Mao Lee sat in bed with her cell phone, thumbs flying as she flooded a friend with text messages. In a few hours she would catch an early morning flight for a visit to Reed College in Oregon. I've never been to an airport. What if I miss the plane? Reassuring messages trickled back until the weary friend had to go to bed. Mao didn't sleep much that night. Her world is largely confined to her family, her high school in north Minneapolis, the family garden north of the Twin Cities and the area lakes she fishes. Not cross-country flights to visit elite private colleges like Reed.

Mao is one of four high school seniors the Star Tribune has followed as they applied for college this year. The competition to get into selective schools has never been tougher, and it has been a hard spring for many seniors. Record numbers of applicant have been turned away by schools ranging from Harvard to the University of Minnesota. Now, national decision day looms on Tuesday. After anxious months of struggling with essays and financial-aid forms and weighing schools they want against schools they can get into, thousands of Minnesota students will make the biggest choice of their lives.

For Mao, the decision is bigger than most. College will be a path to a life beyond poverty, for her and perhaps for the family she loves.

One of seven children of Hmong parents who never went to school, Mao is a near-straight-A student in advanced courses at Henry High School. She won her first scholarship in middle school. But to her family, she is the oldest unmarried daughter, and she has responsibilities. Mao skips summer enrichment programs to work 14-hour days in the garden with her parents.

She remembers sitting at her older sister's wedding several years ago, realizing that it now fell to her to get the other kids up for school and to translate American words and ways for her parents. She is the bridge that smooths tension between her traditional parents and her Americanized siblings.

When the time comes for college, will she be able to leave home?

Coach and friend

Mao's parents were farmers in Laos. Here, Cher Cha Lee and Zoua Yang raise a family on public assistance and the proceeds from selling vegetables at the farmers market. They know college is good for Mao's future, but they know nothing of the significance of a four-year degree.

Mao could find few Hmong words to explain what she was doing this year. She was hurt and frustrated when her parents couldn't share her triumphs and worries.

Carolyn Herman helped fill that gap. Carolyn, a Macalester College graduate and AmeriCorps volunteer, is Mao's coach in Admission Possible, a college-prep program for promising poor students. Persuasive and funny, Carolyn has been preparing Mao for her big choice for almost two years.

When Mao was in Oregon, she text-messaged Carolyn until her phone died. When Mao said writing about Hmong culture on a scholarship application was "too complicated," Carolyn knew she meant "too personal" and talked her through it. And when Mao won scholarships and trips to colleges, she brought the letters her parents couldn't appreciate to Carolyn, who did the jumping up and down and clapping for all of them.

"Carolyn is more excited than I am," Mao said.

Not really, Carolyn said later. Mao just refused to show it.

Mao's cool reserve is part of her image. Quirky, individualistic and opinionated, she joined school activities from literary magazine to Asian Club but led in none. She didn't talk often in class, but when she did, other students listened.

She adopted Carolyn's habit of scrawling notes in ink on her hands and arms. Unlike most Hmong girls, Mao cut her hair short. "I don't like long hair," she said. "The short hair, jeans and T-shirt say Mao. It's just me."

Scared to death

The November trip to Reed was a huge and scary step.

At the airport, Mao's stomach churned and her palms were sweating. Twenty dollars were stuffed in her jeans pocket. With no driver's license, she carried her Henry ID and her citizenship certificate.