I’m not saying my life is perfect or drama free, but I’m used to knowing where I stand, and for the first time I don’t know if I should be demanding an apology or giving one. For the first few days, I tried texting. I even tried approaching her at school. I swear, for as good as she is at pretending I didn’t exist, I think she could be an actress. I probably tried every form of contact outside of flat-out asking her mom to lock her in her closet with me.
Three days after the incident, I decided to forego texting and just give her a call, but I was promptly greeted with a message saying the person I was trying to reach had blocked my number. One thing I can say about Callie is when she’s in, she’s all in. She’s cut me out of her life with as much swift efficiency as my mother can repurpose a pile of old camp T-shirts into a summer quilt. (I’ve got the Daisy Ranch T-shirt quilt to prove it.)
I haven’t had a ton of friends in my lifetime, but I’ve never failed so miserably at being a friend. I know that what Callie did by vandalizing the gym was wrong and that I wasn’t doing anything bad by pointing out her necklace in the video footage.
Heck, we wouldn’t have ever become friends otherwise. But after I saw what she did to the dance team and how deep that cut, I should’ve said something. I was so scared to lose what we had, because it’s not a friendship that’s been tested or even lived in a little. The balance with Callie has always felt fragile, like something might just randomly click one day and she would turn back into the person who humiliated me in eighth-grade gym, or the girl who went out of her way to make Willowdean miserable last fall.
I don’t think that version of Callie is a different person, like some kind of evil twin. I believe the bad parts of us always live inside of us. It’s just up to us to take those flaws and repurpose them for good. I was scared of losing Callie, so I wasn’t honest with her. And I lost her as a friend regardless.
Oh, and because everything is a mess, Mom is giving me the silent treatment, too. She goes so far as to even talk to me through my dad. Will you ask Millie to pass the margarine? Please remind Millie to empty the dishwasher. Has Millie finished her homework? And somehow she’s still spying on me enough to make sure I don’t have any solo time with Malik.
When I get home after work, waiting for me on my desk is one single envelope from the University of Texas. When I slipped in through the garage door, my mom didn’t even bother saying anything to me or offering me any hint that the fate of my summer was waiting for me in my room.
The envelope is large. I try not to read too far into it, but I know the law of college acceptance letters is big envelope = good and small envelope = bad. I sit down in my big wicker chair and take a few deep breaths. Maybe I should take up meditation?
And then I tear into the envelope. I’ve pictured this moment for months now, the same way lots of girls imagine their engagement or wedding. In my head, I’m surrounded by friends, and they’re the kind of friends who are so sure that I’ll get into this program that after I read my acceptance letter and we all cry tears of joy, there’s a luau-themed surprise party waiting for us in my backyard. Malik would be there. My parents would be overjoyed.
Instead I’m here alone in my room. I slide a single paper out of the envelope.
Dear Ms. Millicent Michalchuk,
Thank you for applying to our summer broadcast journalism program for high school students. Each year our applicants are more and more impressive, making for a rather competitive program.
We regret to inform you that you were not selected for our program this summer; however, we encourage you to apply again in the future and
My eyes are a tearful blur as the page drifts from my fingers to the carpet below.
We regret to inform you. We regret to inform you. We regret to inform you. The words of rejection are seared onto my heart. I know that I should turn to some sort of tried-and-true motivational book or post or video that has gotten me through tough times in the past. I know I should refocus this pain into motivation.
But for right now—for this exact moment—I just need to hurt. I just need to feel bad for myself and roll around in my own self-pity. I feel so foolish for ever believing they would even accept me. This is what I get for trying so hard and demanding so much.
I don’t know when I started crying, but I am and I can’t stop.
After a while, my mother knocks on the door and says something to me for the first time in weeks. “Dinner’s ready, sweet pea.”
“I’m fine.” My voice wobbles. “Thank you.”
It’s a few moments before I hear the floor creak as she makes her way back toward the kitchen. I hear a few hushed whispers exchanged between her and my father before my dad says a little louder, “Leave her be for a bit.”
I sit there unmoving, letting the tears fall down the front of my dress. The sun floats below the rooflines of my neighborhood, and I should probably turn a light on, but I think my whole body is frozen.
My phone dings a few times and I hear a few alerts on my computer, too. Probably Amanda and Malik messaging me about silly things. Neither of them has any idea that the goal I’ve been racing toward for the last few months has just been snatched out of my reach. It almost reminds me of the treadmills at Daisy Ranch. There was this huge screen at the front of the room, made to look like we were walking down some picturesque New England trail. You’d walk over one hill and then another and then another, hoping to reach your goal. But the scenery never changed. You conquered one hill only to do the exact same thing over and over again.
When it’s almost pitch-black in my room, my mom quietly lets herself in and turns on the lamp on my bedside table. Even that little bit of light burns my eyes.
She sits on the bed and gives me space to talk. But I’m not ready. I don’t even know what to say.
“Did you open your mail?” she asks.
I nod.
“I’m guessing it wasn’t the news you were hoping for.”
“No,” I mumble. “It wasn’t.”
She presses the palm of her hand to my back and rubs in circular motions, just like she always has when I’m sick. After a long pause, she says, “I spoke with Ms. Georgia from Daisy Ranch. She said it’s well past the deadline, but that they were holding a spot in your cabin, hoping you’d change your mind.”
I can picture my bottom bunk at Daisy Ranch like it’s an extension of my own home. My wooden sign above my bed painted baby pink with teal letters that spell out PUDDIN’. I’ll always be that girl. I’ve run from her for the last nine months, trying to be someone else. A beauty queen. An aspiring news anchor. A girlfriend, even. But I’ll always be that girl who shows up every summer, hoping that this is the year everything changes.
It feels like defeat. And what’s harder is that I resent myself, but more than that, I resent my mom. I resent her for not believing I could be more. I resent her because I’m scared she’s right.
“That’s kind of Ms. Georgia,” I finally say.
“So I can let her know you’ll be back this summer?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I’ll send in your deposit this week.” My mom pats my leg and then stands to leave my room, but then she stops and turns around. “I don’t want this to be some sort of ‘I told you so’ moment, but you know your father and I are strict for good reason. This is the exact type of pain we’ve been trying to keep you from. I’m glad that the pageant was a . . . positive experience for you. But, baby, the world just doesn’t work like that in real life. People are rude and hateful, and I don’t want that for you. I don’t want the world to miss out on you because of their own silly judgments getting in the way. You know that, right? That’s why your dad and I pay to send you to Daisy Ranch. We just want the world to see the girl we know has been inside you all along.”
My eyes well up with tears. But this time it’s anger. It’s all anger. Because my mother thinks some thin girl is living inside me when the truth is, I am right here. I am the same Millie inside and out. I want to believe that. I want so badly for it to be true. But I have to confront the possibility that maybe my mother is right. Maybe it’s too much effort to change the world. Maybe the only way to survive is to change myself.
I have an awful taste in my mouth at the thought.
Mom interprets my angry tears as self-resignation, and when she hugs me, it takes everything in me not to roar at her to get away from me.
In the end, she was right and I was wrong.