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Apparently the big secret to life is that the universe hears everything you want: everything you put into it, all your hopes and dreams, every energy into every thought.

So the more positively you think—the more energy you put into believing that your dreams are possible, the more motivation you have to go after them—the more the universe will respond in kind and make you more in tune to see those opportunities.

That’s why I came up with the Plan.

I think about it constantly, training my unconscious to put this energy out that I, Brenda Nguy?n, high school senior in a small no-name suburb, am going to save the world.

I know that I singlehandedly can’t stop an asteroid from hitting the earth, or save a school bus headed for a train, or whatever comes to mind when you think “save the world.” I know I don’t have superpowers or anything ridiculous like that.

But there are supervillains out there—corrupt people and corporations destroying our planet, reducing the quality of life of people all over the world.

And I know I can fight them, through science and collaboration with public policy and inspiring change at all levels.

But, of course, all plans have their snags.

The internet is out.

“Má, I need your car!” I say, trying not to panic as I dash to the front door.

Of all the days for the Wi-Fi to kick the bucket, of course it’s when my scholarship is due. Th is wouldn’t have been a problem, since I wrote my essay last week, but my last recommendation letter didn’t come in until today. Mr. Mendoza, my AP Bio teacher, mixed up the date of the deadline.

This past week was a hectic scramble—not that my life usually isn’t or that I can’t handle it.

I can handle complicated; I have to if I want to become the next Shannon Mayfield, incredible scientist and green entrepreneur.

Her clean energy breakthrough created the world’s first industrial factory with zero carbon footprint to make everyday household things.

I don’t particularly have a passion for sustainable soap, but Fields Forward offers a full scholarship to any four-year university for students studying environmental science and it includes a fellowship where you get academic credit to do research in their cutting-edge labs.

I need this scholarship. It ties in perfectly with the Plan:

brENDA NGUYê?N’S ULTIMATE PLAN TO SAVING THE WORLD

13. Take all the AP science classes and PASS THEM

14. Write a killer personal statement

15. Apply for all the best colleges, including UCLA (the dream school!!!)

16. Apply for all available scholarships, including FIELDS FORWARD!!!

17. Use scholarships to pay for said dream school

18. Go to UCLA and do the ultimate research project at Fields Forward Industries

19. Invent something awesome and SAVE THE WORLD

Under Step 16 I have a sub-list for every scholarship; all of those are complete except one. But when I reminded Mr. Mendoza on Monday, he said, “Oh, of course, Brenda, I’ll get that to you by the deadline. Friday, right?”

“Wednesday at 6:00 P.M. ,” I said, my relief at finishing the essay flying out the window.

“I promise, I’ll get it in. Can you email me the info again?”

Every problem is just another challenge, I reminded myself.

The week didn’t get better from there.

Everyone in concert band was freaking out about the upcoming competition, and I spent all of after-school practice helping the freshmen prepare.

More Key Club volunteers signed up than expected for our next service trip, and I need to figure out options with the limited transportation.

Three dif ferent vendors bailed for prom, and if I have to sit through another student council meeting squabbling over the musical tastes of the last DJs in Los Angeles in our budget I’m going to scream.

This late in the game, we can’t afford to be picky.

Yesterday I finally got everyone to agree on a DJ, and a florist signed the contract, so prom is back to smooth sailing.

And then regionals last night was almost canceled because of that 4.

2 earthquake out in Inglewood early that morning.

We had some shaking in second period, and Ms. Forsyth’s globe fell over, but nothing major at all happened, just the usual scientists freaking out and other scientists calming everyone down.

Apparently the uptick in these moderate quakes this year are a good sign, according to the latest report out in Caltech.

That the pressure in the San Andreas Fault is being released slowly, instead of all at once, which means the Big One may not come at all.

Anyway, we’re Angelenos and used to moving on with our lives despite earthquakes. And regionals went spectacularly; we won and Ms. Collette, our band director, was ecstatic. San Pablo High has never even qualified for the statewide music festival before, so everyone is excited.

But regionals were in downtown LA, so by the time I got home, I just passed right out. I’d brought my laptop to school to submit my essay first thing only to realize there was no letter.

“Right after school, I promise,” he said when I nudged him about it in class today.

