Chapter 1

T
“ hat is not art,” my boyfriend, Marc Gerber, said, pointing his
paintbrush at my easel.
“You are just jealous,” I told him, studying my master-
piece, which admittedly looked like a big red splotch on a canvas.
“People will be fighting over this one day.”
“Yeah,” our friend and Marc’s soccer buddy Todd Slocum said,
leaning over to get a better look, “to get it out of their sight.”
Marc laughed. “Right? You take it. No, you take it. No, you take
it,” he said, pretending to be two people arguing over my work.
“You know . . .” I dipped my brush into the red paint. “I think
your painting may need a little sprucing up.”
I took a step toward him, wiggling my paintbrush at his project.
“You wouldn’t.” Marc’s eyes had a glint to them, almost daring
me to go on.
“Wouldn’t I?”
I inched closer. Marc’s piece was of a soccer goalie leaping for
the ball to stop the other team from scoring. My boyfriend lived for
soccer. “I think some red could spice it up.”
“Cam . . . ,” he said, unsure of what I was going to do next.
“Yes, Marc?”

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 I twirled the brush as if I was about to make my move.
Before I could, he wrapped his arms around me, nuzzling his
head into my neck. He knew I was super ticklish there.
I squealed as I tried to pull away, accidentally painting the side
of his cheek.
“Marc, Cam, stop it,” our art teacher, Ms. Winters, called out.
“Do not make me speak to you again.”
“Sorry.” I tried to look remorseful despite the fact that my boy-
friend had a gob of red paint dripping down his face. I hoped I at
least got some points for containing my laughter.
“Me too,” Marc said.
Ms. Winters let out a sigh and handed him a cloth to wipe off the
paint. Then she turned her attention to me.
“Didn’t you say you had a guidance counselor’s appointment this
period? Why don’t you just go now?”
I still had time, but I wasn’t going to push it. She wanted me gone.
I was not exactly my art teacher’s favorite student. Yesterday
alone, she’d snapped at me eight times to stop talking and focus on
my painting. It was only the first week of school, but Ms. Winters
was already all business, determined to keep the class on track. And
apparently, I wasn’t making that easy.
I started cleaning up my station.
“What’d you do?” Todd asked me.
“Huh?”
“To get called to guidance.”
I shook my head. “No idea.”
Marc still had a tiny bit of paint on his face. He looked so cute,
but I decided to be a good girlfriend and help him out anyway. I
wiped the smudge away with my thumb, and, after checking to make

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 sure that Ms. Winters was facing the other direction, I gave him a
light peck on the lips.
Todd rolled his eyes at me. “I bet that has something to do with
it. They probably figured out you lied to get in this class just to be
with Marc.”
I hadn’t lied. Not exactly. Okay, I had. But it was for a good rea-
son. I was not going my whole senior year without a class with my
boyfriend.
“You don’t think that’s it, do you?” I asked.
Todd shrugged, but it wasn’t his answer I was looking for. I
wanted to know what Marc thought.
As if reading my mind, Marc squeezed my hand. “Relax, it’s
probably nothing.”
I hoped he was right, but that word probably dug at me as I sat in
the guidance counselor’s office.
Why did Todd have to get in my head? I hadn’t been nervous at
all until he opened his mouth. But now I was semipetrified. I’d never
been called to the office before—­not guidance’s, not the principal’s,
not even the nurse’s.
I couldn’t get in trouble: It was my senior year, and my transcript
couldn’t afford it. It needed to stay perfect if I had any chance of
getting into Columbia, and I really needed to get in.
I stared at the clock on the wall. I’d been waiting to see my guid-
ance counselor, Ms. Vail, for twenty minutes. Much longer and last
period would be over.
Finally her office door opened.
“Thanks again,” a tall, blondish girl said, walking out alongside
Ms. Vail.
“No problem, Lissi.”

