I slide the manila folder across the table. When compiling my portfolio for art school, I submitted it digitally, but for the sake of showing off, I also collected the originals to display to my parents. I’m fighting a grin, I know they’ll be impressed. “Take a look,” I say.
My Father opens up the folder, then he looks through some of the pieces. His expression doesn’t change. I look over to my Mother, neither does hers. Two apathetic expressions appraise my work.
“So, what do you think?”
“I mean- will this be enough?” Asks Mother. “The way you were talking about this school… it seems like they’d really only accept the best of the best.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. “What do you mean?”
“Well… nothing. We’ll see when your acceptance letter comes back, won’t we?” Mom puts the pages back in order, neatly lays them in the folder, and shuts it with a little smile on her face. It all feels a little, no, a lot condescending.
What was I expecting? My older sister is in medical school halfway across the country, and my brother is a business consultant in some European country. Unless I were some sort of Van Gogh, I don’t think my art would hold a candle to my siblings’ achievements in my parents’ eyes.
Even if I were some sort of modern-day Van Gogh, it probably would not be recognized until at least a hundred years after my death. “Right. We’ll seeee.” I take the folder back.
Now, beyond just getting into the school of my dreams, I hope to get in to have a sense of smug satisfaction of going beyond my parents’ expectations. In just a month, I’ll know.
The month passes in a whirlwind. Between applications, school, scholarship hunting, and applying for financial aid, I haven’t even had the time to think about not having the time to think. I blink, and I go from sitting across from my parents’ apathetic faces to sitting on my bed, checking my email and seeing the header: Letter of acceptance. My heart drops again, I’m so afraid, and yet so eager, to see if I have been accepted or not. My trembling finger hovers for a moment before I open the email.
Hello applicant,
After reviewing your application and the submitted works, we regret to inform you that you have not been selected for admission to….
I stop reading after that point, tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision. I shut off my phone, place it far away from me, and weep as quietly as possible. This is devastating. As devastating as having your heart broken.
Time stretches on, yet no matter how much I weep over it, the tight feeling in my chest just won’t go away. So I call Frankie, who answers quickly. I blubber to them.
“What? Slow down, what are you saying?” Frankie asks, bewildered.
“I-” I take a shuddering breath, trying to compose myself. “I didn’t get in.”
“Oh. Oh! I’m so sorry, Val. I know you were really hoping you would.” Frankie puts a bit of cheerfulness into their tone, “Don’t worry, I’m sure another great school will accept you. You do really great work.”
“I-I know, but I’m just so crushed. My Mom and Dad are definitely gonna find out I didn’t get in, and that’ll be so embarrassing.”
“But… It’s completely normal not to get into your top school…”
“Not if you’re me! They already treat me like I can’t do anything right! And Ester and Christian did get into their top schools. They’re gonna act like I’m a failure.”
“You’re not a failure.”
“I know, but it’s like confirmation bias for them. They’re gonna keep treating me like a child. It’s like they can’t see I’m doing my best, and y’know, actually keeping it together pretty well.”
“….hmmm. Yeah, that is a problem. But you can’t control how they treat you or how they think about you. So just keep doing your best, knowing that you’re doing what’s right for you. And, be proud of yourself.” Frankie pauses. “Because… y’know, I’m proud of you.”
“Yuck,” I say, but I’m smiling. “What a cornball.”
“I’m gonna hang up.”
“No, no, I’m kidding. I’m… thankful. Thank you.”
“I mean, really, be proud, especially if you’re doing your best.”
“Right.” Now that I feel a little better, I think I can grapple with the situation better. I don’t have to prove myself. That makes it… a little easier.
Or, does it? Easier said than done.
A week later, I am confronted by Mom and Dad on the topic of my acceptance letter. We sit over a family dinner on a Monday night.
I am midway through a bite of salad when my Dad says, “Should’ve heard back by now, yeah?”
I’m caught so off-guard that somehow swallowing the little piece of lettuce in my mouth leads to a coughing fit. During which my parents stare at me, mildly concerned, from across the table. Half a minute later, with a raspy voice and teary eyes, I say, “I-I did. I didn’t get in.”
“That’s too bad,” Mother says. Though it’s subtle, she has an “I-told-you-so” look on her face.
I’m frustrated, and slightly ashamed. But I try to push that down. “I’ve been accepted into a lot of other places I’ve applied to, though. There’s a school in the next state I got into, and they’re offering a pretty good scholarship.”
“Sounds good, Val,” Dad says.
“Are you sure you want to go to an art school? They’re so expensive, and it’s pretty difficult to make a living as an artist…”
“Well, I can’t imagine myself doing anything else. I’d rather be doing something I love in a less-than-ideal financial situation than doing something unfulfilling and living comfortably.” I pause. “And I know that sounds ridiculous, but there is more to life than money.”
Mom and Dad exchange a glance.
“Yes, but you still need to fulfill certain basic needs to live, which cost money. You can’t expect us to take care of you forever.”
“When did I ever say-” I cut myself off. I was about to raise my voice. Things get bad when I raise my voice at my parents. I sigh. “…I know that. I know what I want to do is kind of, I don’t know, idealistic, but I promise I won’t make that your problem.”
They exchange glances.
I huff. “Whatever. Sorry, I’m not like Christian or Ester and pursuing something worthwhile. Sorry, I’m not as good as them.”
Mom looks offended, “That is not what we’re trying to say-”
“Then what is it you’re trying to say?” I ask quietly. We sit in silence for about a second before I push my chair back. Grab my plate, shove it into the fridge, although the pasta is still steaming, and say, “I’m not hungry anymore. I’ll be in my room if anyone needs anything from me.”
Back in my room, I’m fuming. Everything has to be a freaking competition! And not only that, no matter how old I get, it seems like I’ll always just be a baby to everyone. But babies don’t go to college, and babies can’t have real conversations!
In the quiet of my room, the little voice in the back of my head gets going. What if they’re right? What if I end up going to school and having to come back home? What if I graduate and then have to come home? What if- what if? All the types of thoughts I try to push away come flooding to the surface, and all of a sudden, my decisions at this moment feel meaningless. What if adult life is this unstoppable force I’m not ready for? Am I underestimating it? Do I really have what it takes?
Suddenly, my room feels really, really small, and I feel like a mouse in a cage. My application season feels like being a mouse on a wheel. Going nowhere, but fast.
Then I think back to all of my other acceptance letters. 8 schools accepted me, and only 1 other rejected me; that was a pretty good rate. It had to mean I’m doing something right. Right. I try to use this to quiet the little nagging voice in my head, which works. All I can do is make the best of my situation and make the choices that are best for me. Not for Christian, not for Ester, not for my parents, but for me. And no matter how many rejections I get, there’s still a way forward.
WRITTEN BY: Kris Sanders, Empowerteen Creative Writer Intern
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