The Girl Who Fell(75)

Breath abandons my lungs.

“It looks meaty.” I hear his hope, louder than his words.

I rub the cool, slick envelope between my fingers. Would Boston College waste all this paper on a student they didn’t want? I tear the flap and reach inside. There is a letter and a thinner version of my coveted brochure. My fingertips numb. My eyes cloud with tears, but I blink them away to read the first line:

“We are pleased to offer you . . .”

I gasp, then scream. Finn lets out two low, guarded barks.

My heart soars and calms in harmony, a tightrope of extremes. I am holding the end of limbo in my very hands. I own my future. My dream realized. My body floats weightless as I press the envelope to my chest. “I thought it would never come!” Alec’s arm pulls around my shoulders.

When I slide out the brochure I half expect I’ll see my picture on the front cover, my step caught in midflight, but of course it is that other girl. And for the first time I’m not jealous. She can have that floating step; I will have everything beyond. The classrooms, the dorm rooms, Faneuil Hall, the T, the Head of the Charles, and Boston Common.

“I’m so happy for you, Zephyr.”

“Yeah?”

He collects me to him, locks my gaze. “Of course.”

“But you’re not . . . I don’t know, upset?”

“How could I be?”

Because Michigan and Boston are so far away. Nine hundred miles to be exact. A $435 round-trip plane fare. “Because Boston College isn’t in Michigan.”

He smiles. “I could never be mad at you for accomplishing your dreams. No matter where they take you.”

I snuggle against Alec. I breathe him in, the spearmint and sweat and this new, earthy smell we make together with our heat. I could close my eyes, fall asleep in his arms, and live in him forever. It’s a dream, I know. But so was Boston College and I got that, didn’t I?

He peels me from our embrace, stands to leave. “I should leave. You probably have a million people to tell. Call me later?”

“I will.” I squeeze my letter to my core. “Thank you so much.”

“For what?”

“For being you. For supper. For bringing me this letter. It’s all just so perfect.”

He gives me a small smile. “Perfect,” he repeats and I listen to his footsteps, know the measure of his gait as he walks to the door. He turns. “I’m proud of you, Zephyr.”

I go to my room and drop onto bed to reread the letter. About eight times. I imagine being a Boston College Eagle, playing field hockey on their lush grounds, college crowds cheering in a sea of maroon. Wind tunneling under my wings as I fly.

And for the first time since Dad left, I feel like I’m capable of anything.

Everything.

I’ll decorate my dorm room. I’ll buy that down comforter I saw online last week. And crates. Cool ones to stack books and shoes and records.

I read my acceptance letter again, committing it to memory. I read it aloud to Finn as he curls against the back of my knees. He coughs at one point, as if he’s a cat trying to heave up a hairball. I’m momentarily worried, but he settles. “You okay boy?” He snuffles his reply.

I pat his head, kiss his soft velvet-fur temple.

I smile to myself. My excitement is too big to be crimped by worry or unexpected problems.

Orientation begins August 24. I’ll have to choose a single or double room if I’m going to live on campus. I have to send back my commitment letter by December 15. Next week. It is a dream. No, better. A doorway to a dream. And I hold the key.

• • •

I meet Mom at the door when she gets home. I fall into her, let her squeeze all her happiness into me now since I had to give her the news over the phone.

“We must have cake!” She sets down her bags and goes to the freezer. Somewhere behind a box of hyacinth bulbs, she finds what she’s looking for. “I froze this for when you heard. I had my suspicions it might be earlier than you were letting on.” The cake is decorated with the Boston College crest and reads CONGRATULATIONS! around the edges in the same font the college uses on their sweatshirts and other official logos. “I told you Boston College would think you’re as perfect as I do.”

It’s amazing the way Mom’s been able to believe in me, even when I couldn’t.

Mom tries unsuccessfully to insert a candle into the rock-hard frosting.

“Microwave,” I suggest.

“You can’t microwave a frozen cake. We can wait.”

I’m through waiting. “If there’s one thing my friendship with Lizzie has taught me, it’s how to manage sugar.” I set the cake into the microwave and cook it for one minute. When I take it out, the top is just soft enough to insert a candle, which Mom lights.