Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (13 page)

Tuesday’s were pink for Mom. I filled that one up with all
the words I knew Mom to be. And all the words I knew she would have been had
she had the liberty to be who she wanted to be. Wednesday was blue for Jesse. Those
were easy to fill out too. I love Jess so much, and finally observing his
strength growing each day has renewed a sense of hope that neither of us have
felt in a long time. Perhaps never.

Today is lilac for me. For today’s me. What do I wish for
me? Today? At first I consider writing the word “freedom” on the cover and
putting ditto marks on all the subsequent sheets. Then I think of a different
way to say the same thing. A way to tell Lagan how much I want him to stay a
part of my world today—every day—without freaking him out. I hope.

I write in code. Not the kind that takes a genius to figure
out. Just a very long run-on sentence. With one word per little square sheet, I
carefully print the words:
I. Yes. Dew. Drop. From. Above. Have.
Dropped. Fallen. Actually. Is. Falling. In. To. Deep. Waters. With. You. Who.
Have. Found. After. Searching. For. Days. And. Weeks. A. Way. To. Swim.
Through. The. Clouds. To. Reach. Me.

“Talia Vanderbilt?” A voice startles me, nearly knocking me
off the bench. “Mr.
Donatelli
will see you now.”

I place my Sticky notepad in my sweatshirt pocket, tuck my
pen into my bag, and follow the short, stocky woman with bifocals and a pen
that holds a makeshift bun in place, back into the office cubicles separated by
thin partial dividers. No room for secrets here. Perhaps the principal has a
real office with four walls and a door. The guidance counselor, an
average-sized, blond, white male in his thirties, wearing a deep purple button
down and a pink, pin-striped tie, points to a chair opposite his desk with his
pen and continues perusing a file with my name across the side of it. Maybe the
pink tie is for Valentine’s day. But that’s tomorrow. Then again, perhaps he’s
celebrating all week too.

“Well, well, Talia,” he says, still turning pages over in
the open manila folder. “It appears that you have been very thorough. All your
graduation requirements are complete, and your record is impeccable.”

“Thanks.” I don’t know what else to say.

“There’s just one thing.”

Isn’t there always? Sigh. “Yes?” I try to tame my eyes to
keep them from rolling.

“Talia?” He finally looks up at me. “Have you ever
participated in any extracurricular activities?”

“No.”

“Clubs?”

“No.”

“Sports?”

“Nope.”

“After school job?”

“No, sir.”

“Volunteered anywhere?”

“Not unless raking my neighbor’s leaves counts?” The ones
that blow onto our yard, of course.

Mr.
Donatelli
chuckles, a nervous
kind of laugh. “Not quite. More like volunteering at a hospital? Shelter?
Elderly home?”

“Umm. Never had the chance to.” I slip a hint without
thinking.

“What do you mean exactly? Do you have any particular
explanation for your complete absence of participation other than at the
academic level?” Mr.
Donatelli’s
voice sounds almost
accusatory. He holds up the copies of my rejection letters from colleges. “Do
you realize that colleges are looking for much more than a stellar GPA these
days? They seek well-rounded applicants. Students who do more than just crack
their books open and perform well on tests.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr.
Donatelli
.”
I have my speech rehearsed and memorized. “I’ll look into everything you have
mentioned. Thank you again.”

I rise to leave, hugging my book bag in a futile attempt to
still my pounding heart.

“Please sit down, Talia.”
Donatelli
begins at the start of my file again and shuffles through several papers before
pulling a single sheet out.  

I lower myself back into the chair. The clock reads 11:22
a.m. Technically, he still has eight minutes to remind me of the obvious. I
have nothing that makes me shine, and I probably will not get into college.

“I see that Loyola has not replied yet.” He holds the paper
up like I can read it from where I sit.

 
Regardless,
that is my dream school. If breathing counted for something, Loyola’s admission
board might give me the time of day. “I don’t really expect to get a favorable
response from LU, sir.” My eyes shift back to the clock. “I just applied there
since the school is close enough to commute to. I don’t plan to live on
campus.”

“Actually,”
Donatelli
carries on,
“there’s a note here in your file saying you are a finalist in their essay
contest, and the English Department is considering offering you a scholarship.
Of course, they still require evidence of at least one extracurricular.”

I feel like I’m listening to someone else’s life story. “I’m
sorry, Mr.
Donatelli
. There must be some mistake. I
never entered any writing contest.”

Mr.
Donatelli
slides the paper
over to my side of the table to read for myself. “No one formally enters the
Loyola Essay contest. Each applicant’s personal statement automatically
qualifies as an entry, and the English Department chooses the top ten as
finalists from which three are chosen nationally to receive substantial
scholarships upon entry of freshman year. Granted, the student must maintain a
certain...”

