by kieryn graham

Created on: October 17, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

My parents raised me for the Ivy League. Somehow, I drank-in my Ivy League destiny with my mother's milk. Well, okay, in a pinch Stanford or maybe, but only maybe, Cal would suffice. Really, though, growing up right down the street from Hilary Rodham's childhood home, her legend still hanging thick in the Midwestern air, I understood nothing but Wellesley would do.

My mother and grandmother had been valedictorians of both their high school and college classes; they took it on faith that I had inherited the "gifted." The rest was simply a matter of a good, well-rounded education and "the proper" extra-curricular activities. My mother and grandmother took it on faith I always and everywhere would get straight-A's, and I, naturally, would blow the top off the SAT.

No pressure.

Really, no demands, no goading and exhorting, no stage-mother routines. The situation required none of that, because my mother and grandmother simply expected I would devote my whole and entire self to college preparation.

Who was I to say no?

I dutifully pursued the proper course of study, excelling in everything verbal and holding my own in math and science. I properly and piously earned my straight A's, chalking-up extra grade-points because I enrolled only in honors and AP classes. I also distinguished myself in the swimming pool, collecting more than my share of ribbons, medals, and trophies for grinding through 100 yards butterfly faster than any of the girls and faster than most of the boys, too.

In my chlorinated little world, swimming didn't really count as competition, because it had the fun factor woven all through it. Honors English, however, became my battlefield. Kate O'hara and Haley Jordan played English-class politics more proficiently than I, and they knew Frenchfar more literary than my Spanish, que no? I pinned my performance and reputation on my writing; and Kate, Haley, and I typically deadlocked at the top of English-class grade curves. The fierce rivalry helped all three of us excel, and we left the poor boys about seven car-lengths behind. For a while, I tried to play in the band, but I have neither rhythm nor melody, and my band issues threatened my GPA. I finally persuaded my mother and grand-mother that I should abandon the French horn and write for Southwords, the school newspaper. They saw the wisdom and strategy in my suggestion.

At the end of our junior year, Kate, Haley, and I were tied for class-rank dos, right behind the two nerdiest boys who ever graced

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