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 My ears perked up. This was the infamous Lissi Crandall? I
craned my neck to get a better look. Everyone was talking about
her. Not that I could blame them. It wasn’t every day Brooksvale
High got a new student, let alone at the start of senior year. Lissi
was practically a celebrity in our little Connecticut town. She’d
started attending the school’s volleyball practices this summer, and
from what I’d heard, she’d made quite the impression. Loved by
some, hated by others—­this latter group included one of my BFFs,
Grace Kim.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Ms. Vail told her, then turned her atten-
tion toward me. “Camryn Roth?”
The sound of my name made Lissi’s face snap in my direction.
Her eyebrows rose and her blue eyes widened. Did she know who
I was?
We didn’t have any classes together, but I guess it was possible
she’d heard about me. We did have people in common. I hung out
with the soccer guys, and they were all about Lissi. She’s so hot; she’s
so funny; she’s so perfect. I gave them more than my fair share of eye
rolls over it, but I could sort of see what they saw in her. Lissi had
that whole I can command a room without saying a word vibe.
“You can come with me,” Ms. Vail instructed.
I followed her into the office, thoughts of the new girl quickly
evaporating. I had much bigger things to think about.
“Have a seat,” Ms. Vail said, shuffling through some files on her
desk until she found the one that read camryn roth. “Sorry for the
delay; the last meeting went longer than expected.”
“That’s okay.”
Then I waited as she flipped through my transcript. She frowned
as she turned to one of the pages. I was pretty sure she even shook
her head slightly, but that could have been my imagination. My right

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 knee started shaking, moving up and down at a rapid pace. It had a
mind of its own. I pressed my hands down to stop it, but it wasn’t
doing any good.
Ms. Vail still hadn’t said anything.
“I really, really appreciate you switching me to that art class,”
I sputtered, trying to get ahead of the situation. “Sorry for all the
emails and voice mails about it this summer. But I think it will
definitely help my college applications. Can’t get enough culture, I
always say.” I didn’t always say that. I’d never said that. Well, except
when I was trying to convince my counselor of something.
In the case of this past summer, it was getting Ms. Vail to move
me into my boyfriend’s class—­although I never mentioned the boy-
friend part to her. I may or may not have bugged her about four
dozen times to get switched into Ms. Winters’ last-period art class.
After the first dozen correspondences, she wrote me back with
“good” news. She had managed to move me to Mr. Tobin’s second-­
period art class. But good to her was sucktastic to me. I’d been trying
to get into Marc’s class so I could be near him, not to learn about
pointillism and other things that made my head spin. So I doubled
down, saying that the only reason I wanted to take art was to work
under Ms. Winters’ esteemed tutelage. Yes, I laid it on thick, and
often, but I had an agenda: taking at least one class with my boyfriend.
I couldn’t only see Marc at lunch. That wasn’t happening. So I
did what I had to do.
I mean, it wasn’t like I gave up physics for him. I scrapped a
persuasive-­speaking class, which clearly I didn’t need, since I was
able to convince Ms. Vail to rearrange my schedule. Or so I thought.
Sitting in the office had me wondering if maybe the class would have
sharpened my skills.
Ms. Vail must have found out the true motive for my request.

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 Ms. Winters probably tipped her off. I was going to be in trouble. A
detention or—­worse—­switched out of Marc’s class. They’d proba-
bly want to make a point that what I did wasn’t acceptable. I couldn’t
imagine the school looking too favorably on changing a student’s
schedule due to their relationship status.
“What? Oh.” Ms. Vail waved her hand at me. “That wasn’t a
problem.”
I sat up straighter. If that wasn’t the issue, what was?
She turned a piece of paper toward me. “I actually wanted to talk
to you about your college applications.”
I let out a sigh of relief. That’s it? I’d worried over nothing.
“I’m all set with that. I already started.”
Now it was Ms. Vail’s turn to let out a breath. “Camryn—­”
“Cam,” I corrected her. Unless I was getting grounded, no one
ever called me Camryn.
“Cam,” she continued. “You remember the assembly last year?”
I nodded. The juniors had been called into the auditorium for a
lecture about life after high school, what to look for in a college, and
so on. It was pretty boring, but it got me out of pre­calc, so I was all
about it.
The guidance counselors made us fill out a questionnaire and
encouraged us to set up an appointment to talk about options. The
only person I knew who had actually signed up was Grace. I guess
now that it was the start of senior year, they were circling back to all
of us no-­shows.
She pointed at the paper in front of me. “That’s the form you
turned in.”
Scanning the questions, I couldn’t help but smile. I definitely
remembered filling it out. The whole college section had hearts
drawn around it. I traced one with my finger.

