“Are you sure?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “Can you look again? Lindsay Cramer?” The boy who’d been assigned the duty of handing out packets began thumbing through the stack again. He was older, probably a senior, with broad shoulders and the kind of smile that spoke of money. In other words, he looked like he belonged here. Me, on the other hand? Not so much. Which is why I was trying to quell my pending panic attack. What if this had all been a mistake? What if I had turned down Yale and Cornell and Princeton because Cambridge was supposed to be better than all of them and now my acceptance had been some sort of horrible admissions error? Or a joke someone had played on me, and now they were going to – “Oh, here you are!” the orientation guy said happily. He plucked my packet out of the stack and handed it to me. “It was stuck to the one behind it.” “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” I went took a few steps away and started to open the packet, but he called after me.
