Chapter 4: Snapshots, Scores, and Secrets

Dinner ended fast, and after that night, I didn’t see Caleb again. The restaurant’s neon sign buzzed as we walked out, the air still muggy. Aubrey hummed the whole way home. I clutched my Snapple bottle like a tiny trophy.

By late June, I’d downloaded League of Legends, but my fingers fumbled and I kept getting roasted in chat. I played late, hoping to someday join Caleb’s team.

In July, I landed a part-time job. I printed my résumé at the library, tucked it in a folder with my school ID, and got hired at the local tutoring center after a ten-minute interview.

Aubrey spent the summer giggling over her phone, sending me screenshots of her chats with Caleb, humming love songs under her breath.

The day college letters came out, I packed my bag for tutoring, double-checking my ID, wallet, and a granola bar. Aubrey sat on the couch in a sundress, hair curled, dabbing on makeup. Strawberry body spray filled the apartment. She checked her reflection for the hundredth time.

I stayed quiet, guessing who she was dressing up for.

"Natalie, does my lip gloss look good?" she asked, lips glossy pink.

"Very pretty," I replied, not meeting her eyes.

She pouted. "Do you think Caleb will like it?"

"...He will."

Aubrey beamed. "We’re going out tonight. I hope he’ll like it."

She bounced up, straightening her dress. I watched her go, chest tight.

I wanted to ask, "Are you two together?" but the words stuck. Not knowing meant I could still dream.

I stared at the dust motes in the sunlight, convincing myself that not knowing was better than heartbreak.

The twins I tutored were a whirlwind—two boys, elementary school, their living room a minefield of LEGOs and juice boxes. They never stopped moving.

"Miss Pear, if you had a superpower, would you eat worms or fly?"

I rolled my eyes. "Only boys would think superpowers involve eating gross stuff."

"Miss Pear, have you ever eaten poop?"

I laughed. "No way."

They kept at it: "What does poop taste like? Is it like blue cheese—smells bad but tastes good?"

One wrinkled his nose, the other gagged. I snorted, shaking my head, fighting a headache. I wanted to say, "Try it yourself," but kids this age just might.

After teaching fractions and long division, my voice was hoarse. I finally clocked out, wiped marker stains from my hands, and headed to the bus stop. The street was quiet, sky tinged orange. I leaned against the metal bench, watching cars crawl by.

My phone buzzed—class group chat and family group both blowing up. Four thirty. The college portal was open.

Dad was on a business trip, spamming us with emojis and, "Let me know ASAP!"

Aubrey texted she’d check at home, hearts and rocket ships everywhere. I didn’t reply; Dad never really cared about my score.

I opened the results page, but it crawled at 60%. My heart hammered as I refreshed again and again.

The bus pulled up. I swiped my card, sat in the back, the seat cold and the air faintly vanilla from an old freshener. My hands shook so much I dropped my wallet twice.

Still loading.

Even though I was confident, my stomach twisted. The bus rolled past maple trees, sunlight flickering across the aisle.

Finally, my screen flashed green. I held my breath, eyes on the score: a 15 at the front.

I let out a shaky sigh. It was enough.

I closed my eyes, letting the tension melt. For the first time, I smiled—a real, private smile, just for me.

When I got home, Aubrey and Mom were in the living room, TV muted, only the frantic clicking of Aubrey’s keyboard filling the air. Mom hovered behind her, rubbing her back.

Aubrey called, "Natalie, did you check your letter?"

"I checked," I said.

"Did you get in?"

Her eyes were wide, almost accusing.

"I did."

Mom’s eyebrows shot up. "That’s great, sweetheart." She hugged me, her arms warm and awkward. I froze, then patted her back, uncomfortable but oddly happy.

Aubrey shouted, "Mom, I’m clicking confirm!" She slammed the trackpad, eyes glued to the screen.

Just like always, she pulled Mom’s attention away. I lowered my eyes and stayed quiet.

The website lagged, then Aubrey’s score appeared. She covered the screen, trembling. "Mom, I’m so nervous."

Mom soothed her. I watched from the sidelines, as always.

Aubrey was nervous for ten minutes, chewing her nails, fidgeting. In the end, the color drained from her face. Mom was stunned. Her mouth opened, searching for words.

I glanced at the screen: 1100. Right on the cutoff.

I went to message my guidance counselor, hands moving on their own. Aubrey cried out, "No way! This can’t be my score! Mom! Someone switched my results!" She sobbed in Mom’s arms. Her cries echoed through the apartment. I ducked my head, trying to disappear.

I was about to slip away when Aubrey, red-eyed, turned on me. "You said you passed—are you telling the truth?"

My breath caught, hands clenching, old wounds stinging. "It’s true."

"But you always scored just over a thousand before!"

I swallowed hard, voice steady. "That was in the past. Aubrey, I passed. Aren’t you happy for me?"

The question hung, heavy and awkward. Aubrey’s lips trembled. She looked away. Mom patted her, frowning. "Sweetheart, how can you say that to your sister?"

After Mom scolded her, she turned to me. "Your sister didn’t do well this time, Natalie. Don’t take it to heart."

I nodded. "It’s fine."

I returned to my room, the carpet muffling my steps. I closed the door softly and slid down against it, hugging my knees. My nose stung, eyes burning, but I held it in, scrolling through old texts to distract myself.