had chairs that didn’t squeak when you sat in them, a low table with magazines that weren’t three years out of date, and a bowl of individually wrapped chocolates. Mom perched on the edge of a chair like she was afraid to leave a crease. I sat next to her and tried not to stare at the framed photos—students in lab coats grinning over petri dishes, kids in Northbridge jerseys hoisting trophies, someone at a podium giving a speech to what looked like a gym full of people who were actually listening.

  “Look at that,” Mom whispered, nodding toward a picture of a girl in a cap and gown shaking hands with someone in academic regalia. The caption read: VALEDICTORIAN, YALE ’24. “They go everywhere from here.”

  “Yeah,” I said. The ferrets in my stomach had graduated from nervous to outright panic. “Everywhere.”

  Through a window at the end of the hall, I caught a sliver of the pool: lanes marked in deep blue, water flat as glass. Someone sliced through it just then, a smooth line of motion, almost too fast to track. For a weird second, I thought of the thing in the alley and the kids with their resin-maybe-ceramic swords. Motion that precise wasn’t normal.

  Mom followed my gaze. “That pool,” she said, low.

  I didn’t say, That’s where the future Olympians train. All I knew was that this place felt like another planet, and I was about to find out if they were willing to give me a visa.

  A door down the hall opened. A family stepped out—dad in a suit, mom in a wrap dress, kid in a blazer that fit like it had been tailored yesterday. They all shook hands with a woman in a navy dress and sensible heels, her dark hair cut in a smooth bob, her expression composed and kind in that practiced way.

  “Thank you, Ms. Cho,” the dad said.

  “Safe drive home,” she replied. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

  Then her eyes found us. The smile changed—realer, somehow, or maybe I just wanted it to be.

  “Mrs. Sinclair?” she said. “Diana? I’m Ellen Cho. Come on back.”

  Ms. Cho led us down a short hall and into an office that looked like a catalog photo for “competent professional”: tidy desk, three leather visitor chairs, bookshelf with neat rows of binders and a few framed photos, window looking out over the quad. No clutter, no wobble. Even the pens in the cup were aligned.