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 “I’ve been going over everyone’s files, and your answers concern
me,” Ms. Vail said.
I knew it wasn’t so much my answers, plural, as my answer, sin-
gular. The questions read:
What is your dream school?
What is your reach school?
What is your match school?
What is your safety school?
I wrote Columbia for all of them.
“I wasn’t ignoring the assignment. I just know what I want.”
Ms. Vail folded her hands together and leaned forward. “Camr—­
Cam,” she said, softening her voice, “it’s good to have a reach. I just
think you need to keep your options open. Columbia University is
extremely competitive. I’ve gone over your transcript, and I’m wor-
ried you may be setting yourself up for disappointment. It’s impor­
tant to have backups.”
I wasn’t only going to apply to Columbia (my parents had vetoed
that idea), but it was the only place I wanted to go. It was part of
the plan.
“My grades are good. I got all As last year, my SATs are way above
average, and I’m writing a kickass essay.” I slapped my hand over my
mouth. Could you say kickass to your guidance counselor?
“Your grades are good, but you’re not in AP classes,” she said,
unfazed by my language, “and your SAT scores are impressive, but
they’ll be comparable to most of the people who apply there. You
need something that makes you stand out, and your lack of extra-
curriculars has me concerned.” She glanced back down at my file.
“There’s nothing here since freshman year. Not one club, team, or
activity. Schools look at things like that.”
“I have stuff.”

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 She waited for me to continue.
I twisted my charm bracelet around my wrist. “I did volleyball
part of my freshman year. And I would have done some clubs, but
sophomore year on, I got stuck babysitting my sister after school.”
My mom used to work from home, but she got a new boss that year
who decided everyone needed to come into the office. My sister was
too young to be left alone, so I had to watch her until one of my
parents got back. “I shouldn’t be penalized for that—­it’s not fair.”
Ms. Vail nodded. “You can definitely include babysitting, but
what about other activities? Like writing for the school newspaper
or the literary magazine, volunteering to plant trees on the week-
ends, being an office worker during your study halls, signing up for
the cleanup committee for the school dances? There are plenty of
options that don’t involve staying after the last bell.”
I hadn’t even thought of those things. My heartbeat quickened.
I was busy all the time; there had to be stuff that would qualify as
an extracurricular. “I’m at almost every nighttime soccer game,” I
said, letting the words tumble out, “and a ton of the volleyball ones.
And now that my sister is older, and I don’t need to be home, I’ll be
going to the afternoon games, too. I even have one today. I’m like
their number one cheerleader.”
“But you’re not a cheerleader, you’re a spectator, and that doesn’t
make for a compelling application.”
I didn’t need to be on the cheerleading team to show I had school
spirit—­anyone who saw me at the games knew that—­but Ms. Vail
clearly disagreed.
“Okay then, how about this. I, um, helped at the soccer team’s
car wash. I manned a booth at my synagogue’s Purim carnival.
I . . .” I couldn’t think of anything else. Unless hanging out with

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 your best friends and your boyfriend a ridiculous amount counted
for something.
“Cam . . .”
“Oh,” I said, clapping my hands together, “the yearbook!”
“You were on yearbook?” she asked, flipping through the pages
of her camryn roth file.
“Not technically, but last year they told people to send in their
photos, and I’m always taking pictures, so I submitted a bunch.
They used a few, and they would have taken more, if there had been
seniors in them instead of my group of friends. But I can still write
down yearbook photographer, right?”
Ms. Vail pursed her lips. “Cam, I’m not the admissions board.
I’m not the one you’re going to need to convince. I’m just trying to
prepare you. The way things look now, I think you need to seriously
consider some other options. I’m afraid you may not be able to get
into Columbia.”
The bell rang, interrupting us, but I didn’t get up. I didn’t budge.
I was frozen to my chair. I could hear students racing out of class-
rooms with that rush of excitement that comes with leaving school
on a Friday—­and not just any Friday. The first Friday of the school
year.
“Can you stay a few extra minutes?” Ms. Vail asked, once the
ringing stopped.
I nodded. I wasn’t going anywhere, not until we fixed this mess.
“Reading,” I said, reaching into my backpack and pulling out
three books I had stashed there. “I do it all the time. I took these
out of the library right before lunch. I’ve probably taken out more
books than anyone at this school. Ms. Chakrabarti can vouch for
me—­I’d bet she would even write me a recommendation.” I knew

