Spaces Between Us

Chapter Three: 'We just get along so well'

4 Months Later

Something is definitely up.
I can almost sense it in the air.
The buzz. The energy. The feeling that something huge is about to happen. I can't place my finger on it exactly but I dread it may be something bad.

Today is the 15th of December. The aftermath of the long awaited early decisions yesterday. Hence, Diane's manicured hand clutches mine a little tighter than usual. I can only imagine she's squeezing Laine's hand with an equal amount of intensity since she's to Diane's right.

This, believe it or not, is the infamous origin of our group name— The Clique. Our hands are almost always linked together. Symbolizing how our bonds 'clicked' into place. Or so Diane explained.

'We just get along so well' is what Diane tells anyone who asks why we walk around the hallways like inseparable triplets.

I'm not one who particularly enjoys physical contact. I like my space. Maybe it's because growing up, Mischa starved me of the very basic things I needed as a child— a hug when sad, a kiss on an injured knee, holding hands when crossing the road—

'... you should smile more, Zayelle...'

I shake my head subtly to clear my thoughts from the past.

From the outside I used to wonder what Diane, Laine and I looked like to everyone else. Hands always joined, wearing nothing less than our very best clothes, hair always put in place down to the very last strand, makeup— light— but always done well.

Surprisingly, people like us. Diane is the type of girl to carry an extra pad around in case another girl needs it. Laine is the kind of girl who organizes study sessions twice a week for anyone interested. And I'm the type of person to always follow their leading.

Despite our good qualities, something always seems off. I can never fully relax when I'm with them. My smile always feels a bit too stiff, my back a tad too straight and I never think I say the right thing.

Right now, as much as I want to snatch my hand away from Diane's grip, I psych myself to believe that I need this— this closeness— because yesterday I got the worst email of my life.

Thank you for your interest in the University of Pennsylvania and for the time and effort you invested in your application.
After careful consideration of your Early Decision application, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you admission at this time. The selection process was highly competitive, and we had to make many difficult decisions among a talented pool of applicants.
Please know that this decision does not reflect your potential or accomplishments. We encourage you to consider applying through the Regular Decision process if you remain interested in Penn, or to explore other opportunities that align with your goals.

UPenn didn't accept me.
I got rejected.
They didn't see me as good enough.
Am I not good enough?

I force myself to enjoy the feeling of Diane's extra warm fingers clasping mine because she too didn't get accepted to Stanford like she wanted.

But no matter how hard I try to believe I like this, her hand still feels like granite scraping against my skin.

But I won't complain. I will pretend like it's not the worst feeling in the world— being touched.

We walk into homeroom early like we do every Monday morning. I feel relief wash over me like a wave as our hands separate so we can sit down in our individual desks in the front row.

"Diane, can I borrow your English lit note?" Harmony pops out of nowhere staring at Diane like she's a goddess.

"Of course!" Diane's voice elevates by a couple octaves. "Can I get it back by third period?"