2.
It showed up in her message box before finals. The subject line read: “Re: Darrowwood Prep Camp.” Monica did not remember ever having corresponded with a Darrowwood Preparatory, wherever that was, but the email informed her that a letter would arrive at her home shortly. Google searches displayed a picturesque cabin fronting the vast woods of West Virginia, and several pages of prestigious awards and laudatory comments from past members. Her right index finger tingled on the keyboard.
“Monica,” her mother said at dinner, “I wasn’t aware you had applied for Darrowwood.”
Monica let her fork sink into her lasagna. “I didn’t, Mom. This has to be some sort of mistake. I already put into Belkin. Have you been looking through my emails again?”
Her mother folded her hands behind her plate. “No, I have not touched your stuff. Your father and I received emails concerning this school this afternoon. I am very proud of you, Monica, because they certainly want you. You must be doing something right. It looks wonderful – you know what, I think you should give it a try. It might be just your fit. Melanie didn’t know she would like Ervin until she visited the campus.”
Monica’s older sister, the family genius, had absolutely fallen in love with her school. She was currently working in the family trade on an aid mission in South Sudan. Monica sighed. “I did not sign up for this, Mom. I don’t know how they got my information, but I want them to stop sending everybody messages. Look,” she said, pushing her plate away, “I applied to Belkin for a reason. They have the best journalism program in the nation. I want to go there.”
“What if you change your mind? It looks as though Darrowwood has strong science classes. Or, sweetie, you could go to Ervin, like Melanie. They have everything there.”
“I’m not like Melanie. Mom, I want to write.” Monica’s hands had fallen onto her lap.
Her mother stared at her for some time, lips pursed. “Alright,” she said, “you’re the one going through the coursework.” She leaned forward over the island counter. “But sweetheart, at least have your mind open to the possibility of going to a school besides Belkin. You might miss an opportunity to be pleasantly surprised.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it, but I won’t promise anything. I don’t think I’ll change my mind.” Monica had brought her hands together on the stone countertop. The fingers, their nails all freshly painted cherry red, drummed against one another.
“Oh, you redid your nails,” her mother said. “That’s a very nice color. But what’s wrong with that one on the end?” She pointed at the budded nail. “Isn’t that your split nail? I told you to leave it alone.”
Just as Monica opened her mouth to answer, her father entered the kitchen with a sly grin. “Hey, there’s my girl,” he said, approaching Monica with his arms thrown open. There was a thick white envelope in his hand.
“What’s that?” Monica asked.
Her dad waggled it. “This,” he said, “is the promised letter.”
“Bill, do you mean from Darrowwood?” Monica’s mother threw Monica a nervous smile. “That’s great. Let’s open it together and consider what they have to say.”
“You two can look, but I’m leaving. I promised Jenny I’d be over at eight.” Monica hopped off the kitchen stool. She placed her dishes in dishwasher, and hoped that her best friend would prattle to her about Bobby or Kevin or one of the other cute boys in their class, as long as she did not have to hear about anything academic.
“Monica, come look at this,” her mother said. “They have top-rated humanities, too.”
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