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 I was grasping at straws, but how come kicking a ball counted as
an extracurricular, but reading—­which was so much more mind
opening—­didn’t count?
I droned on and on about my favorite romances to my friends. I’d
pretty much given a dissertation about the differences between the
book Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda and the movie Love, Simon.
They’d tuned me out, but maybe, possibly, that counted as a book
club? I’d take any sort of win at the moment.
“I don’t want you to worry,” Ms. Vail continued. “There are
plenty of excellent schools you can get into. Why don’t we take a
look at some of those?”
Because I didn’t want any of those.
Columbia had been my dream forever.
I was so ready to leave this small town and be in a big city. Ever
since my aunt took me to Manhattan in fifth grade, I’d wanted to
go back. I hadn’t had a chance, thanks to my parents’ fear of me
traveling to the city sans chaperone, but by some miracle they were
okay with me applying to school there. I couldn’t wait, and Columbia
seemed like the perfect school for me.
Marc was the one who first got me excited about it. He was a
legacy. His grandma and both of his parents had gone there, and
his older brother was enrolled now. The way Marc talked about the
campus, the classes, the prestige, and the city had made me fall in
love with it—­enough that I’d worked my butt off to get straight As
so that I could get in.
Ever since freshman year, the two of us had planned to go to
Columbia together. It was a pact sealed with a kiss. Cheesy, I know,
but the thought still made me grin like a fool. Marc was a shoo-­in
to get accepted. Not only did he have the family connections, but
he didn’t have any extracurricular deficiencies. Marc was a star ath-

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 lete, on the student senate, and took all AP classes—­which he aced.
Apparently, unbeknownst to me until a few minutes ago, I was the
slacker.
I was the one jeopardizing everything.
No. I shook my head. I wasn’t giving up. I had worked too hard
to not get into my dream school.
“I still have time. I can fix this,” I told Ms. Vail. She knew how
persistent I was; she’d gotten a taste of it over the summer. Now I
was going to multiply my efforts tenfold. Sure, this squashed any
hope of applying early decision, but that was okay. The extra time
would help get me where I needed to be. “You’ll see. I’ll get incred-
ible recommendations, keep my grades up, and find some extracur-
riculars. I’ll do whatever it takes. I can make this happen. Columbia
will be laying out the red carpet by the time I’m through.”
Ms. Vail gave me one of those pitying smiles I could never stand.
“I hope you’re right. But you only have two marking periods before
applications are due. That’s not a lot of time.”
“I’ll make it work.”
I had to.
Everything I dreamed about depended on it.

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 Chapter 2

I
opened the door to the gymnasium, careful not to bring any
attention to myself. I was super late. The volleyball match was
well underway. I glanced up at the scoreboard and cringed. It
wasn’t good. Fourth set, and Brooksvale was down. They needed
to tie this game to stay alive. Grace and her teammates broke out
of a huddle and took their spots on the court. They looked intense.
I scanned the bleachers for my other best friend, Terri Marin, and
quickly maneuvered my way through the stands to her.
Her dark eyes were focused on her sketch pad, her long brown-­
almost-­black curls hanging over the page, as the pencil in her hand
moved at warp speed. I snapped a photo with my phone. I’d call it
The Artist at Work. Terri didn’t notice me do it; she was so fixated
on her drawing that she didn’t even stir when I sat down next to
her. “Hey,” I said, bumping my shoulder gently into hers. “Sorry
I’m late. Got stuck at the guidance counselor’s office. Long, horrible
story. I’ll tell you all about it.”
She turned toward me, and before she could even get out a word,
my mouth dropped into an O and I gasped. “Oh no. Don’t kill me.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m so, so sorry. I did not do this on pur-

