They Thought I Failed—Until I Turned Down Harvard novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Toast

The family toasts "our two Harvard kids" and hands Delaney a community college brochure, and Dad says her college fund went to Camille. Ends: Camille looks up too fast.

My parents were waiting on the platform in Westport with a banner.

It was a real banner, printed at the shop on Main Street.

CONGRATULATIONS, CAMILLE AND HOLDEN. HARVARD BOUND.

Holden's mother held one end and my mother held the other.

Holden's father filmed the whole thing sideways.

Camille ran down the platform and my mother dropped her end of the banner to catch her.

"My brilliant girl," she said, crying. "Look at you."

Dad hugged Holden and lifted him off his feet.

I came down the steps last, with my duffel and Camille's rolling suitcase, which she had left standing in the aisle.

Mom saw me over Camille's shoulder.

"Oh, Laney. Hi, sweetheart."

She smiled with her head tilted.

"We'll talk later."

Nobody hugged me.

Holden's mother patted my arm as she went by.

"You're so brave, honey."

I did not know what she meant, and then I did.

Holden had already told her I failed.

He must have texted it from the seat beside Camille, with his thumb, while I was standing in the aisle.

I put the luggage in the trunk myself.

In the car, Camille sat in front and I sat in the back with the bags.

"Are you okay?" she said, twisting around, her eyes soft and wet. "I feel terrible. I really do."

"I'm fine."

"You don't have to pretend with me."

My father looked at me in the rearview mirror for a moment and looked away.

At home, my mother had made a pot roast.

She had made it before we came, and she had set the table with the good plates, the white ones from Grandma.

There was a bottle of sparkling cider by Camille's place, and by mine there was a glass of water.

Dad stood up with his glass in his hand.

"I want to say something. When we took Camille in six years ago, she was twelve and she had one trash bag of clothes."

Camille put her hand on her chest.

"And now she's going to Harvard."

"To our two Harvard kids," he said, and raised his glass.

"Holden too, Dad?" Camille said, laughing. "He's not ours yet."

"He's practically ours."

They drank.

I drank my water.

Holden had followed us home and was sitting on the other side of Camille, and he put his arm along the back of her chair.

My mother caught that, and looked pleased.

I was sitting there looking at that arm.

I had been his girlfriend for fourteen months, and I had never once been seated at the end of the table.

Then Mom reached under her napkin and took out a folded brochure.

She slid it across the cloth to me with two fingers.

Norwalk Community College. Your Future Starts Here.

"I'm not saying anything yet," she said gently. "But I took a few of these, just in case. Holden's mother says it's a very supportive program."

"I didn't ask for a brochure."

"Honey, we know you tried."

"We know how hard you worked," Dad said, in the voice he uses on the dog.

"You can still do great things."

I turned the brochure over.

On the back, someone had written in my mother's handwriting: Application due May 1.

"What about the fund?" I said.

The table went quiet.

It was the first thing I had said all evening that was not "fine."

Dad cleared his throat.

"Laney. We were going to talk to you about that."

"Grandma's fund."

"The savings account," Mom said. "The one we put aside for your college."

"What about it?"

"We moved it in January."

My fork stopped halfway to my plate.

"Moved it where?"

Dad looked at the pot roast.

"Camille's tuition is going to be significant," he said. "You've always been so independent, Laney. We assumed you would get scholarships, and Camille wouldn't. We did what was fair."

"Fair," I said.

"We thought you'd understand."

Holden was suddenly very interested in his napkin.

Camille put her hand on top of mine, soft and warm.

"I told them not to," she said. "I said it should be yours."

I looked at her hand.

I looked at her face.

It was wet, and tender, and perfectly composed.

"Okay," I said.

My mother smoothed her napkin, relieved.

"I knew she'd be mature about it."

"It's okay," I said again, more slowly. "I'm going to go lie down."

I stood.

"Honey," Mom said, as I pushed in my chair. "You can always tell us how it went."

She meant my applications.

She meant it kindly.

I picked up my brochure and held it a second.

"It went fine," I said.

Across the table, Camille looked up too fast.

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