Tick-tock.
Tha-thump.
Tick-tock.
Tha-thump.
Tick-Tock.
Tha-thump.
The percussion section of my Monday afternoon symphony of restless anxiety is reverberating off the cream-colored walls of this office. I’ve been here plenty of times; somehow, though, Ms. Herrera’s office seems even more cramped than normal today. One small window populates the wall to the right of her desk, offering an unappealing view of the heat waves rising lazily over the scorched-looking asphalt of the parking lot. Her betta fish Lancelot peers at me from his immaculately clean glass bowl with what seems to be an uninterested expression--it’s hard to tell, because he’s a fish and all, but I find myself a little offended; I thought we’d become somewhat well acquainted in my three years at Sunview High School so far. I lean forward and gaze into his unblinking, fishy eyes, trying to ignore the incessant pounding from deep within my chest.
“Sorry, Elliot!”
The door behind me leaps open suddenly and I nearly start out of my chair in surprise. That’s the thing about waiting for the inevitable; it shows up, whether you’re ready or not, like the collapse of a dying star.
“I would have been here ten minutes ago, but some of the sophomore boys just had to pick today, of all days, to start a fight club in the lower gymnasium.” Ms. Herrera smooths her navy skirt and attempts to smooth what are usually very well-kept curls away from her face. “Parents were called. Heads will roll.”
Our guidance counselor is younger than most of the teachers, probably not too far out of college, which is why she’s easier to talk to than the other adults at Sunview--including my own dad. She slides behind her desk and takes a moment to collect herself, shaking her head and squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. Resetting. Rebooting. I understand the feeling all too well. Finally, she opens her eyes and smiles warmly. For the first time since stepping foot in the small space, I don’t feel my heart trying to escape my chest.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Bishop?”
“That’s what everyone calls my dad,” I say, somewhat disdainfully.
“Fair enough.” She smiles, and it isn’t forced like adults usually do when they’re too busy for my antics. “What can I do for you, Elliot?”
I drop my dreaded cargo on the desk with a plunk. The letter. Mesa Grande University’s logo has faded a little; I’ve been carrying it around in my backpack all day, not to mention the countless times I’ve flipped it over in my fingers, spinning ceaselessly, like a haunted gyroscope in my hands but also in my brain.
“This.”
“This?” She reaches across the desk to take it from me; the weight of it leaving my grasp feels significant. I haven’t told anyone about it except for Sean; not even my parents. Her eyes light up as soon as she recognizes the logo and she looks back at me with excitement etched plainly in her expression. “Elliot! You applied for Mesa Grande!”
“Yeah,” I reply, and I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face. It feels odd on my cheeks, like wearing a shirt that doesn’t quite fit. “The application opened in July, I did it the first day.”
Ms. Herrera's unapologetic grin dampens a little as she examines the envelope. “You haven’t opened it yet? Am I missing something?”
“I… I’m nervous,” is all I can offer. “I tried a couple times but even just holding it makes me feel kinda sick. What if they say no?”
“Oh, Elliot,” she sighs, and gives me the same sad smile that all adults give us when they wish we knew what they knew; I’ve seen it on Dad’s face enough to recognize it a mile away. “Are you going to open it?”
“I was hoping you would.”
The ensuing pause is heavy as she studies the envelope and then my face. She carefully places it on her desk and then places her elbows on either side, chin cradled carefully on top of her hands. Her nails are painted a deep blue, like what I imagine a blue nebula looks like; my Altair 200 Series is simply not powerful enough to pick one up amongst the cosmos. I like blue. It’s a calm, quiet color.
“No.”
“I--what?” I involuntarily frown, unsure if I heard her correctly. “No?”
“No,” She repeats confidently, sliding the envelope back across her desk at me. She leans back in her chair and it creaks with authority as she crosses her arms and purses her lips. “It’s your letter, you should open it.”
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
“I don’t want to,” I say automatically, inching back in my seat as if Ms. Herrera had just pushed a bomb toward me.
