The coolness of the San Francisco January still felt tropical compared to the weather of the last couple months. I stepped off the bus in the early afternoon—half my day having reappeared thanks to time zones—and it growled off. The brisk wind flicked my short hair. I needed to trim the back, which was approaching mullet status.
The few blocks I walked to get home were in the middle of a serious identity crisis. My building, similar to the ones flanking it, was a mildewing brick face painted the perfect mathematical average between gray and brown. The only color was a greenish awning, which stretched over the glass doors of a shuttered business, and the snatches of muted reds behind window screens, two by two, four stories up. But from where I stood in front of our building, I saw sleek new projects in chic pastels not even a block away, with crisply trimmed bay windows and Victorian flourishes. When I was in elementary school, there’d been cheap brick housing rising high from that corner.
Everything was how I remembered it. The percussion of the passing cars blending into the groan of the outside door. The echo and faint stink in the stairwell. The cheerful barking of the lapdog on the second floor, the amused Spanish chatting of the lady in 3C. The light that caught all the dust. My front door.
I pulled my suitcase in and wedged the door shut. A bright, narrow hall stretched ahead, with old family photographs and certificates of my achievements taped to the wall at my left. Our four rooms lined up to the right: bedroom, bathroom, bedroom, kitchen. My parents’ voices were bouncing around the space.
I kicked off my shoes and headed for the kitchen. The suitcase’s wheels down the hall sounded like the hollowness of the highway. I stopped in the threshold, feeling the exhausted relief of a homecoming.
My father sat at the table at the far side of the room, a can of beer in front of him, crosswords and papers scattered before our ancient computer. My mother stood up from the table, her thick hair escaping its neat left part. She rushed to me, her cheeks two bubbles of restrained smile. “Give me a hug,” she said, preempting this by binding me into a hug. I let my suitcase go and hugged her tightly. She’d gained weight; she threatened to spill out of my arms.
“Getting so thin again,” she said. “They must not feed you anything.”
She let go and looked up at me—“Your beautiful hair, ai yah,”—and with a single tsk of her tongue, turned away to fuss with my suitcase, rolling it back down the hall. I approached my dad, who wheeled his chair my way and reached out an arm. I leaned down to tuck my head over his shoulder as we hugged. “Welcome back,” he said gruffly.
As we separated, I glanced over his crossword. “This one’s Monaco, I think,” I said, pointing. “Kelly Monaco.”
Dad filled it in. “Can’t ever finish them,” he said. “There’s always something or other. Actors, baseball players . . . I don’t know how they expect me to know who these people are. Look at this—I can’t get half the questions. Useless.” He dropped the pen and leaned back with a sigh. I found myself smiling. I’d somehow managed to miss my father’s constant dissatisfaction. Between him and my mother, I was the least perfectionist member of the family, which was a pretty pathetic state of affairs.
My attention shifted from the crossword to the papers scattered around it. I frowned, my eyes catching on the Kensington-Blaine logo.
I picked the top sheet up. The transfer application was only half filled in. “Mom,” I called, turning around, “shouldn’t you guys have mailed this in by now?”
She reappeared in the threshold of the kitchen, exchanging a long glance with my dad. It held volumes. Something in that glance, or in the air, told me there’d been a sea change between them. Maybe this wasn’t just a peaceful period. Maybe it was really and truly peacetime again.
“Mom?” I repeated, after a moment.
She sighed. “We’ve been talking with a woman from your school. Reese Garrison, who sent us the form. She told us to wait until the New Year, so. We waited.”
“And?” I said.
“And—” My mom waved her hands, a dismissive flourish. “I thought with the plays, if they didn’t cast you, they didn’t care. But this woman’s really pushing.”
Dad spoke up. “She called a couple days ago and told us about a School Board meeting they had this break. She said every year there’s a motion to change the financial aid, so she brought in a petition about what you did this semester, had a list of faculty sign it, and it—” He waved at the papers. “You can read it. She sent us a copy.”
I rifled through the papers and found a page-long letter with Reese’s signature. I scanned it, my heart beating faster and faster. By the conclusion, I was lightheaded: “. . . this social disguise project embodies the aggressive, real-life approach to artistic and, more specifically, theatrical applications we seek to engender in our student body. It shows a keen interest in both character study and improvisation, and from the length of the commitment, a dedication to the Kensington ideal: art through perseverance. Unfortunately, Ms. Sun’s financial experience with the academy demonstrates a fundamental weakness of Kensington’s current policy. She is one example of the losses we incur annually—not of funds but of exceptional academic and creative talent. We fail current students and applicants alike by using an outdated, limiting financial aid system. Luckily, the Board has the capacity to create change, and to work toward a more comprehensive, realistic network of support for low-income, often first-generation students.”
I lowered it. God, Reese had made cutting off all my hair and cross-dressing sound like a dissertation.
“So what happened?” I asked hoarsely. “What’d she say?”