The night before my medical school interview, my sister poured bleach on my only blazer, and my parents told me to stop making a scene. I wore the ruined jacket anyway, walked into the interview, and watched the dean’s face change the moment he saw my last name.

The night before my medical school interview, my sister poured bleach on my only blazer.

I found it hanging over the bathtub at 11:42 p.m., dripping into the drain like something wounded. The black wool had turned a copper-orange color across the left shoulder and down the front pocket. The smell reached me first—sharp, chemical, unmistakable.

Behind me, my sister, Vanessa, leaned against the bathroom doorframe in her silk robe, twisting a strand of blond hair around one finger.

“Oh,” she said, without blinking. “Was that yours?”

I stared at her. “You knew it was mine.”

She smiled. “You always act like everything is so dramatic.”

My interview at Adler Medical School was at eight the next morning. Adler was my first choice. My only real chance. I had spent two years working nights as a patient care technician, taking extra shifts, retaking the MCAT, and writing my application essays during lunch breaks in the hospital basement.

Vanessa had spent those same two years telling relatives that I was “trying out healthcare” while she prepared for her wedding to a finance manager named Brent.

I took the blazer off the hanger with shaking hands. “Mom!”

My mother appeared first, tightening the belt of her robe. My father came behind her, irritated and half-asleep.

Vanessa lifted both palms. “I was cleaning the tub. I didn’t see it.”

“It was hanging on the door,” I said. “There’s no way you didn’t see it.”

My father rubbed his forehead. “Julia, lower your voice.”

“My interview is tomorrow.”

“You can still wear something else,” my mother said.

“I don’t have something else.”

Vanessa scoffed. “Then maybe you should’ve planned better.”

I turned to my parents, waiting for them to say something. Anything.

My mother only sighed. “Stop making a scene. Vanessa said it was an accident.”

That sentence settled in my chest like a stone.

At 6:15 the next morning, I stood in front of the mirror wearing the ruined blazer. I had pinned the lapel closed to cover the worst stain, but the bleach scar still spread across my shoulder like a map of damage. My blouse was clean. My hair was neat. My resume was inside a folder I had bought from a dollar store.

Vanessa watched from the kitchen as I left.

“Good luck,” she said, smiling into her coffee.

At Adler, the waiting room was full of polished applicants in navy suits and expensive shoes. I felt every glance at my jacket.

When my name was called, I walked into the interview room with my back straight.

Dean Howard Whitaker sat at the head of the table. He was known for being unreadable. He looked at my file, then at my bleached blazer.

Then he looked back at the file.

His eyes stopped on my last name.

Garrett.

His expression changed.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You’re her?”

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