“Why’s that?” She cocks an eyebrow at me.
“I’m nervous, I guess,” I reply after thinking about it for a moment. “What if they say no?”
Ms. Herrera’s face breaks into a smile and she shakes her head with a sigh. “Look, Elliot, Mesa Grande isn’t exactly Vanderbilt. It’s a small state school in the middle of nowhere, I don’t think they’re turning their nose up at every other applicant.”
“Did you know Mesa Grande has one of the most prominent astronomical study laboratories in the entire country?” I ask, somewhat pointedly. I reach out and take the envelope up in between the fingers of my right hand and notice they’re trembling slightly. “They only admit thirty students into the program every year. I’m not applying to Mesa because it’s easy or anything; it’s because I want to study space, and if I want to study space I need a good telescope. Mesa’s telescopes are so good that they only let thirty new students see through them every year.”
Silence hangs in the office and Ms. Herrera’s expression is unreadable. “I’m sorry, Elliot, I didn’t realize how competitive this program is.”
“My grades aren’t exactly competition material,” I grumble, avoiding her gaze.
“College admission isn’t just about grades, fortunately for you,” She replies with a small smile, but I notice she doesn’t try to refute my point. “Colleges want to know that you, as a student, bring value to their program. Elliot Bishop, as a person, is a lot more than his grades. Aren’t you?”
“I guess.” I flip the envelope over in my fingers one last time before I pinch the corner of the paper between my fingertips. “Should I?”
“Yes, Elliot, you should.”
The tearing sound seems like it echoes through her small office like a gunshot. I fumble with the paper for an embarrassing amount of time before I manage to wrestle a thick bundle of glossy paper from their confines. There’s no stopping now; I tenderly unfold the stack and my eyes trace the ink more quickly than my brain can actually comprehend the words.
To Elliot Bishop:
Congratulations!
Mesa Grande University of Arizona is thrilled to offer to you the opportunity to begin undergraduate studies for the semester of--
“I got in,” I say in disbelief. I feel like I’m hovering over my own body, watching myself read. I stop processing the words at this point and set the papers gingerly down on the desk, breathing out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding in. “Holy shit.”
Ms. Herrera’s eyes light up with genuine excitement and she leans across the desk to offer a high-five, which I happily accept. “Elliot! This is awesome! Congratulations!” She reaches back toward me and touches the papers with just a fingertip. “May I?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I lean back in my chair, chest threatening to burst. With, what, I’m not even sure: happiness? Pride? Or is it just relief? “My parents are going to flip.”
“Do they know you applied for college?” I shake my head and she grins. “I think they will be very proud of you, Elliot.” We collapse into silence as her eyes scan the letter and I watch her intently, wondering what’s going through her head. Her expression hardens for a moment and she carefully reaches for a mug tucked behind her keyboard and takes a long sip, eyes still scanning. She carefully places her mug back and flips to the second page, then back to the first.
“Is something wrong?” Alarm bells sound in the very back of my mind; her smile is gone, replaced by something far more somber.
“Not wrong, per say,” she answers very carefully. She examines the rest of the packet briefly before placing it very intentionally on her desk and sliding it back toward me. I snatch them up and start frantically buzzing through the words in my head “Mesa Grande accepted you, yes, but…”
“But they aren’t going to let me into the astronomy program.” I finish for her as my eyes take in the second page. Deep within my stomach, a star collapses. The gravity is immense, sucking every ounce of feeling in my body with it. “I… I don’t…” I’m shaking my head, trying to comprehend what my eyes are telling me, but the spiraling wreckage inside my brain won’t let me get past that word:
Unfortunately.
Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.
“Elliot, hang on.” Ms. Herrera reaches over and grabs my wrist, halting the spin for a moment. Her palm is warm but her fingertips are cool where they press into my skin. “This doesn’t mean you don’t get it, it says here you’ve been waitlisted.”
