This is not a personal s.., p.2
This Is Not a Personal Statement, page 2
Why is the envelope so thin?
I don’t have any frame of reference for paper acceptances. Maybe Delmont’s envelope is supposed to look like this. Delmont might have decided to save some trees by referring accepted students to materials online.
That must be it.
How very eco-friendly of them.
My hands shaking, I reassemble the stack of mail and head inside. Dad nods, cell phone held up flush against his ear, when I plop the rest of the mail down on the already-mail-cluttered kitchen table. I poise to sprint up to my room when he lays his hand on my arm. We’re the same shade of not-enough-time-in-the-sun brown, thanks to us spending all day indoors. Even our limited free time together is movie theaters and restaurants rather than beaches and hiking trails.
His dark brown eyes fix on the Delmont envelope in my hand.
He squeezes my arm, flashes me a grin, then refocuses on his phone call.
My heartbeat erratic, I take the stairs two at a time up to my room. I nearly trip on the top step I’d crossed thousands of times before.
Backpack down, door shut, envelope in hand. I launch myself onto the bed, ruffling the light pink pillowcases, sheets, comforter, and two stuffed bears—Bip and Bop—perched on top. Other than the laptop on my desk, my room hasn’t changed in years. It’s the room of a bright-eyed eleven-year-old who picked out a daisy rug because it looked like something she’d seen on TV.
I tuck my legs underneath me and grip the envelope. I turn it over and slide my finger under the seam, earning myself a paper cut as I rip it open.
I ignore the smart of the fresh cut and unfold the paper. There it is, the Delmont seal in all its glory at the top, then Dear Ms. Perez, we regret to inform you that . . .
No.
No. No. No.
. . . we are unable to offer you a place in our fall class.
The oxygen disappears from the room. I feel like I’ve been flung into space: breathless, unanchored.
The words on the page blur as the tears start to burn in my eyes. Unable to offer me a place? That can’t be what it says.
Because I’m supposed to get accepted into Delmont. I get in. That’s what’s written in blotchy blue ink in Perlie’s Academic Plan in the bookcase downstairs, what’s tattooed on my soul. Delmont is the next big stepping-stone in my heavily mapped-out future. I get in.
This damn letter is telling me otherwise.
I read the lines over and over again, as if a hidden acceptance lies behind it, if only I am smart enough to decipher it. Trembling, I fold the paper back up along its neat creases, covering the words like they never existed. But the truth of those ground-shaking words sears into my brain.
I didn’t get into my dream school. My parents’ dream school. They’ll be more than angry: they’ll be ashamed. All that money spent on tutors, coaches, and prep classes, all that time wasted whisking me from activity to activity, all those comments to friends and family about how intelligent and impressive their daughter is? All for nothing.
Everyone at school will find out, and, worse than their ignoring me, they’ll side-eye me with those pitying looks. They’ll shake their heads and whisper about that Perlie Perez kid who kept to herself because she thought she was better than everyone; then they’ll be the ones going off to their dream colleges. They’ll be the ones proving how much worthier they are.
And what does this say about me? I, Perfect Perlie Perez, am not good enough for the future I’d been tailoring myself for all my life. Something in me wilts. I’d prepared for acceptance, a first year at a prestigious school, killer finals, new social crises.
I hadn’t prepared for rejection.
A tear hits the paper and soaks in.
Dad has seen the envelope, so there’s no hiding this. Once he’s off his phone call, he’s going to come up here and ask me about the letter. Judging by the heat on my face and the heaviness on my chest, I don’t think I can tell him about the rejection without full-out sobbing. And the crying will reaffirm his erroneous belief that I’m still only a child, one who is not emotionally mature enough for any of this college business. One whose life still has to be carefully crafted and controlled by her tough but well-meaning parents because clearly she can’t be trusted to handle even the slightest thing on her own.
I rub my palms against my eyes; then my gaze lands on the quote above my desk. The words, in rich navy blue, pop against the white background: one of the few non-pink bits of decor in my room. We had found the print and its gilded frame in an antique store back in eighth grade, and it’s been hanging above my head ever since.
