A quandary. Which meant that the high school wasn’t going to let me in. Which meant I was stuck. 

I always thought I would for sure make it into TBYR — Toras Bais Yaakov of Rockaway. I was the girl whose notes were photocopied and passed around like contraband, the one who’d be graduating with a 4.0 GPA, and recommendations from my principal? I knew they’d be stellar.

“Shira, you’re such an overachiever,” my parents always said, but I could detect more than a hint of pride in their voices. And my friends, with their hushed whispers and sidelong glances, knew I was destined for greatness.

I don’t know when I decided I wanted to go TBYR. It was no secret it was the most competitive and hardest school in New York, and maybe even the nation. Girls called the school The Best Yearly Retreat (even though it wasn’t a dorming school), and friends quipped on the phone, “Too Busy, You’re Right.”

Maybe it all started with the tuna sandwiches, my favorite main for lunch. The ones I’d unpack from my lunchbox, only to be met with wrinkled noses and suppressed giggles from my classmates. Or perhaps it was my interest in wearing socks adorned with frilly ribbons, and my tendency to profess my love for pink bubblegum to anyone who’d listen.

It wasn’t until the most popular girl in the grade sidled up next to me during class to ask me for my math notes after I had a run-in with the school bully that I realized something crucial. While I might not attract a ton of friends due to my choices in clothing or lunchtime fare, smarts gained popularity, or at least a begrudging respect. Being singled out for intellect never harmed, and suddenly, overachieving just made sense.

That was, until that Earl Grey Tuesday morning when I got my rejection letter. Just like every morning that December, I checked our dented iron mailbox for a large envelope before the bus came, and it was at the top, my name face up for the world to see, neatly written in black ink.

Shira Stark

202 Bellville Ave.

Rockaway, New York

The envelope felt lighter than I was expecting, and I quickly tore open the top and read the words, We regret to inform you...

I stared at the letter, blinking tears away from my eyes.

“Where am I supposed to go?” I said quietly, feeling my mother reading over my shoulder. She had walked me out, eager to see if I had gotten a response. And then, before she could respond, the bus pulled up, its doors swung open, and I left Mommy standing there, her eyes wide in shock and dismay.

At recess, Mrs. Frankel, the principal, called me into her office.