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 pose. I meant to change. Honest. I totally forgot with everything that
happened.” I peeked one eye open. “How mad are you?”
Terri was shaking her head and pinching her navy-blue shirt,
which had a giant GO written on it in silver glitter. “How many
times did you make me promise I would remember to put this on?”
she asked.
“Eight?” I answered, scrunching my nose.
“Try fifteen,” she corrected me. “And yet, somehow, I’m the one
looking like a glitter bomb exploded on me, while Little Miss School
Spirit is wearing plain old jeans and a lacy pink top. Not even wear-
ing school colors. You’re slipping.”
Fortunately, her voice seemed playful and not pissed. Still, I felt
guilty. “I wasn’t even thinking. I can go get mine. It’s in my locker.”
The shirt I was supposed to be wearing had Grace’s name written on
it in the same silver glitter.
Terri shook her head. “Forget it. By the time you get back here,
the whole match will be over. But you owe me! I have sparkles every-
where. I’ll probably still be dripping glitter at graduation.” She
picked a piece off her arm to emphasize her point.
“I totally owe you.” I put up my fingers in the Girl Scout Promise.
“On my honor, I promise to help Terri at all times, and to live by the
Girl Scout Law,” I recited, altering the organization’s pledge.
“That’s a start,” Terri said, but she was already back to sketching
in her pad, which meant I was off the hook. When Terri was angry,
she made sure you knew it.
“On the plus side, you’re wearing my art,” I reminded her. “That
should make you happy.”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “You definitely need Winters’ class
if you think this shirt is art.”

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 “Hey,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and putting on my
best mock-­indignation voice. “The Griffin kids and I worked very
hard on that. Wait until you see the signs we made.”
“Hopefully, the twins made them by themselves. I’ve seen your
work.” She laughed at her own joke.
The Griffins were five-­year-­olds I babysat every once in a while.
Terri did, too. The kids loved doing any type of crafts project.
Unfortunately, my skills were pretty much on par with theirs, which
everyone seemed to be reminding me about today.
“We can’t all be Picasso,” I told her.
“Picasso, really? Surrealism or neoclassical—­you really think
that’s my style?”
I threw my hands up. “You just told me a kindergartener is more
artistic than I am—­do you really think I know the difference between
periods or styles?”
“Yes. I mean, I know all about rom-­coms, and the romance tropes
you go on and on about.” She started ticking them off on her fingers.
“Friends to lovers. Enemies to lovers. Second-­chance romance.
Destined lov—­”
“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re a better listener than I am. But in my
defense, you usually talk about your inspiration for a piece—­i.e., a
hot guy, a memory, Christmas tinsel—­and not your particular style.
Besides, you know I’m your biggest fan. Well, other than Luke.” I
wiggled my eyebrows up and down.
“Oh my God, don’t go there—­you know we’re just friends,”
Terri said, swatting me with her sketch pad.
I grabbed it. She and Luke Cahill had gone out a couple of times
during sophomore year, but it never went anywhere. Terri thought
that being in a long-­term relationship in high school was stupid, that
tying yourself down was for when you were old and boring. At first,

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 it didn’t seem like Luke felt the same way. He was always hanging
around us, but eventually he kind of became one of us—­an honorary
member of our little group, even if I did like to tease Terri about
their dating history every once in a while.
“Terri,” I moaned, her current sketch catching my eye, “please
tell me your motivation for this one isn’t Lissi.” I whispered the
name, even though Grace was nowhere near us. “Grace is going to
have a fit.”
“It’s not my fault,” Terri said, grabbing her pad back. “Look
how intense her expression is. It hasn’t changed throughout the
whole game. How could I not draw that?”
I followed Terri’s gaze to the sidelines. There was Lissi. I hadn’t
noticed her, but now that I did, it was hard to look away. She was
hyperfocused on the game. She was leaning forward, lips pursed,
eyes lasered in on the players. “Nice ace!” Lissi called out after
Crystal Pollack made a serve that the other team couldn’t return.
“Do it again.”
“Well, the sight of Grace’s fists might be a deterrent,” I said,
noticing the way her arm muscles were bulging.
Grace’s hands were tight balls, and her whole body was stiff. She
looked like a force to be reckoned with. Lissi either didn’t notice
or didn’t care, because she went right on shouting out instructions.
Apparently, she had been a star on her team back in New Hampshire.
But here in Brooksvale, that role belonged to Grace. She had worked
hard to bring the team together, to keep everyone in sync, and to
make practice a priority. She’d been bumped up to varsity during
sophomore year and helped turn a losing team into state champions.
This year she was finally captain, and she loved all nineteen of her
teammates.
Our varsity teams could only roster twenty players each, and the