I left band practice early after giving the freshmen some practice exercises and caught the first bus home.

But no letter yet. I watched the site like a hawk while polishing my essay.

There was a new article in Forbes featuring Fields Forward so I took the opportunity to reference it.

Maybe Shannon herself would be reading the final essays.

At 5:27 p.m., I refreshed one more time and finally, finally, there are three recommendation letter icons instead of the two that have been plaguing me all week.

Right under the wire. Thank you, Mr. Mendoza!

I tried submitting the application, only to find the blank horror of zero bars of connectivity on my laptop display.

I wish I had a Wi-Fi hotspot on my phone or something, but the last time I asked Má, she said it wasn’t worth the extra expense if I didn’t need it all the time. But you can’t really predict when you would ever need something like this until it happens.

“Má! I’m taking the car to the library!” I shove my feet into my tennis shoes without undoing the laces, keys in my hand, backpack swinging from my shoulder; I’m all ready to go.

“Aiyah—slow down, you’re gonna trip or something!” Má calls from the kitchen. “Auntie Van is going that way. Take your cousins, too; they’ve got nothing to do!”

“Má, nè!” I complain, stopping on the patio. “I don’t have time. I need to submit my scholarship before six!”

Auntie Van hustles Jimmy and Stacey toward me. “The library is ten minutes away. And it’s across the street from the 99 Ranch. I can do the grocery shopping while you take the kids to the library,” she says.

No, no, no.

5:28. I don’t have time to argue.

“Fine, come on,” I mutter, jerking my head toward the car.

“Brenda’s driving? All right!” Five-year-old Jimmy’s face breaks into a wide grin.

My other cousin, Stacey, is twelve and is already too cool for everything. She rolls her eyes at me, tapping away at her phone, probably complaining to her friends how she has to hang out with her nerdy cousins.

By 5:32 we are all miraculously in the car.

“I think I’ll make bánh xèo this weekend. Do we still have basil at home?”

“Uh, I dunno.” I’m trying to concentrate, but my arms are shaking as I drive as fast as I can under the speed limit, and I can’t muddle through my toddler comprehension of my own language to parse through Auntie’s too-quick Vietnamese to mentally compare the herbs she’s asking about with what we have at home.

5:37. The light is still red. Great. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. The back of my shirt sticks to the car seat.

“Slow down!” Auntie Van says, scowling as I veer right and take a shortcut across a gas station lot. “What are you doing? So dangerous!”

“Oooh,” Stacey says, and I can see her smirking in the back seat, the traitor.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter sheepishly, trying to concentrate as I pull into the parking lot. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Auntie Van huffs, patting my shoulder. I tap my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as Auntie Van seems to take forever getting out of the car, idling to tell Jimmy and Stacey to pick up some Vietnamese newspapers.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. I grip my lucky TARDIS key chain, fiddling with the familiar shape of the telephone booth.

“And Wilshire is backed up all the way to Sepulveda from downtown, looks like a loose pack of wyverns, if you’re heading westbound, stock up on extra fireproofing spells—”

What? I turn the volume up, frowning. A pack of… what? The radio crackles with static for a second.

“—a three-car pileup at Wilshire and Figueroa—”

I shake my head; I must have imagined it. Probably the stress. Better find a place to upload this essay and fast.

Finally Auntie Van is out and waddling toward the 99 Ranch supermarket. I zip across the street and park at the library.

“I’ll meet you in the kids section in one hour!” I say, giving Stacey and Jimmy an admonishing look.

Stacey gives me a whatever face, but she takes Jimmy’s hand dutifully anyway, and they head toward the colorful children’s area of the library.

A bead of sweat drips down my brow as I look for an open place to turn in my essay—desk, couch, whatever—I’m not picky at this point.

But there’s nothing. Every seat in the library is taken: kids chatting with their parents, people studying avidly with thick textbooks, seniors leisurely reading newspapers, each computer station occupied.

Fine. I can submit this essay standing .

I open my laptop, precariously balancing it on my other hand—

What in the—

The Wi-Fi symbol is grayed out .

I snap my laptop closed, taking in the 5:41 on the big wall clock. My eyes flit about the room, past the crowded computer stations, looking for an answer—