When Sequoia drops me off at home after school the next day, I’m tired but raring to go. According to my calendar, my Columbia interview with the very same Geraldine Watkins starts in one hour and I am going to rock it.
I hardly got any sleep last night. I lay awake for hours with the events of the day on a constant, exhausting loop: all those unfinished tasks in my Windsor Achiever app, Dean Lewis’s toast, Dylan’s smirk from the audience, Sequoia’s irrational response to my comment in the car.
But I’ve had four Pumpkin Spice Lattes today, I’m geared up, and I’ve vowed to put that all behind me. At least until after the interview.
I’m not going to screw it up again. This time, I am ready. This time, I know exactly what I need to do to impress the socks off the world-traveling, German-speaking, exotic-plant-collecting Geraldine Watkins. I spent both of my Student Mastery Hours today prepping. There’s no doubt in my mind. This thing is in the bag.
When I walk into the kitchen, I find my mom sitting at the table again, working on her laptop. The sight is so off-putting, I almost walk out and walk back in, convinced I’ve entered the wrong house.
I can tell she’s in deep concentration mode, probably working on a legal brief. She always gets two matching lines between her eyebrows when she’s in the middle of a brief. Like an eleven stamped into her skin. She flashes me a hurried smile when I enter but doesn’t stop typing.
That’s two days in a row she’s been home at this hour. She normally doesn’t get back until after Dad has made dinner and cleaned up the kitchen.
I look to the basement door. It’s closed. Is he really still down there working? That seems like an awfully long time. You’d think he’d come out to at least say hello.
This has got to be the longest he’s ever been in there. I mean, he’s locked himself down there before to work, but never for two whole days. Is that why Mom is working from home? To pick up the slack? I guess that makes sense.
“How long is Dad going to be working?” I ask, nodding to the basement.
Mom lets out a snort, like I’ve made some kind of inappropriate joke, and keeps typing.
Well, that was weird.
I decide to call him. I don’t want to go to my Columbia interview without talking to him first. So he can wish me luck. Or tell me to break a leg or flip a table or whatever. I smile at the memory of the last time I saw him, when I was leaving the house for the doomed version of this interview.
As I head upstairs to my room, I pull out my sparkly pink phone, click Dad’s mobile number, and press the phone to my ear. It rings and rings until finally his voice mail picks up. I’m about to end the call when something strikes me as odd about his outgoing message. It’s changed.
It used to be short and funny, my dad yelling in a panicked voice, “Who is this?! How did you get this number?!” and then the beep.
Now, my dad sounds so serious and official as he says, “Hi. This is Daniel Rhodes. I’m unable to answer the phone right now. Please leave your message and either I or my assistant will call you back as soon as possible. Thank you.”
His assistant? Since when did he get an assistant?
Then I let out a short bark of a laugh as I drop my bag on my bed. Oh, I get it. It’s a joke. Very funny, Dad. He thinks he’s some big shot now that he’s sold all of those photographs and he’s trying to sound über important.
“Your imaginary assistant maybe,” I mutter, as I end the call without leaving a message.
I strip out of my uniform and find a smart-looking black suit in my closet. I have to hand it to Other Me. She certainly knows how to dress herself better than I ever did. I should have worn a suit to the first interview. Instead I wore my nice jeans and a less ratty T-shirt. That was my first mistake right there.
I apply another layer of concealer under my eyes—those pesky purple shadows only seem to be getting worse—and grab my new and improved crib sheet from my schoolbag, giving it another once-over.
This is it. Time to put my future back on track!
When I get back downstairs, Mom has moved from the kitchen to the dining room. I can hear her yelling at someone on the phone. She’s probably chewing out some poor paralegal for filing the wrong motion or something. I know better than to bother her when she’s on a work call, particularly one that sounds like that, so I tiptoe into the kitchen, grab Woody’s keys from the counter, and head for the garage.
I glance again at the closed basement door, really wanting to see my dad for just a minute before I go, but I’m running behind schedule. I still have one critical stop to make before I go to the interview.
I’ll just have to tell him about it when I get home. Hopefully I can convince him to come out for dinner. I mean, he has to eat, doesn’t he?
I continue into the garage, unlock Woody, and drop into the driver’s seat. But the moment I close the door behind me, I notice that something is off. The car looks … different. And all my stuff is gone.
My newspaper-print steering wheel cover. My Columbia-logo key chain on the keys. My supply of Big Red chewing gum in the center console.
Curious, I get out of the car and walk around the hood to examine the license plate frame. It used to say “Keep Calm and Carry a Notebook and Pen,” but now it just says “I bought mine at AutoWorld Honda!”
That’s right, I think with a sudden influx of sadness. I don’t run the newspaper anymore. So why would I buy a license plate frame that says “Keep Calm and Carry a Notebook and Pen”?
No, I tell myself, before I travel too far down that melancholy road. Enough moping. You were given a second chance to guarantee your place at Columbia. Don’t screw it up!
Right.
I get back behind the wheel, start the engine, and back out of the garage.
I don’t have time to worry about key chains or missing license plate frames. I have an alumni interview to rock.