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 volleyball team was full. But according to Grace, Lissi showed up at
summer practice for the last two weeks, right before school started,
and said she wanted to be on the team. Coach was hesitant to make
an exception. If you let one extra on, why not two or three, or ten,
or everyone who tried out? He wanted a team he could manage—­
and coach properly. JV was for the masses, at least at Brooksvale.
Allowing Lissi on would mean kicking someone else off. There was
still a discussion about what to do. In the meantime, Lissi kept attend-
ing practices, and now apparently the games. This annoyed Grace to
no end.
“You might want to burn that picture before Grace sees it,” I
warned Terri.
“I think you might be right,” she said, turning to a fresh page in
her pad. “So why were you so late today? What happened with the
guidance counselor?”
Instead of answering, I jumped out of my seat. “Go, Grace!” I
screamed, and started clapping. She had just spiked the ball over the
net, winning the set and tying the match. It was 2–­2. Anyone’s game.
“Come on,” I said, pulling Terri’s arm.
Terri gathered up all her stuff. “This is the most ridiculous thing
ever.”
She said that every time, but it was tradition. At Brooksvale
High volleyball games, when the teams switched sides, so did the
spectators.
I took her bag from her. “You don’t want Grace thinking you’re
rooting for her opponents.”
Terri’s face went wooden. “Trust me. She knows if I’m at a game,
I’m here for her.”
“You’re a good friend,” I told her, patting her on the back. Terri

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 was not shy about her disdain for sports. But she rarely missed
Grace’s home games. She was one of those people you could always
count on to be there.
“I know,” Terri said with a smirk as she climbed down the
bleachers.
As we neared the other side of the gym, some guy I’d never seen
gave a meek wave.
“Terri, hi.”
She winked at him and kept walking, adding just a smidge more
sway to her hips. Terri was curvy and confident, and I was more
than a little in awe of her ability to flirt and make friends wherever
she went.
“Who was that?” I whispered.
“Remember I told you about Mr. Sneezed-­
A ll-­
Over-­
My-­
Pizza?” she said as we situated ourselves in our new seats. “That
was him.”
“No way.” I totally remembered that story. Terri had met some
guy at a Sandbrook High party; they ditched it and went out for a
slice, and as they were sitting outside eating, he sneezed all over hers.
“That was him?”
“Yes,” she said, giving me eyes that said don’t you dare look in his
direction, “but that was a million years ago. Who cares?” It was actu-
ally only about five months, but who was counting? “Are you going
to answer my question or what?” she continued.
“Huh?”
“What happened with the guidance counselor?”
“Oh yeah.” I sighed and then filled her in about my lack of extra-
curriculars, and how if I didn’t find some soon, my Columbia dreams
would be over.

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 Terri shook her head. “I told you not to quit volleyball over a
boy.”
“I didn’t. I did it to watch my sister.”
She gave me another one of her stares—­she was the queen of
them—­and this particular look always had me spilling the truth
whether I wanted to or not. “Okay, fine. I did it for a boy. But not
for just any boy—­for Marc.” I could tell she had to resist rolling her
eyes. I quit the volleyball team before the end of the season during
my freshman year so I could watch Marc play in the soccer finals. He
was so excited about getting that far, and I didn’t want to miss his
moment. “But it wasn’t like I was that great, and I would have had
to quit the next year anyway.”
“You’re always doing what Marc—­” She stopped herself. “I’m
sorry. This isn’t the time for that.” She squeezed my arm. “You’re
amazing, Cam. I know how much you want to get into Columbia.
You’ll figure something out. And if you need anything, I’m here to
help.”
“Thanks.”
“What did Marc say about your meeting?”
I pressed my hands down on the bleacher. “Nothing yet. By the
time I was done with the guidance counselor, he was already in soc-
cer practice. He won’t look at his phone for hours.” Although I knew
his first words were going to be that it would all work out. It wasn’t
necessarily true, but hearing him say it would make me feel better
anyway. It always did. I really needed to talk to him. “I’ll see him
tonight; we’re going to the diner. Hopefully, he’ll be able to come up
with something.”
“You’ll be able to.”
I let the statement go. I knew Terri wasn’t the biggest Marc Gerber

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 fan. She thought I relied on him too much, but that was because she
didn’t understand what it was like to be in a couple.
Marc and I were better together. What we had wasn’t boring or
mutually dependent—­it was love. And with him by my side, there
was no way I couldn’t get through this.
I was more determined than ever. I was going to Columbia, and
so was Marc. We just needed a new plan.

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