“I think you might be right.”

We take a few wrong turns before finally finding the School of Journalism, but parking is another story. The nearest parking is almost a mile away from the actual building.

“Wow,” says Millie. “If having a car in college requires this much effort, I think I’ll ditch the van for a scooter.”

And for just a brief moment, I picture a future version of Millie zipping all over Austin on a baby-blue Vespa. “You’d be a vision,” I tell her.

She maneuvers the car into a parking spot and pulls the parking brake. “Well, before that happens, I have to make myself presentable.” She looks around the lot. “Keep an eye out while I change in the back?”

“What else are friends for?”

While she wrestles around in the back, I check my phone. There’s only one message.

MAMA: I read your note. We will talk when you get home. I spoke with Millie’s parents. Please be careful. This doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble.

I breathe a sigh of relief. That wasn’t so horrible. I’m definitely grounded again, but I can live with that.

“Okay!” Millie says. “Let’s do this.”

When she hops out of the van, Millie’s wearing Mama’s red lipstick and a black dress with daisies all over. “Wow,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in black.”

She nods seriously. “I wanted to go for something that said serious but fun.”

“Serious fun.”

“Precisely. And the daisies felt like the perfect amount of irony.” She takes a deep breath. “We gotta move before I lose my nerve.”

We walk through the campus and find our way back to the journalism building, and as we stand at the steps, unsuspecting students stream past us. They’re all so close in age to us, but somehow so much more grown-up.

I squeeze Millie’s hand.

She nods, and we walk in shoulder-to-shoulder, straight to the faculty offices.

We stop in front of the office of Dr. Michelle Coffinder.

Millie squares her shoulders and lands three solid knocks on the door.

After a moment, a younger, round Asian woman opens the door. She wears a black-and-white checkered pencil skirt and a pineapple-patterned neon-yellow blouse. Her curly, short turquoise-streaked hair frames her face, while managing to be unruly yet cool.

I watch as Millie’s face basically turns into the heart-eyes emoji. If this is Dr. Coffinder, she’s also Millie’s long-lost edgier twin.

“Dr. Coffinder?” Millie asks in confused wonder.

The woman lets out a full belly laugh. “Oh, hell no. I’m her TA.”

“Oh, right,” says Millie. “Of course. Well, I’m here to speak to Dr. Coffinder.”

The door swings open to reveal a tall, thin but muscular guy with sandy-blond hair. If this guy isn’t already on the news, he will be one day. “Do you have an appointment?” he asks.

“N-n-no,” says Millie, suddenly cowering.

“But it’s an emergency,” I interject.

The guy looks dryly from me to Millie. “What?” he asks. “Daddy’s gonna ground you all summer for failing mass comm?”

“Actually, we’re not students,” says Millie. “I’m here to speak to Dr. Coffinder about the summer broadcast journalism camp for high school students. She’s the head of the program.”

Something clicks for both of them, like they suddenly recognize her.

“Grant, Iris, I’m taking an early lunch,” a lofty voice void of any accent calls, before a petite woman with quintessentially Texas hair appears from an adjoining office. “Well, this is quite the traffic jam,” she says, motioning to the four of us in the doorway.

“Dr. Coffinder,” says the girl who I’m assuming is Iris. “These girls are here to see you, but they don’t have an appointment.”

Dr. Coffinder turns to us. The curls of her blond hair are so perfect I swear she must sleep with Coke cans in her hair. She wears a cream pencil skirt with a tulip hem, and a silk sleeveless burgundy blouse shows off her well-defined arms. Even I’m a little intimidated by how perfect she is.

“Girls,” she says, “I can’t do anything once grades are posted. I gave plenty of chances for makeup work. If you failed, you’ll just have to spend another semester with me.”

“No,” says Millie. “This is about the summer program you run for high school students. Please.” Her voice is even, yet urgent. “I just need a moment of your time.”

Dr. Coffinder. “And you?”

All eyes turn to me. “Emotional support.”

Dr. Coffinder thinks for a moment. “You’ll have to make it quick. There’s a taco truck calling my name, and when they run out of their barbacoa, that’s it. They close up shop for the day.”

Millie nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

Millie

Thirty-Seven

I leave Callie in the front office where the TAs work and follow Dr. Coffinder into her office. I wish I didn’t have to do this part on my own, but I do.

I take a moment to absorb the room, with its dark wood panels and expansive windows. Every surface is covered with folders and stacks of paper. Almost every inch of wall space is covered with some type of certificate, degree, award, or picture with one of my all-time sheroes.

I gasp. “You’re friends with Christiane Amanpour?” A picture of them on the deck of a beach house is wedged between a framed article and an award from the Associated Press.

“Chris is an old friend,” she says with a warm smile.

Dr. Michelle Coffinder is somehow even more beautiful in real life than her picture on the school’s website led me to believe. But more than that, she runs one of the most competitive journalism programs in the country.

“What can I help you with . . .”

“Millie,” I say. “Millie Michalchuk.”

She smiles. “Millie. What can I help you with, Millie?”

“I was rejected for the summer program, and I came to see why.”

She nods. “Well, that’s not normally a request we cater to.” She huffs out a breath, blowing her bangs up. “Our admission decisions are final, but you can always apply again next summer.”

I shake my head. “No, ma’am. It has to be this summer.”

“Are you dying?” asks Dr. Coffinder.

I think for a moment. “Aren’t we all?”

“Right answer.” She chuckles. “Good girl.”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, I am the hardest worker you will ever meet. I’m clever and thorough and . . . and . . . I drove all this way.”

“All the way from where?”

“Clover City, ma’am.”

“Well, damn, that’s all the way out by Marfa.”

“It is,” I say.

She shakes her head. “But I’m sorry, Tillie—”

“Millie,” I correct her.

She smiles apologetically. “Yes, I’m so sorry, Millie, but our decisions are final.”

“Did you even see my audition tape?” I ask, and my voice comes out a little too accusatory.

Dr. Coffinder pushes back from her desk, like she’s about to stand up and dismiss me. “Well, no. Not in full.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Well, it’s not our process,” she explains. “Iris and Grant, my teaching assistants, do the application intake, and I’m their tie-breaking vote.”

“You mean you rejected me without even reviewing my application in full?” I think back to how awful my nerves were the day I sent in my application. What a big deal it was for me. How much effort I put in. And then how quickly it was probably just discarded.

She smiles again, but this time it’s a bit more sour. “Welcome to academia.”

“Can you at least just watch my tape? After I drove all this way, can you at least do that?” I wish I could channel Callie in this moment. She would know just what to say and just what to do. Callie’s the kind of person who doesn’t think of the perfect comeback five minutes too late. She’s got her response ready to go before the last syllable is even out of the other person’s mouth.