I rehearse.
Grandmother, I am rejecting your proposition. Grandmother, I cannot accept your offer. Grandmother, cancel my appointments. Grandmother, all bets are off.
I never see it coming.
December 15. I know she’s back from Venice because there’s a letter on my pillow when I get home from school. There’s the red Harvard crest, and there’s my name typed out neatly on the front and the envelope slit cleanly on the top.
I shake the letter out and unfold it and I read, I am delighted to say that the Admissions Committee has asked me to inform you that you will be admitted to the Harvard College Class of 2019. And—no scholarship.
I drop the letter on my pillow. Roaring white noise in my head.
Also on my pillow, a small white card, creased and torn and with a thumbprint right in the middle over my name.
Ashley Maria Perkins. Weight-loss Surgery in Exchange for Four Years of Tuition.
I can hear footsteps overhead and I freeze. I close my eyes as if it will hide me. Jolene calls my name and I can’t move. When she appears at my door, I still can’t move.
“What is it?” she says. She looks at the bed where I point, picks up the letter. “Ashley,” she breathes. “Ashley, you got in. Of course you got in! You got into Harvard! This is such good news!”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Are you kidding? You must be kidding.”
“I have to go,” I say.
“Well, of course you have to go. You have gotten into Harvard!” Her face is shining. “I am very proud of you.” She leaps forward to hug me. I must feel like a statue.
“If I go to Harvard, I have to get weight-loss surgery,” I say into her shoulder, and then push back. I put my hands over my stomach, which is churning.
Jolene looks worried. “I don’t understand. Is it the tuition?”
My laugh is closer to a sob. “Oh god, the tuition. Yes. That too.” I can’t afford college without a scholarship. I can’t afford it without my grandmother. It is all piling on, collapsing the fragile structure I had built inside me.
“What is it?” Jolene says. She grabs my hand. “What’s going on?”
I can feel my hand shaking in her grip. “If I don’t get weight-loss surgery, I’m a liar. I lied to get into Harvard. I said I was getting weight-loss surgery to change the world. My interview. My essay.”
“Oh, Ashley,” Jolene says softly.
“I can’t do that,” I say. I know I sound hysterical. I can hear how shrill my voice is. “I can’t do that, Jolene.”
“I know,” she says. She pulls me down to sit on the bed next to her.
All of this—this bravery. This conviction. It’s been useless.
She looks at the letter in her hand. She picks up the card. We’re both quiet for a moment. Her mouth quirks up on the side. “Laura would say, ‘At least you’ll get free tuition.’” She looks at me anxiously. She’s got tears in her eyes.
“I’m going to Harvard,” I say. I hear the tears in my voice.
“Congratulations, my darling,” my grandmother says, coming into the room, enveloping me in her arms. “I am so proud of you. This is such good timing. When I was in London I spoke to Stanford again.”
“I have a surgery appointment,” I say.
“You have a surgery appointment,” she says, holding me by the shoulders and beaming at me. “Right after Christmas.”
“That’s so soon,” Jolene says. She’s still holding the little white card. She looks back and forth between us.
“Merry Christmas to me,” I say, and it does not come out sounding jolly.
Grandmother frowns, then briskly says, “I’m proud of you.” She kisses me, a warm dry peck on the temple. “Your mother would be proud of you,” she says, and I stiffen.
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
She shrugs. “True. How could we know? But I’d like to think she would at least be smart enough to recognize how well her daughter is turning out, despite everything. What an amazing woman she’s becoming.”
“I don’t feel amazing,” I say.
“We’ll have a party to celebrate,” Grandmother says.
“No!” I say.
“Your acceptance, darling. I know you’re sensitive about the surgery thing.” She pats my shoulder.
“I don’t care about the surgery thing. I just don’t want a party.” I can’t look up at her.
“You’ll change your mind,” my grandmother says. “Get ready for work now.” She sweeps out of the room.
“I’m not a liar,” I say softly. And I can’t lie to myself anymore.
The tiniest, pinprick bright spark of relief, and it burns.