Only those who attempt the absurd can achieve the impossible.
—Albert Einstein
An actual genius: a parent-approved role model for a sixteen-year-old.
My eyes narrow in on a few words, the rest fading.
Attempt the absurd.
An idea ignites in my brain, one so wild—so absurd—that my heart thumps that extra beat it’d missed earlier, when I’d seen the thinness of the Delmont envelope.
I’m at my desk, one hand on the laptop keyboard, the other on the mouse, before my brain registers that I’ve moved.
I can fix this.
I will fix this.
I unfold the letter, purposely averting my eyes from the evil we regret to inform you. I place it into the feed of the four-in-one printer my parents moved into my room from their office so I could print and proofread my essays without disturbing them. The scan button flashes bright yellow, and the hum of the scanner soothes my jagged, jittery nerves.
I open up the image in Photoshop, and it’s quick work to splice out the letterhead and pull sample acceptance language from the internet. I throw in a line about welcome materials being available online, to explain the shamefully tiny envelope. I match the font type, the size, even the graininess. I didn’t get an A-plus in digital arts for nothing.
Footsteps thud against the wooden stairs. Dad’s done with his call, and he’s coming up.
I hit print and stretch for the ripped envelope on the worn carpet. My revised Delmont letter finishes printing, and, despite the shaking of my limbs and the rioting of the blood in my veins, I fold it into thirds. I crinkle and play with the paper a little to give it a worn, not-fresh-from-the-printer feel, and four knocks rattle my bedroom door. Dad’s knuckles might as well be battering rams.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
I do one last swipe across my eyes to dry any remaining tears and force my voice steady. “Sure.”
He swings the door open and leans up against the doorframe. His suit jacket and tie are off, and he looks relaxed, even happy. Of course he’d be happy. He believes his daughter got into Delmont.
“So?”
I hand him the envelope with the fake admission letter. The real denial letter is toasting in the scanner bed.
Drawing from every bit of that A-minus I’d gotten in drama, I paint a small smile on my face and hope a glimmer makes it to my eyes. “See for yourself.”
Dad draws out the forged letter and reads. The world goes silent and still then, and my forced breathing sounds ragged in my own ears.
Will he spot this as a fake immediately? Maybe I spelled something wrong. I should’ve proofread it. Acid rises up in my throat, and I shift in my chair. It squeaks beneath me, but Dad keeps reading despite the distraction.
I pinpoint the exact moment my lie takes root, because the tiny pinch between his brows loosens. I thought I’d be relieved, but the acid surges once more. This isn’t some small white lie about finishing a project early or that no one’s gotten their AP practice test results back yet. My whole identity, my whole future, hinges on what’s on that flimsy piece of paper. It’s too late to come clean now.
Dad raises his sparkling eyes to me and pumps his fist in the air like his team just got a win at work. Despite knowing the truth, I curve my mouth into a big goofy grin that matches his.
He hands me back my forgery then pulls me in for a quick, tight hug. “You did it! Good thing we didn’t waste that time and money on NYU, then, right?” He reaches for his phone and dials Mom. “I just knew you’d get accepted into Delmont, Perlie. I didn’t doubt it for a second.”
I lean back into my chair, that grin stuck painfully on my face like I stapled it there. “Neither did I.”
Three
When I tuck Bip, Bop, and myself into my fluffy pink bed, my blood buzzing with sugary lemon frosting from Mom’s store-bought congratulations cupcake and growing guilt over my fraud, I remind myself of the four other schools that owe me responses. They’re all what our high school counselor would call “reach schools,” ones whose typical admissions qualifications like grade point average and test scores are above mine. My counselor recommended everyone add a handful of “safety” schools that were more likely to offer admission, but my parents and I sniffed at the idea of lowering our family’s standards. I only applied to the lofty schools listed in Perlie’s Academic Plan. Still, that leaves four whole chances to get back on slightly derailed track. I can convince my parents that I’d changed my mind and decided to go to another school instead.