“What does that mean?” A shiver runs down my spine and I suddenly feel hot; her office has become an oven in an instant and I’m promptly feeling like I’d very much like to be lying down
“It basically means that they aren’t saying ‘no,’ but they are going to hold out for some time before they make their decision to see who else applies.”
“That feels like a ‘no’ to me,” I say, trying to swallow the huge lump that’s forming in my throat. “I should have never--”
“Elliot Bishop. Stop that.” Ms. Herrera points a slender finger at me, fire in her eyes. “I do not accept that kind of attitude in my office, sir.” I nod but my eyes sting a little and I feel very, very small in this chair across from her. She softens immediately and her eyes rake my face, but I’m not quite sure what she’s looking for. “I think we can still make this work,” she says finally, looking back at the packet of papers. “We have a dozen kids get waitlisted from big, pretentious colleges every year, we can do this.” She’s almost talking to herself more than she is to me. She scoots back so she can begin rifling through her desk drawers. I watch in silence, still reeling, until she finally surfaces with a battered spiral-bound notebook. “Ah, there it is. The cheat sheets!” She begins thumbing through it.
“Cheat sheets?” I repeat, dumbfounded but intrigued nonetheless.
“Mr. Mackey, the old counselor, left me this when he retired three years ago,” Ms. Herrera answers absently as he hunts for a page. “He had a bunch of old tricks for beating college admissions at their own game--the game isn’t exactly rigged in favor of the kind of kids who go to school in a place like Sunview. You don’t happen to play a musical instrument, do you?”
“My mom made me take piano lessons when I was in elementary school,” I offer lamely. “I don’t think that helps.”
“Probably not,” She sighs. “Do you speak another language? Do art? Have any interesting hobbies?”
I wrack my brains for anything like that but I come up blank. “I like space,” I say weakly. “I star-gaze. Map constellations, do some interstellar math… I don’t think that really sets me apart from other applicants, though.”
“Unfortunately, I think you’re right,” She says, scanning her notebook and shaking her head. “Sometimes these things simply come down to whoever can sell themselves to the program better than anyone else.”
“What do you mean?”
She taps the packet of papers with one of her azure fingernails. “There’s additional paperwork they’re requiring to finish your application to the program. They want an essay.”
“Oh.” I can’t help but deflate a little bit more, if that’s even possible. “I’m not exactly the best writer.”
“That’s okay,” she says with a reassuring smile. “It’s not always about how well you can write, it’s about how you can convince them that you add some… perspective to their program.”
“Perspective?” I’m feeling more intimidated now, not less.
“Exactly.” She pauses to consider how to explain. “Everyone is different, right? We all have unique experiences, that’s what makes us valuable to a community. You need to show Mesa Grande that your perspective isn’t something to pass up.”
A bell rings. It sounds muffled but shrill and bleak, even through the office door. I gingerly pick myself up out of the chair and gather my letter into my backpack, being careful not to look at it closely. Ms. Herrera turns to study the calendar on the wall for a moment.
“How about we meet again during your study hall hour in three weeks?” I nod absently as I sling my backpack over my shoulder and take a deep breath through my nose. She purses her lips as she stands, gazing at me with intent. “I want you to think about your perspective between now and then, and we can brainstorm some ideas about that essay.” Now she smiles and gestures toward the door. “You better not be late for your next class. Maybe consider taking up a hobby this year. Have you considered painting?”
“I suck at art,” is all I can say in return. “Thanks, Ms. Herrera.”
“You’re welcome, Elliot.” She opens the door and I step out into the hallway.
The air feels less stagnant out here but I still feel like I’m suffocating. The tide of students that is normally passing by the front office during the passing period is starting to ebb, signaling my impending tardiness to Pre-Calculus if I don’t hurry up.
“Don’t forget: perspective.”
“Right,” I say. I step out into the hallway to be swept into the current like a spacewalker detached. “Perspective.”
128Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6I9UgxylyY
