I wished he knew that he’d convinced me to include her. But sending a text that said, “Enjoyed the movie—my grandmother did, too,” seemed too embarrassingly transparent. Anyway, I kind of wanted to tell him face-to-face. I wanted to see him smile and nod, the way he did when he felt I’d done something right for once. Those moments were rare enough.
I flipped around in my bed. The house was too quiet. Usually I could hear someone moving around after I went to bed: Mom getting up and wandering along the hallway (she had insomnia issues); Jacob crying after a bad dream; Luke coming home late from work. . . . But tonight it was just Grandma and me, and the faint sounds of her rhythmic breaths made me feel even more alone: she was so deeply asleep and I was so awake. I wasn’t exactly scared—we really did have a ridiculously impressive security system and I had double-checked that it was set before going to bed—but I didn’t like the quiet. It made me glad Grandma had come after all. If I felt this isolated with her, the loneliness would have been unbearable without her.
I couldn’t fall asleep. I sat up and reached for my laptop. When I opened it, the screen was still filled with the Word document for my college essay. I skimmed it again and hated it even more. It was so boring. So . . . just okay. So upright and good citizen–y. So uninspired. So not really me in any way at all.
I opened up a blank page and started to write a response to the essay. Just to have something to do, something to take my mind off how empty the house felt.
I didn’t try to sound formal and smart. I just wrote down the sentences that came into my head.
I want to be exceptional. But my expectations of who I should be always run ahead of the reality of who I am. I see myself as a writer, a philanthropist, an athlete, a dancer. . . .
But I’m not any of those things. Not really. I’ve tried my hand at so many different activities, been enthusiastic and optimistic about each one until it turned challenging or repetitive, and then . . . stopped. I never make it to the next level, where I might actually get good. I’m strong with beginnings; it’s sticking to something that’s hard for me.
I used to dream about being really good at something and I’ve managed to convince myself that the reason it hasn’t happened yet is because I just haven’t found the right “thing.” So I keep trying new things, just waiting for the magic to happen.
But maybe you aren’t born with a talent that’s like a key that fits into a lock. Maybe it’s the sticking-to-something part that makes you outstanding—and that’s what I don’t have.
So now my dream has changed. Now instead of dreaming of being brilliant, I dream of being consistent. I dream of being dedicated. I dream of finding something I love so much that even someone like me—a mercurial, inconstant, lifelong dilettante—could honestly say, “This time, I’ll make myself proud.”
I sat back and looked at what I had written. It was way too short. It was probably too negative. It wasn’t particularly clever or well-written.
But it was honest.
I went back to bed and this time I fell asleep.
When I got home from school the next day, I worked on the essay some more, expanding it, making it funnier and adding in some examples. I talked about our trip to Haiti and how I had vowed to find a way to help—the stuff the other essay had been about—but this time I told the truth about how little I had followed through on my resolution.
When I finished rewriting it, I stayed in my seat for a while, staring absently at the keyboard and thinking.
I wasn’t actually sure I should use it as my college essay. In fact, I was pretty sure I shouldn’t. It made me sound like someone who couldn’t get her act together, which wasn’t exactly what colleges looked for in their students.
But if I didn’t think I could use it, why was I putting all this time into it?
Could I use it?
I needed George to help me figure it out, I decided.
So that night, after I had fiddled with the new essay some more and felt like maybe it was in decent shape, I sent it as an email attachment to him. In the subject line, I wrote, Possible new essay? And in the body of the email I wrote, I want to be a good person. I just get in the way sometimes.?
I deleted the smiley face and put it back in several times, finally leaving it in.
And then I hit send. And waited.
An hour later, I got an email back from him.
Re: Possible new essay?
Yes. Will discuss on Wednesday.
I spent the next hour staring at music videos and obsessing over those five words. The Yes seemed positive. Maybe that meant he liked it? Although . . . it could also have just meant he agreed that I got in my own way. And the Will discuss on Wednesday wasn’t exactly helpful feedback.
I had wanted more from George. I felt like I’d cut myself open and exposed some hidden nerve-ridden and embarrassing part of my anatomy with that essay. I’d spent years trying to convince myself that I was someone who did what she set out to do, so it wasn’t easy to admit that I wasn’t really like that.
I wanted something back for my honesty—some sense that George appreciated it and valued the courage it took. I also wanted him to see that the essay was my way of saying I screwed up with Grandma and that I was glad he called me out on it, because I really did want to be a decent person, even if I didn’t always act like it.
But as good as I was at talking other people into things, I couldn’t succeed at convincing myself that George was saying he understood all that in those five short words.
twenty-three
Ben and I needed to write an official email about the Holiday-Giving Program’s annual Thanksgiving Food drive, which would have to be approved by the head of the school before we could forward it to all the parents. We had the previous year’s letter as a template, but we had to change the dates and some other minor details.