When I get home from school my mom's sending a piano lesson out the door. I have a lesson in an hour leaving me enough time to eat a snack and stalk the University of Washington's website.
At least that's my plan until my mom calls my name bringing me back into the kitchen. She's wiping at the white counters, a gentle smile on her face when I step into view.
"How was school?"
I give her the standard answer. "It was good."
Her dark hair is pulled back, the old cardigan that she wears more often than not hangs from her shoulders. Sometimes I wonder if she's happy, if this is the life she always dreamed of or if she's longing for more. Something less stifling.
Maybe I'm projecting.
"And how's Wes?" She starts to pull things from the cabinets and fridge.
Raw chicken, potatoes, vegetables. Moving about the kitchen, exposing the messy interiors of the cupboards for short glimpses before concealing their secrets again.
"He's okay. His tics are getting bad again." I tell her.
And there I stand keeping all my messy secrets buried so deep there are no glimpses.
My mom sighs, her head shaking. "That poor boy."
I watch her select a knife, tearing through the plastic wrapping of the chicken. She slaps a peace of raw meat down on a cutting board with more confidence than she ever carries just in herself. And I realize how similar we are.
My mom and I are only confident in our routine. In the things we know are expected of us. My mom is meant to tend the house, cook the meals, raise the child.
And I'm meant to be the perfect son.
"I called Grace today but she must be working." She glances at me and I nod, confirming for her. "We should have them over soon, don't you think?"
"Yeah, that'd be nice."
I'm still standing in the kitchen, not having the guts to sit down at the counter and relax into a conversation with my mom and not being rude enough to dismiss the conversation all together.
It's all so polite. So guarded.
It's wrong.
James is right. I'm tired of hiding. Of feeling so much shame but yet, I can't bring myself to do anything about it. Other than pile on more lies.
How am I supposed to shatter this illusion I've worked so hard to create so that my parents have a son they can be proud of. How will we look if I do? Will we remain the same? Or will I have done just that, shatter us?
The unknown scares me.
Loss terrifies me.
"Oh." My mom says softly even though she wields the knife in her hand with more aggression and skill. "You have a piece of mail."
She points with the blade of the knife, the metal gleaming under the light, reflecting the pristine kitchen. I follow the point of the blade across the kitchen to the other side of the counter where an envelope sits alone.
"I do?" I ask the question even thought it's pointless.
My mom hums. "I didn't know you applied to the University of Washington."
Air catches in my throat, my fingers trembling as I pluck the white envelope from the counter. I know it's just a simple, minuscule envelope but suddenly it feels so heavy.
"Uh, yeah. I mumble, staring at the official lettering on the envelope. "Back up. Just incase."
"Back up?" She questions. "You've already received acceptance letters from two of your top three. And Yale will surely come any day."
What she doesn't know is Yale's already responded. I got in. But I don't want to go.
"Just making sure I have options." I lie, spinning the envelope between my fingers.
I want to run away to my room to open it privately because unlike with Yale and my mother's other two top choices, I actually want to go here. James has already been accepted to a school out there. I want to move across the country, put miles and a mountain range between me this town. And the answer to all of my prayers is sitting in this envelope.
"Are you going to open it?" My mom asks, her focus more on prepping dinner than my mail.
Probably because for her there's no other option but Yale, even the other top two, they're just backs up.
"No." The word blurts out of me tense and anxious and not at all what I was going for. "I mean, it's not a big deal. It's just in case. Keep my options open." I'm rambling. "I'm going to go to my room, get some work down before my lesson shows up."
I start for my room as she says "I'll let you know when they're here."
I shout a thanks over my shoulder before I pick up my pace once I'm out of sight. My chest is tight, fingers picking at the envelope and by the time I reach my room I'm seconds from crumbling. It feels like looming devastation, so much is riding on what's in this envelope.
Closing my door behind me quietly, I suck in a breath and tear at the envelope seal. It's just a sheet of paper, my hopes deflating because even though I haven't received a rejection letter this has to be it. All the other colleges sent fancy letters with information packets and embossed seals and this is just a piece of paper, tri folded snd stuffed in a boring envelope.
It's a letter for the unworthy.
I close my eyes and take a breath, hoping that when I open them again the letter has somehow morphed into something else but it doesn't. It's still the same letter, in the same sad envelope.
"Just open it." I whisper to myself.
My eyes drift along my room, my boring, meticulous room. A room that's devoid of personality. And it suddenly seems too cold. Too sterile, not intimate enough for this moment of heartbreak that I'm surely about to endure.
I need a safe space, a space where I can be me, if only by myself.
Pulling open my closet doors, I snatch my book with its book light off my nightstand and crawl into the corner of the closet. My glasses slip down my nose, the space lit only by blurry shadows as I shuffle around and close the doors by memory.
The envelope is still clutched in my hand, my book in the other as I right my glasses with one finger. I turn my book light on and then it's just me and the letter in the quiet space of my closet.
I have to open it. I have to read the words that I've been rejected.
My breath shakes as I inhale, my hands in a similar fashion as I pull the single tri-folded paper from the envelope. Mentally scolding myself for being a chicken I force myself to unfold the paper, to keep my eyes open, to read the perfect uniform letters that's are typed across the page. The letters that will obliterate the fantasy of my future I've been creating in my head for the last year.
The paper rustles as I unfold it and I skim past the letterhead and the formalities of the date and my name. I don't care about a fancy, intricately designed letterhead.
My eyes scan the first sentence, my heart stopping in my chest, seizing up right before it might explode. Just before the moment when I was about to give in to complete devastation one word saved me.
Congratulations.
I got in.
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So what's going on? Anything new? How's everyone?
I've got poison ivy. It fucking sucks. But the fence line in my dog run looks on point. Is my dog happy? Yes. Does it look better? Yes. Do I have a full set of outdoor furniture for free now? Yes. Was it worth it? Fuck no.
Today is day one of steroids. Started it off great by not reading the directions and taking them. Only to wonder why I started to feel nauseous. Yeah, supposed to eat with it. Whatever.
Good news, I'm decorating a one year olds birthday party (I'm not rich enough to hire someone to decorate a party but I am smart enough to get paid to decorate one so who's the fucking winner there?) but more importantly I'm definitely getting sushi after from my favorite place and I plan to eat bois.
So that's what's going on with me. Feel free to share what's going on with you. Or ya know, continue to not talk (not including you few, I'd tag you but it's a bitch to find all of your usernames but you know who you are, Cayte, 528, taters, Lynn, Ren).