In February, Zach and Mia turned eighteen. The magic number convinced them that they were adults; suddenly they questioned every rule and restriction. Curfews struck them as irrelevant now, unnecessary. They were constantly testing the limits and wanting more freedom.
As the weather warmed, class parties sprung up like mushrooms on the roadside. Blooming instantly. All it took was a phone call and a fake ID in someone’s hand. My parents are gone became the class motto, the equivalent of a clan call. Kids arrived at empty houses or on the beach or in the woods with fifths and six-packs and Baggies of pot. Some parents chose to host the parties themselves, rigorously taking car keys, but if no “cool” parent could be found, well, the party must go on.
The whole scenario had exhausted Jude, worn her to a frazzle. She felt more like a warden than a parent, and the constant battling with her twins about safety and compromise and good choices had weakened her. She no longer believed them when they said they wouldn’t drink. At first she had clamped down, denied them, but that had only driven them to sneak out, which led to more clamping down—and more angry rebellion. Every day felt like a mountain to climb, every night they spent at home a triumph.
On top of all that was the college pressure. It had become a cauldron that held them all, parents and kids; the water was heating up fast. One question was asked over and over: have you heard? It was asked mother to mother at Safeway, in line at the post office, or on the ferry.
Honestly, Jude was as nervous as her kids about it.
Even now, on this gorgeous March afternoon, when she should have been gardening, she was standing at the window, staring up the driveway. It was almost three-thirty. The kids had just gotten home from school. They’d torn through the kitchen like locusts and then gone upstairs.
“You’re wearing a groove in the floor,” Miles said from the living room, where he was reading the newspaper. He had had a surgery cancelled today and come home from the hospital early.
She saw a flash of white.
The mail was here.
She grabbed her coat and stepped into the garden clogs on the porch and headed up the gravel driveway. At the top of the hill, she pulled open the mailbox and saw what she’d been waiting for.
A nice thick envelope with the USC emblem on the upper left corner.
It wasn’t absolute proof, of course, the thickness of the envelope, but everyone knew it took a lot of pages to welcome a student and only one to reject.
Then it struck her. One envelope.
She let out a sigh and reached for the rest of the mail.
And there it was. At the bottom of the stack.
A second thick envelope with the same logo.
Jude hurried back down the driveway. Once inside the house, she yelled out for the kids.
“Did something come?” Miles asked, taking off his reading glasses.
Jude tossed the heap of mail on the entry table and showed him the two special envelopes. “Mail call,” she said, feeling suddenly nervous. She had to say it twice—yell it, really—and then the kids came hurrying down the stairs.
Jude handed Zach the envelope with his name on it.
Mia snatched the other envelope, ripping it open as she walked away. Not more than ten feet away, she spun around. “They accepted me!” A grin burst across her face and then faded as she looked at her brother. “Zach?” she said nervously.
Please, Jude prayed. Let it be both of them.
Zach opened the envelope and read the letter. “They accepted me.”
Jude’s shriek could have shattered glass. She launched herself forward to sweep Zach and Mia into a family hug.
“I’m so proud of you guys.” She waited for Zach to hug her, but he was too stunned to move. Finally, she stepped back, beaming at them. “Both of you at USC. It’s your dream come true.”
“We have to call Lexi and Ty,” Mia said. She grabbed Zach’s hand and pulled him toward the stairs.
“And the crowd goes wild. Come on, Mama Bear,” Miles said, coming to stand beside her. “I’ll pour us champagne.”
Jude stared up the empty stairs. “Why are we the only ones celebrating?”