My mom put her arm around my shoulder, pulling me close to her. ‘I’m sorry, pumpkin.’
I hadn’t even read it. Or maybe I had. Because when I finally did comprehend the sentence that saidwhile we were very impressed by your application, we regret to inform you that you have not been selected… I felt …
Relief.
A weight on my chest seemed to lift, and I felt like I could breathe – actual, deep breaths. I didn’t feel sad. I turned to my mom, who wiped tears from her eyes. And I laughed.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. I laughed again and hugged her. ‘But you worked so hard,’ she said.
I did. But it didn’t feel like when I pulled off the Dutch oven lid and my bread was flat – it felt the opposite. Like I had just pulled off the lid and discovered that the bread had not only risen, but was just moments away from the perfect golden brown, crunchy crust. I hadn’t gotten into my dream school, but I felt like I was about to have the best bread I’d ever tasted.
Now that I’d been rejected from my dream school – a phrase that was slowly losing its meaning since I seemed to be waking up from the dream – I realized just how many other options I had. There wasn’t just one school and one path toward what I wanted from my life. There were hundreds of possible paths.
It felt freeing. I pictured my dad, still alive, saying,Ah, screw ’em. I already taught you everything I learned there. I could also picture him buying a bunch of T-shirts from whatever school I did end up choosing and wearing them proudly around the house.
Whatever school I ended up choosing.
That was also a nice thought. Because it meant I was choosing it, not going because my dad went there. Not going because everyone else said it was the best. And not because a famous chef – probably splitting his time between his restaurants and his Food Network show – taught there.
I mean, yeah, I still hadn’t gotten into any of the other schools I’d applied to, but it was early. I was also confident that I would get into at least one of them.
My mom still had tears in her eyes when I locked my phone and turned to her. I laughed again. ‘Seriously, I’m fine. I thought I’d be more upset – I guess I’m kind of disappointed – but also it means I get to pick whatever I want.’ The pressure was completely off.
She frowned at that. ‘You could always have picked whatever you want – you know that, right?’
‘Yeah. But this is different.’
She seemed to get what I meant and patted my knee as she stood from the couch. ‘In that case, let’s have some celebration-and-or-commiseration ice cream.’
‘Do we even have any?’ I followed her into the kitchen.
‘There’s still that Oscar stuff you brought home.’ She pulled the black pint container covered with non-trademarked gold statues out of the freezer.
‘Ew, that’s like four months old.’
‘Ice cream doesn’t go bad.’ She pulled the lid off, and her face scrunched up. There was a layer of freezer burn across the top.
‘Commiseration Oreos?’ I asked, reaching into the pantry and pulling out the box of cookies. My mom chucked the pint of freezer-burnt Oscar’s ice cream into the trash and grabbed the milk from the fridge instead.
We sat down and talked about the other school options. And a week later, I had acceptances from all the other schools I had applied to – including a personalized letter from the admissions committee at Johnson & Wales complimenting me on the supplemental video.
I really could choose whatever I wanted.
‘Bahama Mama!’ James called out from the cracked rear window of the limo. ‘Lookin’ like the Rock inRedNotice!’
Ava tried to ask what the hell that meant, but I waved it away as I opened the limo door for her. She pulled up her gold beaded dress and climbed into the limo. I heard Morgan and another girl’s voice squeal and compliment her dress as Ava did the same to them.
I waved to my mom, who had tears in her eyes, and she waved back as she turned to talk to Ava’s uncle. Then I climbed into the limo.
James and Morgan sat to our right. Morgan’s hands were on her cheeks, and her eyes were wide as she was speaking to Ava. ‘Did you cut it?’
Ava laughed and waved a hand. ‘Oh, hell no. It’s one of my aunt’s wigs.’ She reached up into the wavy, asymmetric bob to check the thousands of bobby pins hidden in there. Beside Morgan, James was in a tuxedo jacket and tails but wearing a kilt and the little kilt purse thingy that hangs in the front. I gave him a skeptical eyebrow.
‘Are you wearing that how the Scots wear it?’ I asked.
‘Dude,’ Luke warned from the seat by the partition, shaking his head. He had his arm wrapped around a blonde girl I recognized from school. She wore an aquamarine gown, and her makeup looked incredible.
‘Bahama Mama,’ James said. ‘You gotta stop flirting with me, man. In front of my date and my date’s ex-boyfriend?’ He put his arm over Morgan’s shoulder. Morgan wore a pink dress with a tulle skirt. ‘And yes, I am wearing itcorrectly.’ Then he quickly turned and mooned the whole limo.
