It was a Friday afternoon in April. The five of us were waiting to hear. We had put ourselves out there–our names, hobbies, personal secrets; they knew everything about us. My biggest fear was that they would tell me no and everybody else yes.

The email was scheduled to arrive at 5 p.m. pacific standard time. That was two hours after the final bell.

I worked for this my whole life. I was the straight A-student that my parents had drilled into my brain. I had taken AP classes since sophomore year–calc, stats, history, environmental science; you name it and I probably took it. I had tutoring on Mondays and SAT prep on Fridays, and I played volleyball in between volunteering at the Friendship Circle. I was the ideal candidate on paper.

I logged onto the computer at 4:50, just to be safe. Maybe they sent out the email a little early, I had thought. But, there was no new message in my inbox. The countdown began in the right-hand corner of the computer screen. The minutes felt like days, and my eyes never left that corner.

4:58. Two minutes until I found out the fate of the rest of my life. This was everything my mom had ever wanted: her Alma Mater to be mine. I wanted that too; I wanted to be connected to her.

Ding. My Gmail account signaled me back to reality. One deep breath and I opened the message.

My eyes scanned the page for some form of acceptance before they settled on, “I regret to inform you . . .”

That was all I needed to read before I knew I would not be attending UCLA in the fall. My head rushed with thoughts. Did my other friends get in? What if they are all at the same school together? Is there any way at all to bribe the dean with coffee cake? I have to find some way to get into that school if my life depends on it.

And the last thought I settled on: how am I going to tell my mom I won’t be going?