I pulled Aaron’s arms toward me, my bare legs spread against the scratchy turf beneath us and mirrored by Aaron’s legs as I leaned back.
“Pull more,” he said.
“Bruh, if I pull anymore, I’ll be lying on my back.” Aaron laughed before pushing forward to stretch out completely. He sat upright and smirked as he began to pull my arms toward him. My legs spread a little wider, and I groaned as I felt the discomfort in my inner thighs.
“Stop, stop, stop!” I practically screamed. He’d pulled just far enough that the discomfort had become unbearable, burning. He chuckled and let my arms go. My body went back to its naturally hunched, upright position, and I rolled my neck, cracking it.
Even though we were supposed to stretch before a meet, I rarely ever did. During the cross-country season, I couldn’t get out of stretching because it was a group effort. When the sport transitioned into the track-and-field season, the coaches got rid of communal stretching because there were too many of us.
“You ready for the meet?” Aaron asked, shifting his legs into a figure four stretch and reaching for his left foot. I nodded as I did the same stretch on the same side. I was thankful that I had gained the confidence, and permission from my mom, to wear the spandex shorts. It made stretching and running so much easier and more enjoyable than thick leggings.
“I’m gonna try and PR today and beat my last mile time. We’ll see. My time is getting better, but nowhere near Amanda’s.”
“You talking shit about me, Priya?” Amanda asked, plopping her bag next to me and dropping to sit down. She was wearing a pair of black spandex shorts, a red headband, and her Saratoga High jersey was tied in the back with a hair tie. She was beaming, her normal makeup bearing face bare and natural as she started stretching.
I chuckled. “Yeah. You’re the worst miler on the team. Just go home and save us the shame,” I said and she laughed.
“Damn, someone’s overly sassy today. You stressing about Berkeley?” she asked.
“Actually, yeah.” I sighed as I began to twist toward her and stretch my back out. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of her relaxed state, although she would be in my place next year. Luckily, she couldn’t make the same mistake in her essay I had. I had written an essay about my illness, for God’s sake. Who would take me with that diagnosis?
“I’m sure you got in. Aaron too,” Amanda said, shifting her attention to him. He was quietly stretching, but he looked up and shrugged when he heard his name.
“We’ll see.” He smiled and looked at me, but the smile seemed forced.
Just then, with perfect timing, Coach Zimmerman approached the middle of the field and blew her whistle. We all stood up and huddled around her.
“All right, third meet of the season, but first one on home turf. Y’all better make this a good one, or we’re doing an extra mile on Monday!”
“Yes, coach!” we all said in a chorus, and she smiled before continuing with her pep talk. Usually, Coach Zimmerman’s talks were pretty uplifting, but I was distracted by my educational future and by how stressed Aaron was. He was usually the one who stayed present and in the moment, but today he was too tense.
Soon, we were all pushed toward our events or the bleachers as we awaited our turn. Aaron and I walked off to the bleachers, since our events were later in the meet, and we huddled together as the breeze started to pick up.
We sat in silence as we watched the start of the meet, our minds definitely elsewhere. I felt the bench beneath me shake as Aaron started bouncing his foot up and down on the metal beam. Just looking at him, it was hard to tell he was nervous. Only his foot gave it away, and others would probably think that was just competition jitters. But I knew him. He never got that nervous before a meet. He firmly believed extreme nervousness was self-sabotage.
I looked back and forth between his face and his foot as it violently bounced up and down on the beam. Then I decided that I’d had enough of his anxiety.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing his hand. I stood up, pulling him off to the side of the bleachers and toward the parking lot.
“Are you ditching the meet?” Aaron asked, confused. I rolled my eyes as I led him to my car. People were walking by, but not paying us any attention.
“Get in,” I said, unlocking the car, thankful that he followed and sat without arguing. When he closed the door behind him, he looked at me with an amused expression.
“Are you kidnapping me?” he asked.
