Survival Of The Fittest

The acceptance letters for Stanford applicants would be released March 28, 4 PM PST.

For New York University hopefuls, April 1.

Acceptance letters for MIT release 3.14628. March 14th, 6:28 PM, a humorous reference of all time.

UC Los Angeles? March 21st at roughly 6 PM.

Ivy had no strong compulsion to track dates for her safety schools.

[Ivy Briar, Pregame Thread 2]

Balancing air conditioning preferences in a group came down to keeping the AC a bit too cold. Sweaters and blankets were the compromise. The round banquet-ready dining room table with seats for a dozen was her father's idea. It was adequately repurposed for Red Rock's brightest minds. There were coasters with glasses Ivy regularly topped off without a word. Extra blank notebooks, a selection of snacks carefully picked out for each attendee. All in easy reach.

Ivy already had 5s in AP Chemistry, Statistics, English Literature, and World History. Calculus AB, Psychology, and Physics were her final hurdles for the semester. College credits abound. She strongly doubted straight 5s in Calculus or Physics were in reach. She was only a mortal being after all. She'd count a 3 to 4 as a W.

Still, her best effort was a must, always had been and always would be.

Ivy had her marble blue, forebodingly heavy Calculus textbook open to a page littered with sticky notes. Each sticky note was carefully notated by her handwriting. Lightweight, gentle pressure penmanship; elegant and pleasant to read.

A soft exhale, meditative. A single spin of her mechanical pencil between two fingers. Eyes closed, the bright late afternoon Vegas sun shut out as she envisioned something intended for her own eyes only.

Her eyes fluttered open. She adjusted the drape of her letterman against her shoulder with her free hand.

Ivy finished taking a few margin notes in a passage of essay writing Sylvie was working on. Sylvie was good at what she did. Which was a lot of things, inevitably. A second opinion was never remiss however.

Ivy quietly passed the open notebook back with a soft smile, mostly in her eyes.

A quick scan of the other's chosen battle stations. She checked to see if the condensation on any glass was too stale, too lost to gravity.

Ivy’s parents were still dealing with the mortgage as they eternally were and Ivy hadn’t hosted any of the study groups in fall sem. This was the first one this school year.

Nearly daily practice for NCA Nationals, less than three weeks to go. Less than a week after Rattler basketball's infinity-eth championship bracket appearances. She was constantly tired. Cramming down her weight in carbs and protein to keep up with the demands on her body. Her hands permanently smelled like sterile gym mat.

But she didn’t want to force the others to host all the time. She could cut into her personal budget a bit. Phone it in at practice for a day, or skip a lunch at school.

A number of cheerleaders walk into a house (some hours ago). The punchlines never arrive as they gather around a dining table and begin to grind their brains against the omnipresent stone of academia. They have presumably congregated in adherence to the old adage of a problem shared being a problem halved but even if you divide the grinding sessions that's just more than one brain being smoothed down into itty bitty pieces to crash down onto bed later. Nevertheless, the group carries on in support of one another's respective scholarly plights. And despite the pessimism and the presence of the past-paper free-response agony concerning the 1970 establishment of the Environmental Protection Agency, Sylvie had to admit she felt rather more comfortable than usual banging her head against the brick essay wall around her fellows instead of on her own.

[Sylvie Rattray-Aubert continued from Civil Procedure in the United States]

Sylvie scribbled out point after point and plan after plan for the essay proper in very elegant and legible calligraphy, her hand moving in pretty little swirls, at the very least nowhere near tiredness for now. She was leaned in and focused, a lock of blonde hair going unnoticed as it draped out of place down her face, her lips moving in non-existent mumbles to the self. The letterman draped across the back of the chair; big sleeves were not typically the most efficient for essay writing. Everything very neatly sectioned into its base parts, and those base parts are passed around for convenience. Like so; Sylvie's expression noticeably brightened as she heard the shhhh of a notebook sliding across wood. "Thanks." Came easily out of her mouth with a sweet and genuine (typically the default) tone as she lifted the notes to her eyes. Quickly Sylvie began to change and adapt what already existed in accordance to the small perspectives newly described on the side of the paper.

Ivy didn't take AP gov, but Ivy knew how to structure an essay really well and how to organize a study session, so Sylvie was thankful for her presence anyway. Even at its worst, she considered, an outside observation was always useful. Dad had told her that, once. Advanced esoteric lawyer technique stuff. At least it applied, even with Sylvie on the other side. Her purpose, especially in this context, was listening. "Rubber-ducking", as it were. When Ivy got stuck on some five-pointer which involved integrating fractions (totally understandable), she could describe the problem to the small and patient girl across her, and just speaking it out loud seemed to be enough to get her going again. An auspicious technique, and Sylvie got a small break from essaying in exchange. Symbiosis.

Nevertheless, they'd been at it for a while. The sun was lowering in tandem with Sylvie's energy, and she failed to suppress a yawn... but tried to push on anyway. Head unconsciously leaned on a hand, itself being supported by an elbow unconsciously resting on the table. The mumbling became slightly more audible as she tried to mentally slap herself awake from exhaustion.

"Thusly, congress' influence on the actions of the bureaucratic agency in this scenario..."

((Stella'd said she'd be here. So she was here. Had already finished Calc last semester, wasn't here because she needed to be. But, you know, she didn't make commitments she didn't plan on following through.))

Wasn't at the dining table. Nah, open floor plan. Living room adjoining the kitchen, no wall. Annotated copy of King Lear and a closed notebook on the coffee table, Stella sitting on a chaise lounge, back propped up, right leg crossed over the left, one foot on the ground, holding her phone in both hands. Not in a great mood, not sure why, but able to fake it.

Single airpod in.

Wasn't actually sitting on a chaise lounge. You'd already know that if you were someone who knew what they were. Buuuuut, well, she was a gracious guest -- always important to glaze your host.

Fiiiiine Corinthian leather.

Anyways,

She glanced sideways at the dinner table. Then, baaaack to her phone.

Anyways, iiinto Marcy Valerio's DMs.

Stella wasn't friends with her per saaaay. Call it a distaste for her contrarian aura; voted second most likely of the graduating class to OD on fent before the age of 21, after Belphegor or whatever she wanted to call herself. Cold, mutual, low-level tension -- Stella could see that and she presumed Marcy could too. But, also, you know, Stella was capable of caring about her teammates and being nice, and Heathers was actually a work of fiction, fun fact. And, she'd already told Ingrid M. she was gonna do this.

So.

"Hey"

Send.

'Top secret, for official eyes only"

Send.

"Got an invite from mona to one of her raves. VIP access, etc"

Send.

"Seemed like something you might be interested in. I can send you the info if you want to tag along."

Send.

((There's a ping on Stella's phone a couple minutes later))

Marcipan: Heeeyhey

Marcipan: Oh wow. Sounds like a fustercluck in the making

Marcipan: I'm SO in