Not the least bit tired, I gaze out at the darkened windows of the cookie-cutter houses across the street. Among the other thousand worries in my head, the conversation between Camilla and her friends in the school parking lot earlier today still needles me. Edie had people to immediately turn to when she was hit with a rejection.
I don’t.
I obviously can’t talk to my parents about this, so I squeeze Bip and Bop closer. “You two love me no matter what school I go to, right?”
Their inanimate plastic eyes gaze back at me, and I frown into the darkness. I’m looking for reassurance from two teddy bears: this is how desperate I’ve become. I shut my eyes, if only to hide from Bip’s and Bop’s gazes.
Hours later, in the bright light of day, it’s obvious that I can’t tell my usual lunch crew—Leah, Yin, and Marcus—about it either. They haven’t noticed my silence since I plopped myself onto this metal bench.
We usually prefer to keep discussion light, despite the fact that our combined brainpower could probably build and launch a satellite. Never anything too personal, mostly sci-fi and fantasy fanfic and video games. My Nintendos, gifts from my self-proclaimed “fun aunt” Auntie Trish, were my key into these lunchtime friendships.
Auntie Trish is the director of a major tech giant–funded nonprofit, a position that Mom said she stumbled into because she burned out from her much-higher-paying advertising job. Judging from Mom’s tone alone—the same one she says “video games” with—I can never burn out. I have to continue burning brightly forever.
Yin gripes about some level of Luigi’s Mansion that she can’t beat. Leah nods in sympathy, her mouth stuffed with an oil-dripping quesadilla from the cafeteria. Marcus balances his calculus book and a binder on his legs, trying to finish homework due next period.
I poke at the dry turkey wrap Dad packed for me this morning while the others strategize. All three are on some medical track like I am, whether future dentists or pharmacist hopefuls. I wonder if I’ll stay in touch with the lunch crew when I’m off at college, and I realize with a twinge of sadness that, no, I probably won’t. We’ll hug at graduation and say we will, but the only thing binding us together was the brief half-hour respite from the intense intellectual competition that crushed us the rest of the day.
A shadow casts over my turkey wrap, and I gaze up, expecting the pitter-patter of unexpected rain during an outdoor lunch period.
But it’s worse than that.
It’s Camilla.
Camilla tucks her thumbs into the pockets of her dark jeans. Her narrow jaw is tense, and her eyes are slightly puffy, like she was crying or was up late, or both. “My mom told me you’re going to Delmont. Congratulations.”
It doesn’t sound like a true congratulations with how monotone it came out, but I thank her anyway. It’s better than what I’d initially thought of saying, a slew of choice angry words at her for outing me for a lie I wasn’t ready to drag my lunch crew into yet.
Before I can shoo Camilla away and minimize the damage, Marcus holds up a hand for a high five. “Wait, Delmont? That’s awesome, Perlie!”
I smack my palm to his, and the impact stings my skin. It’s like every cell of my body rebels at my dishonesty.
“It’s not a sure thing yet. I’m still waiting on four more schools,” I hedge.
“But Delmont’s your dream,” Camilla says. “You’ve talked about it since you were a kid. Why would you think about going anywhere else?”
Why, indeed? I honestly haven’t had the chance, or the fortitude, to think through every tiny detail since my rash letter printing less than twenty-four hours ago. My mouth goes dry as I reach for any possible response other than that I didn’t, in fact, get in.
Part of me wants to tell the truth. Who at this school hasn’t fibbed to keep parents, teachers, and coaches off their backs for just a moment?
But this isn’t like faking a stomachache so I can get out of a physical fitness test. It was a little white lie to Dad yesterday, but if Camilla knows, then my parents’ colleagues must know. And now everyone at Monte Verde is going to know too because Camilla just announced it in the middle of the open-air quad. My brief streak of honesty fades. I need to think of a better way to handle this than to make me and my family the subject of ridicule.
Besides, I’ll get in somewhere else. Then I’ll say I changed my mind.
“Delmont’s great, but I’m keeping my options open, you know,” I say before focusing intently on my lunch.
