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I couldn’t fall asleep. I sat up and reached for my laptop. When I opened it, the screen was still filled with the Word document for my college essay. I skimmed it again and hated it even more. It was so boring. So . . . just okay. So upright and good citizen–y. So uninspired. So not really me in any way at all.
I opened up a blank page and started to write a response to the essay. Just to have something to do, something to take my mind off how empty the house felt.
I didn’t try to sound formal and smart. I just wrote down the sentences that came into my head.
I want to be exceptional. But my expectations of who I should be always run ahead of the reality of who I am. I see myself as a writer, a philanthropist, an athlete, a dancer. . . .
But I’m not any of those things. Not really. I’ve tried my hand at so many different activities, been enthusiastic and optimistic about each one until it turned challenging or repetitive, and then . . . stopped. I never make it to the next level, where I might actually get good. I’m strong with begi
I used to dream about being really good at something and I’ve managed to convince myself that the reason it hasn’t happened yet is because I just haven’t found the right “thing.” So I keep trying new things, just waiting for the magic to happen.
But maybe you aren’t born with a talent that’s like a key that fits into a lock. Maybe it’s the sticking-to-something part that makes you outstanding—and that’s what I don’t have.
So now my dream has changed. Now instead of dreaming of being brilliant, I dream of being consistent. I dream of being dedicated. I dream of finding something I love so much that even someone like me—a mercurial, inconstant, lifelong dilettante—could honestly say, “This time, I’ll make myself proud.”
I sat back and looked at what I had written. It was way too short. It was probably too negative. It wasn’t particularly clever or well-written.
But it was honest.
I went back to bed and this time I fell asleep.
When I got home from school the next day, I worked on the essay some more, expanding it, making it fu
When I finished rewriting it, I stayed in my seat for a while, staring absently at the keyboard and thinking.
I wasn’t actually sure I should use it as my college essay. In fact, I was pretty sure I shouldn’t. It made me sound like someone who couldn’t get her act together, which wasn’t exactly what colleges looked for in their students.
But if I didn’t think I could use it, why was I putting all this time into it?
Could I use it?
I needed George to help me figure it out, I decided.
So that night, after I had fiddled with the new essay some more and felt like maybe it was in decent shape, I sent it as an email attachment to him. In the subject line, I wrote, Possible new essay? And in the body of the email I wrote, I want to be a good person. I just get in the way sometimes.☺
I deleted the smiley face and put it back in several times, finally leaving it in.
And then I hit send. And waited.
An hour later, I got an email back from him.
Re: Possible new essay?
Yes. Will discuss on Wednesday.
I spent the next hour staring at music videos and obsessing over those five words. The Yes seemed positive. Maybe that meant he liked it? Although . . . it could also have just meant he agreed that I got in my own way. And the Will discuss on Wednesday wasn’t exactly helpful feedback.
I had wanted more from George. I felt like I’d cut myself open and exposed some hidden nerve-ridden and embarrassing part of my anatomy with that essay. I’d spent years trying to convince myself that I was someone who did what she set out to do, so it wasn’t easy to admit that I wasn’t really like that.
I wanted something back for my honesty—some sense that George appreciated it and valued the courage it took. I also wanted him to see that the essay was my way of saying I screwed up with Grandma and that I was glad he called me out on it, because I really did want to be a decent person, even if I didn’t always act like it.
But as good as I was at talking other people into things, I couldn’t succeed at convincing myself that George was saying he understood all that in those five short words.
twenty-three
Ben and I needed to write an official email about the Holiday-Giving Program’s a
He offered to drop by my house on Tuesday evening, which was fine—with Luke and Mom out of town, I was happy to host. When he showed up, I was surprised to see he’d brought Aria
It didn’t really matter—actually, I figured an extra set of hands and eyes could come in handy—but she kind of a
“Thanks,” I said. “We like it.”
“It’s so big. I can’t believe how big it is. How many of you live here?”
“Just my family. And the house may be big, but we always end up doing everything in the kitchen. Which is where we’re going now.” I led them that way. “You guys want something to drink?”
“Water’s fine,” said Ben.
“Can I see what you have?” Aria
“There’s a small one out back,” I said.
“Can we see it?”
“No,” I said, a little more curtly than I probably should have. I softened it: “It’s kind of Luke’s private place. I don’t go in without him.”
“Are you musical, too?” she asked. “He must have taught you how to play the guitar and stuff, right?”
“He tried once, but it didn’t take.” I was totally tone-deaf, and even though I learned to strum a few chords, I never practiced and got fidgety when Luke sat down with me, so we both lost interest in the attempt. For Luke’s sake, I hoped Jacob would be more into the music thing; he certainly liked to sing along to Disney songs—always in his own language, but he nailed the tunes.
While Ben and I were working on the letter, Aria
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“A snack, I guess. I haven’t eaten di
I got up, went to the pantry, and pulled out a bag of crackers. “Will this do?” I dropped it on the table and sat back down.
But a few minutes later, she was back on the prowl, glancing into everything she could open.
“Do you need something else?” I asked, trying to keep the a
“Uh . . . silverware?”
“Why?” We were eating the crackers with our hands. I mean, obviously.