Page 20 of Ruthless Court
“Good thing he isn’t applying.”
He steals another Twizzler before walking away.
“I’ll send you my paper.”
“I’ll delete it.”
“You love me.”
“I barely tolerate your free throws.”
He laughs like I’m flirting.
They always do.
* * *
By March, California feels like a strange decision I made during a fever.
Pepperdine rejects me first.
UCLA places me on a waitlist.
Stanford disappears beneath finals, basketball tournaments, and Dad’s growing collection of gym listings.
He finds a vacant warehouse forty minutes outside the city and starts calling it the facility.
He sends me financing projections.
Membership models.
A spreadsheet labeled HANNAH BUSINESS PLAN.
I never open it.
Then, one Thursday afternoon, my inbox pings while I’m sitting in chemistry.
Your Stanford admission decision is available.
I stare at the message until the letters blur.
The teacher is discussing equilibrium. Everyone around me is taking notes.
I open the portal under my desk.
The page loads slowly.
A red banner appears.
Then one word.
Congratulations.
My body forgets how to breathe.
I read the first paragraph three times.
Accepted.