Camilla seems to take the hint that I don’t want to talk. “Well, Delmont is a pretty good option as it is. Congratulations again.” She nods at my lunch crew before walking over to her usual table with Edie and Arnell.
Yin flips a strand of long black hair behind her shoulder. “Yikes, what was that about?”
“I don’t know,” I say, even though I can guess. I didn’t ask Camilla about what was in her own Delmont envelope, but I assume her triteness means she didn’t get in either. I can’t even commiserate with her the way we used to over Mario Kart now that my Delmont acceptance lie is out in the world.
Leah bumps her shoulder to mine. “Don’t let her bring you down. Good for you. I got into Yale, Yin’s sent her deposit into Johns Hopkins, and Marcus . . .”
“Already bought my Northwestern hoodie online!” he cuts in. “Shelled out the extra fifteen dollars for expedited shipping too.”
I smile in a show of excitement for them but dig my nails so hard into my palms I nearly draw blood.
Yin throws her arm around my shoulder. “Just think: all this Monte Verde High stress and drama will be behind us in a few months.”
“Not so sure about that,” Leah groans, popping a tortilla chip in her mouth. “Premed’s no joke. It might get just as intense.”
Right about now, I’d kill for the opportunity to even be in that intense environment. I force a casual shrug. “You can always switch majors, can’t you?”
They laugh like I’ve made some hilarious joke. Because, in truth, that’s not an option for any of us. The last time Marcus broached the topic of pursuing a career in marketing, his parents called the school and had him switched out of his art elective mid-semester. Then they tried to get the art teacher suspended for poisoning young minds or something. It’s funny now, but it sticks in all of our memories as reminders of what is and isn’t considered success in our circles.
With my Delmont rejection, I’m further from this concept of success than everyone around me.
I’m lucky the others’ laughter covers the falseness in mine. They all have somewhere to go, but I still don’t. Until I get a letter of acceptance from one of the other four schools I’m waiting on, I’ll have to bite my cheek, smile, and nod every time someone mentions Delmont. Because now, thanks to my bragging dad and too-loud Camilla, I’ve found that the pool of lies I’ve cannonballed into is even deeper than I thought, and staying afloat is the most I can hope for.
Mid-April, I get wait-listed at two colleges.
Mom and Dad console me with half-hearted assurances that it’s those schools’ losses for not wanting me to be part of their first-year classes. They rely on the one attempt at consolation that never fails to curdle my stomach: “At least you got into the dream school!”
I respond with a practiced smile so often that after a while the tears don’t even prickle at my eyes.
Late at night, when my parents think I’ve long since fallen asleep, I hear their worries float up from the kitchen, where they anxiously swirl their glasses of wine: Only one school? What did we do wrong? Is it because Perlie’s too young, not ready? Did you hear so-and-so’s kid got into Princeton?
I use my slightly less judgy Bip and Bop bears as earmuffs to tune them out. I was the one who tipped the scales in favor of skipping grades: I’d been so enthusiastic, so sure I could do it and make everyone proud, that my parents couldn’t say no. It’s been rough out on the social scene, being both notoriously younger and unable to drive (this is California, after all). But despite occasionally shedding my share of tears in the privacy of Bip and Bop’s company, I’m certain my age won’t impact my ability to excel at any of the top schools. I just need to convince my parents of that too.
So I keep graciously thanking relatives and my parents’ friends when they tell me how impressed they are about me going to Delmont. I check the other college admissions portals every day, as if my acceptance will magically appear even when no one else has gotten word either.
Then I get rejected from those last two colleges in one day.
I read those final rejections on an overcast Wednesday morning, seven minutes before we’re supposed to leave for school.
All the stress acid simmering in my stomach since forging the Delmont acceptance bubbles up at once, volcanic, and I rush across the hallway to the bathroom not a second too late.
None of the nine top-tier schools I applied to want me. I worked so hard all these years, followed every part of the plan down to the last detail, and I have nothing to show for it. My dreams of going off to a prestigious university this fall dissolve and spill out of me with my breakfast.
