mean girls

xxi. surrender

The unknown is terrifying.

Lauren hates the unknown, she hates being unprepared, hanging mid-air and not knowing when her feet will touch solid ground.

Waitlisted.

She hasn't felt this deep, sinking disappointment since the school's presidential debate. Those words held enough power to drain her day of color and leave it spotty and bleak.

"But isn't it better than being rejected all together?" her little sister, Taylor, had asked her in an effort to lift Lauren's spirit, but they couldn't be lifted.

Lauren would rather have a definite answer. Yes or no. The world might not be black and white, but this should be. She couldn't bear to carry a shimmer of hope, only for it to be crushed brutally. What made it all the worse was that Lauren had been so sure that she'd get in, there hadn't been a cloud of doubt in her mind. After all, she had put in the work.

Right behind the disappointment lurked the anger. Anger at the unfairness of it all. She had worked her ass off for the past couple of years, all those hours of sweat, blood and tears, all those hours of extracurricular activities, all those hours of voluntary work, all those fucking hours of burning herself over coal to ensure that she got accepted to Yale.

And it was all for nothing.

"You got into all these other great universities! Fucking Columbia, Emroy and Boston! People would kill for those!" Chris had told her, but he didn't understand. He didn't understand how much it meant for Lauren to get into Yale, would never understand how much it killed her inside to be waitlisted.

She'd told Camila the bad news, hadn't even told Ally or Shaun or Ian (even though he probably wouldn't be much comfort to begin with). Camila had sent words of comfort or encouragement, Lauren isn't sure. She'd skimmed the texts and then thrown the phone away.

She'd been holed away in her room for the past couple of hours, laying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, wondering why the universe insisted on punishing her. It had already taken her father from her, and it couldn't give her this?

She's deep in her pity party and even deeper in a bag of cheetos — they make her break out but right now it's the least of her worries — when her bedroom door is thrown open and Chris pokes his head inside.

"Get out!" Lauren mourns and pelts chips at him, but they don't even make it halfway, dropping pitifully on the floor.

"Your girlfriend is here," he announces, "so you might want to wipe your cheeto dust covered fingers."

Lauren blinks in confusion and sits up. "Wait, what?"

Chris doesn't offer her any clarification. He dips away and in steps none other than Camila.

"Camila?" Lauren exclaims and instinctively wipes her fingers on her shorts, flushing bright red when Camila's eyes follow the motion with something that looks like a mix of amusement and mild disgust. "What are you doing here?"

She self-consciously runs her not entirely clean fingers through her hair, and she's more than mildly mortified. She isn't ready for anyone to see her in this pitiful state — uncombed hair, ratty clothes, unkempt room — and the least of all, Camila.

Camila, who looks as beautiful as ever as she steps further into the room. Her hair is in a loose braid over her shoulder, a little baby pink bow tied at the end.

"You wouldn't answer your phone," Camila explains as she makes to sit on the chair, but aborts the action when she realizes that it's already occupied by Lauren's dirty laundry. Instead, she sits on the bed, peering into Lauren's eyes with concerned ones. "I was worried."