This Is Not a Personal Statement


 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 For my parents and grandmothers
 (This isn’t about you at all)
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 
 One
 Two
 Three
 Four
 Five
 Six
 Seven
 Eight
 Nine
 Ten
 Eleven
 Twelve
 Thirteen
 Fourteen
 Fifteen
 Sixteen
 Seventeen
 Eighteen
 Nineteen
 Twenty
 Twenty-One
 Twenty-Two
 Twenty-Three
 Twenty-Four
 Twenty-Five
 Twenty-Six
 Twenty-Seven
 Twenty-Eight
 Twenty-Nine
 Thirty
 Thirty-One
 Thirty-Two
 Thirty-Three
 Thirty-Four
 Thirty-Five
 Thirty-Six
 Thirty-Seven
 Thirty-Eight
 Thirty-Nine
 Forty
 
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Books by Tracy Badua
 Back Ad
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 One
 A low current of joy and despair from the latest college admittances and rejections hums through Monte Verde High.
 Once the last bell rings, the entire senior class whips out their phones for news. Conversations crackle around me on the parking lot curb. I pretend to focus on spotting Dad’s Lexus among the dozen other luxury cars in the distance, but it’s hard not to react to the bursts of happiness and heartbreak around me.
 Two other seniors, Edie Anderson from my PE class and Camilla Kang-Jansen, the daughter of one of Dad’s law firm partners, pause near me on their way to their cars.
 “Did you hear? Wendy got into Stanford, but Gabriel didn’t. You think they’ll break up over this?”
 Hard-earned futures are being made and broken this very second, and people chatter about them like they’re reality show bombshells.
 I adjust my backpack straps as an excuse to angle toward the murmured conversation. Edie and Camilla don’t seem to notice or, if they do, care. Being the lone sixteen-year-old senior at Monte Verde and a tad well-known for my overachievement—my mom sent a press release to the local paper when I started high school at twelve—means that I’m blocked out of the social scene and its related whisper networks. But I do like to stay informed.
 At most schools, gossip would center around who’s dating whom, who has the most expensive this, the flashiest that. At Monte Verde High? I attend one of the most academically competitive high schools in California. People spend their life savings on tiny, dilapidated houses in this school district so their kids can come here because our grads go on to be governors, CEOs, and all manner of brag-worthy intellectuals and notables.
 Everyone talks about the record-shattering achievements of the Monte Verde student body.
 No one talks about the intense competition, the unhealthy lack of sleep, the grueling lineup of forced extracurriculars, the expensive standardized test prep classes, or the underground market of cheat sheets and pills.
 But I don’t care about any of those right now: they’re as much a fixture in my school life as my creaky locker and my wobbly chair in AP Comp Sci. I don’t even really care about Wendy or Gabriel.
 I care about which schools’ acceptances are out.
 Three others join the girls chatting a few feet away from me. I’m in at least one class with each person in that group, but they barely acknowledge my proximity. Through Dad, I’ve known Camilla for ages. Aside from the way our parents seem to play us against each other to make us work harder, we tend to get along outside of school. She’s often the one friendly face at firm picnics and award dinners, but she keeps her distance on campus and I don’t force it.
 At least I don’t have to hide my eavesdropping if I’m functionally invisible here.
 I peer at them through the curtain of long, straight black hair on either side of my face and act like I’m scrolling through the latest PicLine posts on my phone. The group compares notes. Two people in my physics class got their MIT acceptances today. Tennis star Arnell eyes Columbia: eir first choice, but not eir parents’. Oscar faked a rejection to Duke just so he wouldn’t have to explain to his parents that his dream school is here in California. Edie dabs at her teary blue eyes as she gripes to her friends that she’s wait-listed at two Ivy Leagues.
 I try not to roll my eyes as Camilla comforts her. Edie is the debate team captain who introduced some of the seniors to her sister’s Adderall-prescription-happy doctor friend in exchange for a hefty, under-the-table referral fee. I’ve been cut enough by Monte Verde’s ruthless streak to recognize that Edie’s tears are a cover for her rage. She must be livid that underground Adderall went to those same kids who likely edged her out of those Ivies’ incoming classes.
 “What about Little Miss Perfect? Where do you think she’s going?” Edie’s voice drifts over to me, a hint of amusement in her voice, like the mere mention of me is a joke. My body tenses. My thumb continues to mindlessly scroll so I can keep up the ruse that I don’t hear them.
 A harsh shush from Camilla. “Edie, quit it. She’s right there.”
 A snort from Edie. “So?”
 So they do know that I’m standing right here, listening. They just ignore it, like they ignored me for the past four years. I barely feel the pinch of sadness about it now. Perfect Perlie Perez—a nickname that I obviously didn’t come up with myself and haven’t managed to fight off—is better than this. Better than them and their pettiness.
 I only have to endure a couple more months of high school before I can escape with my diploma. Then it’s on to Delmont University, the shining light at the end of the tunnel. It’s number one on the list of universities curated by my parents and me. That list is the first page of Perlie’s Academic Plan, a dog-eared red plastic binder crammed full of report cards, standardized test scores, articles about college prep, and everything needed to click my PhD path into place. The plan serves as a road map for the life my parents and I have planned.
 It helps that we all want the same thing: for me to graduate from this prestigious university, attend a top med