Free Dog Stays in the Picture by Susan; Morse

the fondue forks off the dish drainer, and stab him with it.
    At 11:38 p.m. Sam finally completes his long essay. All I do is skim it; at this point he could have written I Think I Am A Child-Molesting Cannibal Terrorist From Outer Space and I would have sent the piece in unchallenged because at least it’s an essay. Maybe the admissions staff will be so swamped and buried under all the other essays about What I Learned From My Dog When It Died and How Football Makes Me A Compassionate Citizen , they won’t have time to process Sam’s anyway.
    So Sam and I charge off with Lilly at our heels (Hey! Where’s she going? This is not okay; she has to wait for you—ouch, your toenails!) to submit his long essay and all the other Ivy U short answers and whatnoton the newest computer in the house. We are positive the Common App site will be jammed this close to the midnight deadline with millions of dead dogs and compassionate football crap and we’re going to need the best technology we’ve got.
    When Sam tries to upload his first short answer, the supplement site rejects it three times. He’s getting a little uptight and so am I. We have been here before, sitting in front of the Common App website applying to all Sam’s other schools, grabbing the mouse from each other, elbowing, hissing, No no Sam why did you click that you have to click that other thing, I did this with Eliza you have to let me do it. And Oh my God, Mama, stop it just calm down what is your problem.
    â€”It’s BROKEN, Sam.
    â€”No, it’s not, Mama.
    Nothing is broken.
    Lilly is curled under the desk at my feet, even though the floor is very, very hard under there. She seems to feel this is the best place to be right now.
    Sam, Lilly, and I log out and log back in to see if that helps. The first short answer about Why I chose Ivy U seems to be uploading; there’s a sort of spinny thing next to it going round and round and round. Tick-tock tick-tock.
    It is 11:41 p.m. Once this thing finishes spinning we still have to upload a few more short answers and the big long essay before we can finally hit Submit. Then Sam will have joined throngs of ancestors, at least as an applicant, at Ivy U.
    Click. Rejected?!
    â€”S%#F@^*# Sam, I’m right. Your Common Application is broken .
    Our boys entered the world by vaginal delivery, which seems to impress people. Twins are often C-sectioned out, but we had a naturally oriented, hot-dog Southern California OBGYN with twin girls of his own who was confident he could make my dream of old-fashioned childbirth a reality.
    I was justifiably nervous but determined to try. I did my homework during pregnancy, reading everything I could find about what to expect at delivery. One thing I found encouraging was that the first twin to arrive sort of opens the birth canal, making the second twin’s entrance less excruciating for the mother. So you’re literally getting two for the price of one, pain-wise.
    Thing is, we weren’t yet acquainted with Sam and his predisposition for last-minute drama and general Sonic Whatsit–type bad luck.
    â€”Sam, you’ve been working all week and your friends are waiting. Your actual writing’s all done, and I can’t stand that this stupid clunky website is keeping you here on your last New Year’s Eve of high school. Why don’t you go? I’ll just hand-type your short answers into the boxes if I have to. I swear on a stack of bibles I won’t change anything.
    In the middle of copying out I am interested in Ivy U because everyone always tells me this is the best school for me or something, I begin to get a major stomachache. The doubled-over childbirth kind. I am literally on the floor trying to reach up to the keyboard from under the desk, just to tap one more key, sweating; it’s so awful. What’s wrong with me? Oh, the fondue on top of the cheese at lunch.
    What if I have to go to the emergency room