This post:
I have a question about the housing guidelines, as I just received my acceptance letter in the mail this morning.
I don’t read the rest. I don’t need to. Because the post was written yesterday.
My eyes shoot up toward Emery. She’s still on the phone, her eyes full of sadness.
I can’t leave her. Not right now.
When she hangs up, she pushes her hands against her eyes and groans like she’s full of tension and wants to get it out. “Why does family have to be so much work?”
“Anything I can do to help?” I have to make an effort to slow my voice down. My heart is beating so fast that I’m worried I won’t be able to contain my excitement.
She looks up weakly. “Can you make my parents nicer people?”
“If I knew that trick, I’d have used it by now,” I say.
Emery talks about her parents, and moving away, and how badly she wants to get into medical school, even if only to prove that she’s different from the rest of her family. Eventually, she changes the subject to Gemma and Cassidy and how neither of them have big dreams to move away. And when she tells me about Cassidy’s plan to hook up with one of her crushes before the summer is over, I can’t hold it in anymore.
“People have been getting their acceptance letters into Prism,” I blurt out. “I just read it on the forums. That means—”
“Go check your mail!” Emery squeals, pushing her empty cup aside. “Why did you wait so long to say something?”
I fidget in my seat. “I didn’t want to just leave you.”
“I would’ve left you.” Emery smirks. “Your assignment this summer is to grow some serious ladyballs, Kiko.”
I twist my mouth. “Why do people always use ‘balls’ as the epitome of bravery? Like, we have to ‘grow balls’ if we want to be strong.”
“Because,” Emery says too loudly, “saying ‘grow some serious ovaries’ doesn’t really have the same ring to it.”
A few people turn toward us and look at our table, and I feel my face flush.
“Oh my God.” Covering my face with one hand, I stand up and laugh awkwardly. “Okay, I’m leaving. Good-bye.”
“Text me as soon as you open that letter!” Emery shouts after me.
The drive home kills me. Every red light is torture. Every stop sign causes me physical pain.
People are already getting their acceptance letters into Prism.
That means . . .
I burst into my house like my body is literally on fire.
The TV is on, which means someone is downstairs, which means it’s probably Mom. With the exception of Taro’s fixation on the refrigerator, the three of us tend to migrate to our own spaces when we’re inside the house.
Mom’s perched on the couch like she’s meditating, except her eyes are wide open and she’s staring right at me.
“Did the mail come today?” I ask, breaking the ice that never truly goes away between us.
“It’s on the counter,” she says stiffly.
I can tell from her face—it’s here. My letter from Prism is here.
I find the envelope with Prism’s logo in the corner—three circles positioned like they’re part of a bigger triangle. It’s thin. That’s a bad sign. I know it is. My gut knows it too, because now I feel like I haven’t eaten in weeks and I’m about to fall to pieces. But more important, the envelope isn’t sealed.
I turn to my mother. She looks 100 percent guilty. “You opened it? Why would you open my letter?”
“Because,” she starts with a defensive laugh, “we weren’t talking, and if it was good news I didn’t want to have to be fake and suddenly happy for you. I needed time to prepare.”
“Time?” I repeat.
“It came yesterday. Don’t be mad.”
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“Don’t be mad? You opened the most important letter of my life yesterday and didn’t even tell me. And you did it because you needed time to prepare!”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
Nothing. Because she said she needed time to prepare. And that means . . .
My heart thuds. And thuds. And thuds.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I look back at the envelope. It’s so thin. How can it be so thin if it’s a “yes”?
I start to pull the letter out. I need to see the words. I need to—
“You didn’t get in,” Mom blurts out before I get the chance to read anything at all.
My heart implodes inside my chest.
She stands up, her arms folded in front of her. “I’m sorry, Kiko. But you didn’t get in. I know you really wanted it, and even though I’m still very upset with you, I do mean it. I’m sorry.”
I don’t even realize I’m crying until Mom turns into a blurry pink and peach blob. We stand there for a while, me leaking tears like a broken faucet and Mom pulling her arms closer and closer to her own chest.
Somehow I find the strength to move my feet, and when I’m alone in my room with the door closed and my thoughts drowned out with music, I open the letter.
I get as far as “We regret to inform you” and then the letter is in the trash can and my face is stuffed so far into my pillow that it practically absorbs into my red, screaming face.
? ? ?
I don’t paint anything at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Everyone is talking about college at school. At least, that’s how it feels. They’re either talking about college or graduation tomorrow—doesn’t anyone have anything else to talk about? It’s not like everyone else hasn’t had their letters for months. They’ve had plenty of time to share their college acceptance stories. I haven’t been accepted anywhere, and I feel like my soul has been turned to ash.
“I’m so sorry, Kiko.” Emery stares at me with big round eyes—eyes that say, “I don’t know what to say or do to make you feel better.”
Gemma and Cassidy keep looking around the cafeteria uncomfortably. I guess they don’t know what to say either.
“Can we talk about something else?” My voice shakes.
Emery tells me about her graduation outfit. Gemma talks about getting her hair cut. Cassidy talks about kissing some guy from her English class.
I try to listen, but it’s hard when “We regret to inform you” keeps pounding inside my head.
Ceramics class is even worse because Mr. Miller remembered how badly I wanted to get into Prism. When he asks, and I tell him I was rejected, I get to watch the disappointment color his face. It’s only a drop of what I feel.
“Well, you can always reapply next year. I’m sure it was very competitive. What are you going to do now?”
It’s a great question. The question, I guess.
What am I going to do now?
I have no backup school. I have a mom who has been encouraging me for more than a year to stay at home and go to community college—which, quite frankly, sounds only a tiny bit better than bathing in acid and letting a coyote eat my legs off. I don’t have anything against community college; I just can’t imagine spending another year living at home with Mom.
And Uncle Max.
I feel terrified. I feel completely lost.
Oh my God, what am I going to do now?
? ? ?
I stare at a blank piece of paper until I crumple it into a ball and stuff it beneath my textbook.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN