S K Y L A R
I had stopped looking both ways before crossing the road in my sophomore year of high school. Not all roads. Not even every time I crossed them. Just sometimes. Sometimes, I would step out of the school bus and walk past the large parking lot without looking both ways.
It wasn't that I wanted to die. It was more that I didn't think I would mind if it happened. Nothing ever happened, of course. It was a school parking lot. Worst case scenario, I would get honked and yelled at. It was fine. I didn't mind.
Sometimes it happened in my head. A car hit me so hard, it knocked me off my feet. Sometimes worse. It always took a while for someone to recognize me. Not because the crash would leave me unrecognizable, but because I already was. Sometimes someone called an ambulance. Sometimes no one did, perhaps because they thought someone else already had. But every time, I thought, it's fine, I don't mind. I was tired anyway. I'll just sit this one out. Life was a volleyball game in gym class I had been picked last for, and only because the teacher had forced someone to pick me.
I stepped out of the school bus. I looked both ways. On the other side of the parking lot, Kylie and Allora were waiting for me, like they said they would be. Kylie had offered me a ride to school, but I insisted on taking the bus. I wasn't ready to let go of the only time of the day when I felt like I was doing enough.
She was leaning over the side-view mirror of her car, putting lipstick on, and saying something to Allora that made her laugh, and almost spit out her coffee. Allora always had coffee in the morning, like she was years ahead of us all, which after the past few months, I really thought she was.
When I was close enough, Kylie turned to me, and smiled, a big, bright smile that made my cheeks as red as her lipstick. She was waving it in my face.
"Put this on," she said. "I got it yesterday. It'll definitely bring out your lips."
Allora took a sip of her coffee, "You always want them looking at your lips."
I didn't know who they were, but I didn't ask. Instead, I shook my head, and said, "I'm good, actually, thank you."
They didn't insist. They were looking at the boys skating on the school front steps, so I looked too. Ethan was getting ready to jump down all steps at once, and Caitlyn was telling him to do a flip where she was standing next to Tristan, both of them smoking a cigarette. Ethan didn't do a flip, but he did jump over the steps, and landed on his skateboard instead of his face. Caitlyn wasn't impressed. Tristan wasn't even looking.
Kylie reached for her bag where she had it in the backseat of her car and threw it over her shoulder. She took her keys from the ignition and locked it.
"I don't know if they're brave or just stupid," she said, looking back at the boys.
"Both," Allora said. She had her eyes on Edward, who looked more worried than he did impressed, standing next to Isaac on top of steps, who noticed and threw an arm around him so he could pull him closer, touch his forehead with his, and then tell him something only they could hear, something that made Edward laugh, and push him off him.
The next thing we knew, Isaac was on his skateboard, jumping over the front steps like Ethan had done just minutes ago, but falling off just as he landed, and skidding across the concrete floor, his skateboard rolling in the opposite direction.
Ethan bent down laughing, Edward shook his head, a hand on the back of his neck, both of them watching as Isaac struggled back to his feet, blood dripping down his elbow and the palm of his hand.
"Of course he's gay," Allora said next to us, throwing her coffee cup into the nearest trash can, and making way for the doors. "This is fucking depressing."
Kylie wrapped her arm around mine, and said, "Why do you think every girl wants a gay best friend? It's because he'll probably be the only boy to ever see us as a person â"
"And not a commodity!" Allora finished. "We're like Pinocchio. We just wanna be real."
Kylie leaned her head on mine. She smelled like all things nice and sweet. She said, "Not you though, right? You don't care about boys."
"Not really, no," I said as we walked through the main doors. "I think I'm more concerned with academic validation, which at the end of the day, isn't much better, is it?"
She rolled her eyes, "You're thinking about it again, aren't you?"
"It's hard not to." We were walking towards our first class, English with Mr. Wyatt, so of course I was thinking about it. I had sent him my story before winter break and hadn't heard from him since. I had spent a lot of time thinking why, and came up with only this:
You're not a very good writer, Skylar.
Mr. Wyatt had probably thought he could make something out of me, something that wasn't such an excuse of an uninspired, self-pitying, arrogant, hypocrite, but it turned out he was wrong. I was terrified that Mr. Wyatt had read my story and found no nice way to tell me he had been wrong. Wrong to ask me to write. Wrong to make me think I even could.
I didn't know what I would do if that happened. If it turned out I had spent months writing, only to have it be a waste. What did it say about me that the only thing that didn't make me miserable was also the only thing I wasn't academically inclined to?
Next to me, Kylie said something, and I didn't hear it. We walked inside the classroom. Jacob was already sitting in the back, looking out the window, his head on top of his arms. He didn't look up when we walked in, or when anyone else did. He didn't even move.
Kylie had told me about him, even though it was obvious to anyone who knew him, which was probably everyone at school, that something was wrong with him. He never showed up to more than a few classes a day, and when he did, he either slept through them, or asked to go to the toilet, and then never came back. He never made it to lunch, and he didn't go to football practice either.
Kylie thought he only came to school in the first place because his father dropped him off in the morning, which was new, because usually Jacob drove to school on his own. There was definitely something wrong with him.
Kylie had been wanting to talk to him for weeks, but he was ignoring her along with the rest of the world. I didn't have this much empathy for someone known to treat girls like a serial killer, collecting them like prizes, but Kylie was different, better.
I had told my parents about her and Allora enough times for them to pass on one of their avant-garde judgements. They had decided they were men-haters, and therefore, not good influences on me, who was already absolutely socially inept, and should not under any circumstances become one of those caricature angry feminists.
It was true that I was socially inept, but everything else was wrong. Allora and Kylie didn't hate men. They hated what it meant to be one, the heinous social construct that was masculinity. At the end of the day, they always saw the person behind the bravado. They had been conditioned to do it, to subjectify men, see them as complex multi-layered people, and feel for them, always feel for them. Kylie felt for Jacob just like Allora had felt for Edward. If anyone was a bad influence, it was me, who most days felt nothing at all.
Mr. Wyatt walked into the classroom backward, halfway through saying something to Mr. Hernandez that made him laugh before he disappeared in the hall. I took my seat.
He turned around at us, smiled, and said, "Good morning everyone!"
Everyone answered, at least everyone who was already inside.
He walked up to his desk, "How are your college applications going?"
I pretended to be busy looking for something in my bag, while everyone else responded. I had applied early for Harvard. It had been my first choice since middle school, so there had been no doubt as to whether I should apply early or not. But I hadn't gotten an answer yet. Both mom and dad had told me not to worry.
I was extremely worried. I checked my email every hour. I wanted to check it every minute. The whole thing was stupid, of course. I would get a notification if I did get an email, I didn't need to check it. I doubted Harvard would be ever considered spam.
I had started biting my nails again, an ugly habit I thought I had left back in eighth grade. Apparently not. Kylie had forced me to let her paint my nails, an attempt of hers to stop me from doing it, but it was becoming so bad I had moved to the cuticles around it. She hated me for it. I did too. She would catch me doing it and slap my hand off my mouth every time. She also thought I didn't need to worry, said if there was someone who didn't need to worry, it was me. I was still extremely worried.
Allora thought I was being stupid too. She had applied for Yale and hadn't gotten an answer yet either. She hadn't started biting her nails, but every now and then she would take a deep breath, as if good-old-regular breathing hadn't been doing the job for her and this was the only way she could really get some air. She would manage only a few minutes until she had to do it again. It was better than my obsessive biting. Probably anything was.
Apparently, however, no one had gotten any answers, and most people hadn't even applied yet, which made me think maybe Mr. Wyatt was just asking us this too soon, and making us anxious over nothing, which wasn't like him at all. Or maybe I was overthinking this, and he was just excited for us. Probably.
Class went on. It was hard to pay attention. I felt claustrophobic. I was sure Mr. Wyatt was going to ask me to stay after class so he could tell me how disappointed he was with my story, and by extension me, and then a few days later, I would finally get my rejection from Harvard, and have to look at the disappointment in my parents' eyes too. I couldn't imagine anything after that, or maybe I just didn't want to.
"Skylar," Mr. Wyatt said. The bell was ringing. "Can you stay for a while so we can talk? It won't take long, I promise."
I swallowed hard. It was happening.
I said, "Of course."
He looked over at someone behind me, "Jacob, can you stay too?"
Everyone else was leaving. Kylie touched my shoulder as she walked past me. Allora winked at me. I got up and put my things away. By the time I made it to Mr. Wyatt's desk, my heart was beating so fast, I thought I might be having a heart attack.
Jacob didn't move from his desk. Instead, he put on his headphones, and turned the sound all the way up. I looked back at Mr. Wyatt, who was taking a bunch of papers out of his bag, and putting them on top of his desk, right in front of me.
I couldn't help but look. It was my story. He had written notes all over it in his green ball-point pen. I tried to read at least one of them, but he started talking, and I had to look up at him, at the apologetic look on his face.
I'm sorry, but this was the worst thing I've ever read in my entire life.
He didn't say that, instead, the words that came out of his mouth were, "I'm sorry it took me this long to get this back to you. I just thought you would want to hear this in person."
Please never write a word again.
He didn't say that either. Instead, "I really liked your story. Once again, your writing is genuine and moving without ever being sentimental. It's insightful but subtle. I â"
"I don't understand," I stopped him, looking down at the story on the desk between us. I read the note he had written on the very first line. Excellent start, it said. I looked up at him, "You really liked it?"
He was smiling, "Yes."
I was smiling too, and turning red, and saying, "Thank you â"
"Thank you!" he stopped me. "You wrote it."
