The Ivies - Alexa Donne Page 0,3

eyes suddenly flint. I’ll never stop marveling at rich kids getting upset about other people calling them rich. They’re so sensitive.

“So, what happens if you lot don’t get in?” He points a finger at all of us still in school limbo—everyone except for Margot, basically. “Do we have to change your nicknames? Brown.” He nudges Emma. “Yale.” Indicates Sierra. “Penn.” Pushes his slice of cake toward me. “And brilliant Harvard.” He grins across at Avery. “What are your safety schools again?”

“Fuck you, Ty,” Aves spits.

“The nicknames are stupid,” Margot says. “I might not even go to Princeton.”

“What?” Avery is horrified. “Of course you’re going to Princeton! You got in!”

“It’s not binding.” Margot squirms, staring intently at the table. “I might apply to a few more places regular decision. See where I get in.”

I try to imagine feeling so nonchalant about getting into my dream school. Harvard. My dream school is Harvard, not Penn.

My mom always told me: no one hands anything to a kid from a working-class neighborhood in Maryland. You have to scratch and fight your way to the top, prove you deserve a shot. She was the first in her family to go to college, ended up teaching at a really good school. She got her feet onto the first rung of the ladder so that I could climb. Dream big, Olivia, my mom always said. Keep one foot on the ground, though: dreams are useless without a practical plan of action.

So here I am at Claflin. If I’m going to prove I am worthy of the top, that means gunning for it. And Harvard is synonymous with the best. It also has, hands down, one of the most highly regarded college newspapers. Claflin Ledger, then Harvard Crimson, then the New York Times. That’s what I want. Penn is fine, but have you heard of Penn’s student paper? I didn’t think so. Harvard Crimson or bust. It is my best shot at my dream career.

But soon after I transferred to Claflin and fell in with my friends, I learned about Avery’s rule and the school quotas. One school per girl. Because friends don’t compete with each other for spots. Heck, Avery was so intense about it that none of us have the same academic strengths, hobbies, or interests. Sierra and I are an exception, both being “allowed” to row.

Why all this Machiavellian meddling? Because it’s an unspoken rule that every college has a quota. Not official, and no one can say precisely what it is. But we do know what it isn’t. Harvard isn’t going to accept four seniors from Claflin. It’s never taken more than three. Yale typically takes two. Princeton, two. And so on. Every student at your school becomes your direct competition, even your friends. So I wanted to go to Harvard, but Avery was having none of it. Avery’s school is Harvard, and she is a legacy, so I shut up about how it’s been my dream school since I was eight.

Deep down, I know why. I’m a coward. I want my friends to like me. Because it’s better to have these friends than none.

My first week at Claflin, I was unmoored. Transferring in as a sophomore, already sure social suicide, was bad enough, but I was a scholarship kid to boot. I sat in the back of Honors European History with my head down, willing myself to blend in, maybe disappear, and hoped the teacher wouldn’t make me stand up to introduce myself. But before that horror could begin, a girl sitting diagonally in front of me sniggered. “Is it true you have to work in the office as part of your scholarship? How sad.”

“Hey, Nora, stop being such a twatwaffle.” A vision appeared like a knight in shining armor. Glossy red hair, perfect skin, and designer clothes, she took the seat next to me and extended a hand. “I’m Emma. I like your top. Is that from Brandy Melville? And Doc Martens? Sweet.”

It was. And they were. I’d worked all summer shilling popcorn at my local AMC to pay for my Claflin wardrobe. This pair of boots was the most expensive thing I had ever bought, and using my own money was the only way to get what I needed to fit in. My mom thought knockoffs and remainders from T.J. Maxx were fine, but I knew this place was full of sharks. One wrong move and you were chum. I nodded, words of thanks stuck in my throat.

“So,