The Art of Getting In

Jessica sipped her third latte of the morning and glanced at the clock: 10:17 a.m., Saturday. The leather folder in her lap held Tyler's transcript—mostly A's, a few A-minuses—and a 36-page action plan from Prestigious Pathways™.

It came bundled with a hardcover book titled Stand Out or Get Left Behind in an aggressively serifed font.

"How are we supposed to get him into Harvard?" she asked, tapping the folder like it might cough up a better GPA.

Kimberley, their college admissions consultant, peered over her glasses. "He's white. And a STEM applicant," she said, as if announcing a terminal diagnosis. "So we need a hook."

She slid over a laminated chart titled Narrative Differentiators: 2025 Cycle.

"We recommend a nonprofit," Kimberley said briskly. "Ideally involving clean water, or at-risk youth. Bonus points for international hardship. Uganda? Or Brazil. Favelas photograph well."

Jessica blinked. "But Tyler's in Model UN."

"Exactly! That's fine. But the admissions committee wants resilience, vision, a cause."

Jessica glanced upstairs, where Tyler was still playing Minecraft.

"The admissions committee doesn't just want achievement. They want a story they can tell at the next faculty cocktail party while pretending to neglect the parents' donation potential." Kimberley kept on rambling.

"Harvard loves spiritual awakening in developing nations —she added with surprising vigor— so much that last year I sent twins to Tibet – both got in Early Decision." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "One of them was afraid of heights. The other thought Tibet was a designer brand until the plane landed."

Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it. The $4,000 they'd already spent on test prep, essay coaching, and intro rowing lessons (for a sport Tyler hated) pulsed faintly at her temples.

"And test scores?" she asked.

"We'll submit them strategically," Kimberley said, retrieving a truffle from her drawer.

"I once got a C-student into Princeton by having him discover a 'passion' for traditional Mongolian throat singing. The boy couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but he looked very earnest in the photos."

Jessica wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "Do we tell Tyler any of this?"

"Oh, no," Kimberley said, waving a hand. "Spontaneity reads better. We usually spring it on them right before the photographer arrives."

The office door creaked open. Tyler stood there, wearing pajama pants with cartoon sharks, headphones hanging around his neck, and a look of growing horror.

"What photographer?" he asked. His eyes landed on a brochure showing him mid-meditation, his face awkwardly photoshopped onto the body of a serene monk.

"Tyler! Perfect. How do you feel about a video on the importance of spiritual happiness?"

Tyler stared. "I just wanted to study computer science."

She gestured toward the open folder on her desk — bullet points, timelines, talking points. At the center, a glossy mockup of Tyler standing barefoot on a cliff in Nepal, eyes closed, arms raised toward a sunset he had never seen.

"And now you will. After the nonprofit launch, and a tearful statement about your spiritual journey. Trust the process. The admissions committee is going to love your journey."

Tyler didn't answer. Somewhere upstairs, the game he'd been playing was still running — unpaused, unattended.