I smirked. “I wish, but no. I want you to just talk through what’s going on. Let the crazy out,” I said. He looked at me in slight confusion, so I continued.
“We have at least a half hour before our events are up. So you have twenty minutes to vent about your anxiety. Let the crazy out here so you don’t go crazy on the field and sabotage yourself in the race.”
Aaron stared at me for a few seconds, then looked forward out the window. Suddenly, he let out a laugh. I watched hesitantly, unsure of what he was laughing at. Eventually, his laughter turned to a groan, and he pushed back the seat until he was lying almost flat. He stared at the felt-covered ceiling of the car and groaned again before rubbing his face.
“How do you handle the anxiety, Priya? I feel like my brain is melting with anticipation, and I don’t know what to do. My heart is racing, but also slowing down—it’s just all over the place. I’m trying to tell myself that everything will be okay, but honestly, I don’t know that it will be,” he said, his eyes closed.
“What’s the worst-case scenario?”
“Worst-case scenario is I don’t get into Berkeley, I don’t get in anywhere, and I die alone in a cardboard box because I can’t accomplish anything,” he said. I knew how that felt. It was his idea of reality. Anxiety could be a monster that distorted reality like that.
“Is that actually likely, though?”
Aaron paused before sighing and shaking his head.
“Sometimes, I feel like it is. I know it’s not, but I get this crushing weight on me that says I’m no good and that I won’t do well, especially if my life doesn’t go a certain way or follow ‘the plan.’” He created air quotes with his fingers. “My parents aren’t tiger parents, but I’m still scared of disappointing them. My dad has this dream that I’ll take over his company, but he doesn’t push it on me. He knows I want to go into graphic design and not business, so he’s fine with my choice. But… what if I don’t enjoy that, either? What if… I’m not smart enough for that field? Or for Berkeley? Or anywhere and anything? High school is a lot different than college.” He buried his fingers in his hair.
“That’s true,” I said slowly, “but think of it as a race. You weren’t always a great runner, right? But you got better as you adjusted and practiced. You’re an amazing student, but even if you aren’t ready for college, who honestly is?”
Aaron remained silent, processing.
“My sister graduated with honors from high school. She got rejected from USC, her dream school, and ended up going to UCLA. She thought it would be easier there than at USC and planned to do well and transfer the next year. Then she failed a class and lost that chance. It was the first grade below a B she had ever received, and it was in chemistry, a general education course, of all courses, and one she was usually good at and loved. Everyone in that class did poorly their freshman year. They all went from being extraordinary to being ordinary, if not substandard, in their studies.” I shrugged. “My sister said the first year at college, you can expect your GPA to be at least a whole point lower than your high school GPA. She compared it to going to a new country, alone, on the opposite side of the world. You’re hella jetlagged and tired all the time, can’t speak the language, and nothing makes sense for the first few days, weeks, or even months. But eventually, you get the hang of it.
“My sister ended up loving UCLA and has the most obnoxious pride in being a Bruin. She ended her time there with good grades and is now living it up in San Francisco as a lawyer. I don’t know if either of us is getting into Berkeley, but if you don’t, it doesn’t mean you aren’t intelligent, capable, or geared for success. Wherever you go, you’ll have to work hard. But you’ll be a good fit, and it’ll be a good choice. You’re an amazing student, well-rounded, so don’t feel like your value is dependent on some college’s choice to admit you.” I realized I was starting to ramble when Aaron smiled, and I took it as my cue to wrap up and let him digest what I was saying. “You’re so much more than just a number or your GPA, or even your essay,” I finished.
We sat in silence for a few minutes as Aaron processed, both of us watching parents and other students walk by. Some of the students wore track uniforms or workout clothing. My mind wandered, going over what I said. I realized that I was also trying to reassure myself, too, that I might still have a chance at Berkeley. I hoped I hadn’t said anything that would make Aaron’s anxiety worse.
