“Yes, I’d like to speak with the dean of admissions, please. Tell her Olivia Doyle’s calling in regards to an acceptance packet my daughter received.”
In no time, I listen to Mom go into professional argument mode. No blame, no presumptions. Just facts spread out between two adults. There’s been a mistake, she says. We’d like to remedy it, she says. She’s careful not to reveal why this mistake occurred, but so articulate in providing options, solutions. She is powerful and believable and I think she could get anyone to see our way. But it is the silence when Mom’s not talking that kills me.
When Mom hangs up, she brushes the front of her wrinkle-free suit. “I think it’s good. The dean asked that you come for an interview a week from Thursday.” Mom sets the date and time in her phone and I do the same. “This will be your opportunity to reaffirm your commitment to the school.” She studies me for that commitment. “She’s doing you a huge favor, Zephyr. Most kids don’t get one chance at this school.”
“I know. You won’t regret this, Mom.”
“But don’t count on anything, Zephyr. She said this is highly unusual and it sends up some red flags.”
“I know.”
“So we’ll need to prepare you, no different than how I prepare a defendant. We’ll get you ready to handle questions from any angle. You’ll need to prove you’re capable of the social and academic challenges Boston College will demand. And that you regret declining their offer of acceptance.”
I do. “I will, Mom. I’ve never been more ready. I’ve already contacted the field hockey coach. I want to see her when we’re on campus.”
She pulls on her coat. “Good.” She fastens her last button. “These are good first steps, Zephyr. Strong steps.”
And I feel it, the tidal wave of Mom’s help and how she reached the dean. Maybe before my packet did.
But as I drive to school, I almost bail a hundred times.
Because I can’t see him.
I won’t see him.
I inhale deep abdominal breaths and exhale through my nose, a calming technique Coach taught me that is having zero effect on my spiraling nerves.
But I can’t run away. Can’t let Alec take more.
I walk across the parking lot and through the halls, kaleidoscoping glances in every direction, searching through the crowds.
But it’s not Alec waiting at my locker.
Gregg points to the slight limp in my gait. “You hurt?”
“Twisted my ankle running.” Lie.
“Not dancing?” He winks.
“That I escaped injury free.” Half lie.
“So are you going to tell me why you left the reception without saying good-bye?”
“Headache.”
He looks at me hard, suspicious. “Feeling better?”
“Much.” A lie trifecta.
“Can you hobble over there?” He signals toward the front lobby. “I want you to see something.” I walk beside him, an imposter faking health.
The red entry doors approach. I could leave. It is a bossy temptation. But I refuse to run.
Gregg halts in front of the award case. There’s a new, three-tiered trophy, gleaming silver: SUDBURY HIGH SCHOOL FIELD HOCKEY STATE CHAMPIONS. A female figure stands on top, a field hockey stick in hand, the wind in her immortalized hair.
The playoff game meets me here. The lights. The crowd. The green of the grass. I search the team picture propped next to the trophy, me smiling with victory. I feel that girl in me still.
“Cool, right?” Gregg says. “That trophy should have your name on it.”
“As if.”
“Oh right. I mean, you’re lucky your team let you sit on the sidelines while they brought home the championship.”
I smile, try to play along with his joke. But it is just that, a joke. The truth is that I played my ass off. For four years. And I want to be that girl again. “I’m not going to Michigan.”
Gregg’s posture bolts with the surprise.
“I’m going to try to play for Boston College. If they’ll have me.”
“I thought you said—”
“I did.” I straighten, ignore the twist in my side. “It was a mistake.”
“And what about Alec?”
“No Alec. No Michigan. It’s Boston College like we always talked about.”
“So did you guys . . . ?”
“Break up? Yeah.”
“Damn!” Gregg looks all impressed with himself.
“What?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. Then, “That must have been some kiss at the wedding.”
It’s impossible not to laugh at his idiocy. “Yep, you got me. That’s why we broke up. Oh, except for the fact that we split up before the wedding.”