Brett nearly crashed into Alison Quentin as she breezed into the dining hall at lunch on Thursday, sending Alison’s stack of Saltines tipping over on her tray. “Sorry,” Brett mumbled under her breath, her tired head down as she made her way to the food line. Horniman’s e-mail looped through her mind, especially the line about the Brown alum. Brett had always gotten straight A’s—but so did most of the people applying to the Ivies. She’d always counted on her extracurriculars to make her stand out, but if she couldn’t do her duty as junior class prefect, she couldn’t exactly count on glowing recommendations from the faculty. Brett grabbed a tray from the stack even though she felt sick to her stomach. She opted for a bowl of Special K with strawberries and a banana over the offerings of jerk chicken and lentil-barley soup. Idly she wondered if she was eating too many carbs, if that was what was sapping her strength lately. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her TSE cardigan, but when she saw it was from the cupcake caterer, she clicked ignore.
