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