"But if you hadn't asked me to, I â"
He stopped me again. "You would have found your way to it anyway. A writer must write. It's just the way it is."
I wanted to say thank you again, but I had a lump in my throat, and I was scared if I opened my mouth again, I would just start crying.
He said, "I heard you applied for Harvard."
I swallowed the lump away, "Pre-med."
"Are you excited?"
"Of course." I was pretty sure I was lying.
And he knew it, because he said, "Really?"
I looked down at the story again. There was a comment on an entire paragraph that said, great moment and expertly judged. I felt the lump in my throat again. Swallowed it. Said no. Except it came out sounding like a question, and of course he picked up on it.
"Do you actually wanna study medicine?" he asked.
I resisted the urge to start biting my nails, and said, "Wouldn't it be a waste not to?"
"A waste of what exactly?"
"I don't know." Potential. It would be a waste of potential, according to my family, and every teacher I ever had, except apparently him. Of course I wasn't going to say potential because that would imply I knew I had it, and that would make me sound like the arrogant stuck-up people said I was.
"I don't think anything you choose to do could ever be a waste, Skylar," he said. "Even if it turns out to be something you don't want later in life. You're only seventeen. You don't have to know everything yet."
"It feels like I do," I admitted.
"Well, you don't. I promise," he said. "At the end of the day, you have to do what makes you happy, even if it upsets some people. And I know this sounds very cliché, just some abstract nonsense that's easy for me to say, and almost impossible for you to do, but this is one of those things that we always forget when we're younger and then wish we hadn't when we get older."
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything at all.
Mr. Wyatt smiled, "There's this story I can't remember well about people that lived by the ocean for so long, they eventually stopped hearing the sound of the waves. I won't keep you for much longer, but do think about it. It's very easy to forget the most obvious, important realities, Skylar. Like being happy. You have to be happy, Skylar."
"I know," I said. Lied. I was lying.
"Right," he said. "I have to talk to Jacob, but think about it, and if you feel like writing another story, please know I would be more than happy to read it."
I managed a smile, "Thank you."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
I grabbed my story and left the room just as Mr. Wyatt made it to Jacob's desk. The papers in my hand felt heavier than before. I stopped in the middle of the hallway, and looked at the notes on the last page. Mr. Wyatt had once said my writing lacked voice. He wanted to know who Skylar Clark was, and what she wanted.
In the last few months I had started asking those questions too. I couldn't stop myself. Who was I? And what did I want? I had no idea at all. It wasn't something anyone had ever taught us at school, something that might come up on a quiz, and so I had never cared to learn it. Mr. Wyatt was the first person to ever ask me that and for the first time I had no answer.
At the bottom of the page, Mr. Wyatt had written: Another very fine piece of writing, compelling, and resonant, and put together with real delicacy and nuance. Thank you for engaging in the great torment of being known. It's nice to meet you.
I looked up. The hallway was full of students. The bell would ring again soon. I started walking, and smiling, and crying. I felt an intense rush deep beneath my ribs, an insufferable lightness, and an absolute certainty that I was on my way. To what I didn't know. Just that I was getting there, and that I wanted to. Most of all, that I wanted to.
I got the email from the Harvard Admissions Office stepping out of the bus back home a few days later. I didn't move. A few feet away from me some kids were trying to reach a football they had kicked into a tree. I didn't think they could do it without climbing it.
I tapped the notification. The email opened automatically. I looked up at the kids again. They were climbing on each other's shoulders. I still didn't think they could do it.
When I looked back down at my phone, the screen was all black. I unlocked it again. The email was still there:
Dear Skylar,
There is an update on your Applicant Status Portal. Please log in and look for the Status Update to view your most recent letter.
Sincerely,
Harvard College Admissions
I clicked the link. The palms of my hands were so sweaty I had to wipe them on my skirt. My phone fell on the sidewalk. The kid who had climbed the tree was almost reaching the ball. I reached for my phone. The screen was cracked, and I felt like throwing up typing in my details. The broken glass scratched my fingertips. I clicked Login just as the football fell down on one of the kids' heads. They all laughed.
I looked down at my phone again. The Status Update was there, waiting for me to click on it. I had worked too hard for this. My parents said I was going to get in. They had no doubt. I had all of it and more.
Christmas had been nothing but compliments, and I had felt like a fraud hearing every single one of them. My grandma had cried when she saw me because she was just so proud. My uncle had given me an official Harvard sweatshirt a size too big. My godmother had bought me my own stethoscope. My little cousin said she wanted to be like me when she grew up. The whole time I felt like someone inside a costume, like mascots at theme parks, sweating and struggling to breathe, walking around pretending, smiling to put up the illusion that I was the real thing, when really, I wasn't.
I opened the letter. A headache exploded in my temples.
Dear Ms. Clark,
Thank you for your interest in Harvard College.
After careful consideration of your application, I am sorry to inform you that we are unable to offer you a place.