“Why no enthusiasm? Are you still mad at me about the portfolio?” she asks.
“Is this about when you stole Tessie’s diary?” Miles cuts in.
“Oh, here we go,” Dad huffs with a weary look.
“It wasn’t her diary!” Mom throws her hands up.
“It might as well have been.” I had told myself I was over it, that I wasn’t going to bring it up anymore, but the wound feels fresh all over again, and I’m reminded of her betrayal.
I’d heard about Chrysalis Academy long before my parents dropped the bomb on us that we would be leaving the place we’d lived our entire lives and moving six hours south to Long Beach, so my dad could take a more senior position within his company. The prestigious art school has produced a Disney Channel star, a violinist prodigy who was runner-up on America’s Got Talent, and even a poet who was longlisted for the National Book Award.
So, when I found out where we would be going, I dreamed about Chrysalis a little bit, maybe as a way to cope with the fact that my life was going to be so dramatically changed. I imagined what it would be like to be one of Chrysalis’s talented, special students. To meet other people who love what I love. And I made the mistake of talking about it at a family dinner one time. One time! But I never actually applied. I mean, I knew my love stories were not the kind of serious National Book Award–type writing they were looking for.
So, when I got my acceptance letter in the mail, I thought it was a joke. Or a clerical error.
I showed the letter to Mom, laughing about how bizarre this was, when her face broke into a knowing smile, and she spilled the beans. She could tell from what I’d said that I really wanted to go, so she filled out the application for me and then printed out some of my stories (my private stories!) as the writing samples. She had wanted to wait to tell me until I got in for sure, so I wouldn’t get myself into a tizzy over it—one of her euphemisms for the anxiety I’ve had since I was in elementary school.
“I know I probably shouldn’t have done it. But you wouldn’t have gotten into Chrysalis if I hadn’t. You would have self-rejected instead of taking the risk, and I just don’t want you to let your worries have that kind of control,” Mom says, reiterating the same defense she gave at the time. The same advice she’s given me for years. “You’re such a wonderful writer, Tessa. The world deserves to see that. And it all worked out in the end, right?”
I know I should feel good that I got accepted, and I do. Sort of. But Caroline’s the only person I let read my stories. It makes my skin flame to think which of my romantic, silly stories Mom could have sent. She couldn’t remember which she printed, and, like, I can’t exactly go to the admissions director with that mortifying question. There was that especially bad one from a few years back that took place at a summer camp, where my brown-skinned, curly-haired protagonist had to choose between the hot guys who were, of course, inexplicably all in love with her. But surely Chrysalis wouldn’t have accepted me if they had read that.
“Right?” Mom echoes again, looking at me hopefully. I just shrug.
“What time do you think we should leave tomorrow?” I ask, changing the subject, but before she can answer, we’re interrupted by Miles standing up so forcefully that his chair falls to the floor.
“What time is it?” he asks. His eyes are blinking quickly and his arms are pulsing behind him.
Dad checks his phone. “Six fifteen.”
“It started! I’m missing it!” He starts to cry, a high-pitched squeal, and runs from the room, toward the direction of the television set. “Stupid! So stupid!”
Mom stands up. “One of the Dream Zone members—Jonny, I think?—was going to be on Access Hollywood tonight. I should have remembered.” She shakes her head, looking mad at herself. As if this is her fault. Sometimes I think it’s easier for her to place blame on someone—herself, me, Dad—so she doesn’t get mad at the universe.
“I’ll go calm him down,” she says, following after him, my question about tomorrow forgotten. I used to get mad at Mom for doing this—putting my brother first, dropping everything to help him—but I’ve learned to let it go. She’s doing the best she can. We all are.
I pick up Miles’s fallen chair and then help Dad clear the table.
Chapter Three
I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear tomorrow, when Caroline calls again.
“I never got anything from you!”
“Yeah, didn’t really have time for that.” I fill her in on the scene from this afternoon, and she cackles. “Ah, I miss those pizzas! Someone should get that boy a reality show.”
“Don’t ever tell him that,” I say with a snort.
“You’re picking out your outfit now.” A statement, not a question, because even miles apart, we know each other’s actions like our own.
“Mm-hmm.” I sit down on the floor in my closet, staring up at the options. After wearing uniforms at South High, I’m probably as excited about the possibilities of free dress at Chrysalis as I am about the creative writing classes.
“Well, you know what you have to wear.”
And yeah, I know exactly what she’s talking about. The rainbow dress.
It has a V-neck—not too low, but just enough—and a full skirt and vertical stripes in a pastel rainbow palette. I was on the fence about buying it from the little boutique in the Fountains shopping center, but Caroline convinced me. And it wasn’t too hard—it did fit me perfectly, falling over my hips and highlighting my waist. But there’s no way I’m wearing that dress.
Because, as I tell her now, “It’s too much!” And she groans in frustration. “It is! You know it is, Caroline!” I say.
My general aesthetic is this: I don’t want to stand out. Like, if someone does happen to notice me, I want them to nod and think, “That was a very subtle way of mixing patterns,” or “The embroidered details on that Peter Pan collar are understated and cute.” But I don’t want to stand out. And a rainbow dress stands out. I know it’s a lot of thought to put into what is essentially just protecting my skin from the elements and other people’s eyes. I know that! But I think that the right outfit is important. It’s a wish for the day! And my wish is that tomorrow goes EXACTLY. RIGHT.
All of a sudden, it feels hotter in my closet than it did a second ago. And somehow my fists are clenched? I try to take a deep breath, but there doesn’t seem to be enough air.
“Uh, Tessa . . . ,” Caroline says. “How are you feeling about tomorrow, buddy?”
I exhale and shake out my body. Of course it’s not just about the outfit. She knows how my brain works.
“Okay, I’m nervous.” I sigh, as if that wasn’t blindingly obvious. “Chrysalis is a big deal, you know? And I’m worried about not fitting in. I had a hard enough time at South High, and that was with, like . . . average, regular people. I don’t have a chance with these cool, megatalented, sophisticated artists.” I mean, these adjectives don’t really apply to Hawaiian Shirt Sam, but I’m guessing he’s going to be the outlier.
“Well, I don’t know if my opinion matters as just a regular, but I think you’ll be okay.” I can hear the smile in her voice, letting me know it’s only mock offense.