His hand gently reached over to rest on my leg, pulling me from my thoughts, and his thumb stroked back and forth on my bare thigh. I smiled as I lay my hand over his and stroked the back of his hand with my thumb in return.
He turned his head toward me, though he still didn’t meet my eyes. “Thank you, Priya. I needed that.”
“Any time,” I said softly back.
His eyes moved up to mine, and we looked at each other for a few seconds before I started feeling fidgety at the intimacy and had to break the connection.
“We should probably head to our events now. Definitely need to warm up again.”
The whistle blew, and we started screaming as Amanda steadily took off from her position for the final event. She was on the outer ring of the track running against some of the varsity girls from the other high school, but Amanda was one of the best runners in the county for this event, the mile. She was quick, but she paced herself well and always finished strong.
Aaron and I sat huddled together as the sun began to lower and the breeze picked up. He had his arm around the back of my shoulders, and I held his dangling hand. When the excitement died down, I noticed him swiping his thumb across my skin. I looked at his hand holding mine, then at him, and realized he was doing it subconsciously as he focused on the race.
I had become accustomed to him swiping his thumb like that, especially when I was stressed or needed him to support me. In that moment, although I did need some support, I knew he needed the comfort more than I did.
While I was watching the race, a quick vibration in my jacket pocket broke my focus. I pulled out my phone, and my heart stopped. The email was from the UC Berkeley admissions team.
I looked at Aaron and saw him staring at his phone, a similar look of shock on his face. We glanced at each other’s phones, then back at each other.
“I’m scared,” I said and Aaron nodded.
“Same. Do you want to open mine, and I’ll open yours?” he asked, and I hesitated before saying yes. I offered him my phone quickly, and he unwrapped his arm from around me to grab it hastily, giving me his with the other hand.
I swiped the alert across his phone screen, punched in his passcode, and sat still as the white page loaded. Impatiently, I jabbed at the link in the email and logged into his account. Thankfully, he had saved his information in his phone, just like I had, so it wasn’t too much of a hassle. I sat as the page loaded, a million worries running through my head, trying to think of possible responses to different situations. What would I say if I got in? What if I got in, and Aaron didn’t—or if he got in and I didn’t? What if one of us got wait-listed?
All my thoughts went out the window as soon as the page loaded and my eyes zeroed in on one word.
“Congratulations!”
That was all I needed to read to know he got in, but I was too afraid to look at him to learn my fate. I had known he would get in the whole time, although I still felt very proud of him. He was brilliant, and when I read his essay, I knew he was a strong writer and had an amazing story. He’d really had nothing to worry about.
I, on the other hand, had a great deal to worry about.
“Go, Amanda!”
All of a sudden, people began to cheer harder for Amanda, screaming her name and hollering at her to keep going. I looked up to see the people on the track following her and a girl from the other high school on the sidelines as the racers closed in on the finish line.
It was the last stretch in the race, and Amanda was starting to sprint, just as she neared the end, but she and the other girl were neck and neck. Their places kept switching from Amanda in the lead to the other girl. In the very last few meters, Amanda charged forward and cleared the finish line in first, making the entire crowd of Saratoga High Schoolers erupt in cheers on the bleachers.
My heart felt like it had just run its own race and was even going faster with excitement at the victory.
Then I looked at Aaron, and my mouth went dry. He was smiling brightly at me. Was it because of the race? Or would he smile like that at me when he was trying to console me? I couldn’t hope it was because of my acceptance.
He looked back down at my phone and cleared his throat. “Congratulations—” he read aloud. I let out a scream, and I lunged at him, wrapping my arms around him. He laughed so much as he caught me that I had to say my next words multiple times before he heard me.
“Congratulations, Aaron!”
He stilled briefly, still holding me, before gripping me even more tightly with his own shout of excitement before hoisting us both up to our feet. We jumped on the bleachers with the other students, screaming for Amanda and ourselves as our fate was sealed.
We were going to Berkeley.