I gasp.
Dear Ms. Iris Weijun Wang,
The Admissions Committee has completed its review of your application. I am very sorry to tell you that we are unable to offer you admission to New York University this fall.
Please understand that this is in no way a judgment of you as a student or as a person, since our decision has more to do with the applicant pool than anything else—many of our applicants are not offered admission simply because we don’t have enough space in our entering class. This year we had nearly 19,000 candidates for fewer than 1,600 offers of admission, from which will come our 1,100 freshmen. Since all of our decisions are made at one time and all available spaces have been committed, all decisions are final.
I wish you the very best in all of your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Dean Sandy P. Schmill
My fingers tremble.
My lower lip wavers.
The nauseous, flulike feeling tunnels through me again, this time at full force.
I want to believe that this is some mistake. Another Chinese American girl called Iris Weijun Wang received my actual acceptance letter. It’s a straightforward case of mistaken identity, easily proven when I show up on the first day of classes and show them my driver’s license and passport.
I tear open the rest of the envelopes, fighting my mounting disbelief. These are all addressed to me, but not one of them is an acceptance.
I, Iris Wang, am a real victim of twenty-first-century identity theft.
“What is it?!” my mom gasps, and picks up each dropped letter.
Then my dad practically grab-wrestles a letter from my mom, and I can literally hear him stop breathing. Is this the moment where I accidentally kill my parents from utter shock? Is it considered murder if both of them suffer from heart attacks simultaneously?
All of the thin envelopes hold polite rejections from Rutgers, UCLA, San José State, Fordham, Sarah Lawrence, Kenyon College, and my obvious hard-to-reach schools like Stanford and Berkeley. Forget the Ivies and baby Ivies. When I get to my safety schools … wait, I didn’t apply to any safety schools. Rutgers was supposed to be my safety school.
“Did you … apply to any other colleges?” My dad starts turning purple-orange-blue, all the colors of a supersize pack of Tropical Skittles. “Are there any more …”
I freeze, then shake my head no.
“How could this happen?” my mom asks. “This makes no sense! You went to SAT class and we hired so many expensive tutors!”
I don’t know how to respond. I haven’t been going to my lessons.
“Does this mean she’s not going to Yale, Amy?” my dad finally asks my mom.
“Of course she’s not going to Yale,” my mom sputters. “She’s not even going to community college. Let’s face it, Jeff. Our daughter is going to be a loser.”
6
American Failure
I can’t believe my life is over.
I just didn’t think it would happen like this.
Peter’s words keep playing in my mind, like a broken iPod shuffle.
Am I really self-absorbed? What does that even mean? Mom says that if you have to ask, that means the answer is always yes. Mom is a supersmart electrical engineer who met my dad while studying in her sophomore year at City College in Manhattan. Dad was a not-so-smart mechanical engineer who dated my mom to help him pass his classes. Eventually, I think they fell in love for real when my dad guiltily confessed his intentions for dating her, and my mom said that she admired his pragmatism. While Dad cooked and cleaned and raised me, my mom earned her PhD in engineering at Johns Hopkins. Despite her penchant for math and electricity, my mom loves my dad so much that she puts up with his superstitious beliefs about the Chinese zodiac.
Unfortunately, I take after my father in the brains department. I’m not particularly gifted at anything. Shopping and spending exorbitant amounts of money don’t count.
Am I boring? Ouch. I wish I could ask Samira, but I’m currently not speaking to her.
I don’t even know what “vapid” or “narcissistic” mean. They weren’t on the SAT vocabulary lists, but then again, I didn’t really study.
I hear a loud, familiar buzzing and then I remember my iPhone is in my underwear drawer.
Ten missed calls from Samira.
Twenty-two texts from her.
Please call me! I wanted to tell you.
I’m SORRY!
The same texts but in different variations. Fake concern.
Are your parents home?
You okay?
I miss you. <3 <3 <3
But zero messages from Peter. Not a single apology text.
But what did I expect? He was the one who dumped me. If I text or call him, would that make me the pathetic one in our broken, one-sided relationship? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what makes someone hurt and lie to a person that they supposedly care about. What makes a smiling boyfriend or bestie look you in the eyeball like you’re an adorable guinea pig while they are rolling a joint and telling you that you are literally the best thing that has happened to them besides discovering weed? Peter always said that I was just like cotton candy, while Samira compared me to a bag of assorted gourmet jelly beans. I just don’t understand! Does comparing me to a sugary treat make me less human, like it’s somehow okay to use and throw me away?
My heart stings and throbs like a three-hour visit to the dentist after the anesthetic has worn off.
Nothing can be worse than this, so I finally check my school email and there are three emails marked Urgent! Please Respond!!! from my high school guidance counselor. What could be so important? For a second, I feel giddy, light-headed. Is she telling me that I’ve been voted valedictorian? Maybe even salutatorian? Oh my god. Am I prom queen, finally? I have been exceptionally nice toward my classmates this year, and I’m always there to comfort a crying freshman or hold the door open for the school secretary.
Yes, this must be the actual good news that I so desperately need.
I click on the email eagerly.
But the news is spectacularly bad. In fact, the WORST news of my entire weekend. Not even counting my eight-plus college rejections.
I’ve just failed Algebra II.
And AP Economics.
And World History.
And English!!!
How does one even fail English? It’s my first and only language. I thought I performed spectacularly well on all my in-class essays. To prep for AP Lit, I watched Death of a Salesman and Heart of Darkness twice on Netflix. But come to mention it, when was the last time I bothered to go to class? When was the last time I’ve even read a book? Does rigorously reading TV Guide on the toilet count?
Then there’s even worse news at the bottom of the email: the guidance counselor says that I won’t be graduating this year.
We need to talk about your options ASAP, she has written.
I can’t focus.
My vision blurs.
Like someone has rubbed suntan lotion on my eyeballs.
Please come see me.
I blink hard.
Then, to make things worse, a more recent message from my counselor, dated Friday afternoon.
I’ll be calling your parents Monday morning if I don’t hear back from you. This is serious, Iris. We really need to have a meeting.
This can’t be happening, I think.
The only good thing to come out of reading my ignored emails is that my eyelids have finally stopped twitching.