His voice drones on regarding the history of the contest and
how no one from Hinsdale North has ever won. All the while I skim the letter.
The impossible escape lay in my lap. This paper displays the following words:
Talia
Grace Vanderbilt—Finalist. Essay titled: “Addicted to Thinking.”
The typed, eight-by-eleven sheet with
Loyola’s logo above lists all my information. Shock, sandwiched between terror
and cynicism, cements my fingers to the page and my bottom to the seat. Not to
mention my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

“Didn’t you receive a copy of this letter at home?” he asks.
“Perhaps it got lost in the mail. Let me call them over there at LU and request
an official copy be sent to your house, and I’ll make a copy for you to bring
home and discuss with your father.”  

Bubble of possibility pops. Crash landing back to reality.
Of course. Dad saw the words
pending one extracurricular activity
and probably ripped the letter into
shreds and didn’t think to even tell me about it.

When Mr.
Donatelli
puts the
receiver down on his desk, he hasn’t hung up yet.

“Dr. Deans, the English Department head, wants to ask you a
few questions.”

He hands me the phone, and I hear a woman’s voice asking for
me to identify myself.

“Yes.” I clear my throat to find my voice. “Yes. This is
Talia Grace Vanderbilt.”

“Hello, Talia,” the voice on the other end says confidently.
“My name is Professor Katherine Deans. And I am pleased to inform you that your
chances to be chosen as one of the top three of this year’s ten essay finalists
are really good. You are a very gifted writer, young lady. We in the department
have all read your personal statement and are in agreement. We would like you
to join us for your undergraduate studies. Perhaps even consider working part-time
in our Writing Center to help other students with their assignments? We would
be delighted to have you enroll in our Creative Writing Program, if you choose
to accept our package, pending one small condition.”

“Yes.” I finally interject since I hear a pause, my mind
still spinning off its axis.  

“Talia,” Professor Deans details the condition, “we need
proof that you have participated in at least one alternative activity in
addition to your academics. We cannot officially mail you a decision regarding
admission prior to the completion of your application. If you can establish a
minimum six-month volunteer position with a reputable organization by the end
of this week, we trust you will complete your commitment, and we will begin
processing your admission. Immediately following, we will enclose your
financial aid package with which I believe you will be very pleased.”

I need a pen. I motion script in the air with my free hand
to Mr.
Donatelli
. I am thinking ten steps ahead. Dad
doesn’t know anything about this yet. Translation: Time. Hope. A dream not shot
down. Yet.

Mr.
Donatelli
reaches across the
desk, handing me a black ball point. “Professor Deans, should I call you once
I’ve researched my options and made a decision? Okay. I’ll get in touch with
you no later than next Friday. And, Professor Deans, thank you. Thank you very
much.”

Deep breath, then I hand Mr.
Donatelli
the phone to hang up. He takes the receiver without removing his eyes from his
computer screen. Several sheets slide out of his printer, which he hands to me
immediately.

The bell rings. Lunchtime. I stand to shake Mr.
Donatelli’s
hand. He smiles. “Take a look through these
volunteer opportunities and consider one that interests you ASAP. I would hate
to see you lose this chance of a lifetime. And if you need me to call your
father...”

I shake my head as I turn to leave. “Thanks. You’ve already
done plenty. Thank you, though. It’s up to me now.”

Ball in my court, papers folded in my hands, I float to the
cafeteria to play one-on-one with my thoughts for a few moments longer. I reach
into my sweatshirt pocket to make sure it’s still there. Can’t forget about my
lilac Post-it book confession. Bet casserole surprise is on the menu today.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

“What
is that you’re reading?”

I recognize the voice instantly, and my heart sinks faster
than an Olympic diver in the pool of despair that I am all too familiar with.
As I raise my head to look into the eyes of my father I think of two things
that must remain out of sight for me to live: the lilac Post-it notepad in my
pocket and Lagan.
Where are you?

“D-d-d-d-ad.” I stutter, shifting my cafeteria tray as if
worried the imperfect alignment with my body constitutes a failure in Dad’s
books. “What a surprise! What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is Jesse
okay?”

I
frisbee
questions to Dad to mask
my relief of avoided bombs and my anxiety over simmering grenades. The burning
wick shortens every second Lagan nears the cafeteria.
Where
is he?

“Justice is fine,” Dad says, still standing. “I was on my
way to stop by the house on my lunch break when a Mr.
Donatelli
calls me on my cell.”

Didn’t I tell
that man not to call my father?

“He tells me you have a scholarship to Loyola, because you
won a writing contest. When did you enter a writing contest? And when were you
going to tell me about this?” His voice begins to crescendo.

“Dad.” I need some air. “Do you want to talk outside? I can
sign out early from school. We can discuss this while driving home.”

“I have a client I’m meeting in twenty minutes. You have the
next three to explain this, and we’ll discuss it further when I get home
tonight.”

“Okay.” I swallow. Still no sign of Lagan as I scan the
cafeteria.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I avert my eyes back to him
immediately.

“No.” I shake my head as the lilac sheets burn inside my
pocket. “I was just checking the clock. Umm? The letter. Loyola. Basically...”

And I explained the happenings of the last hour inside Mr.
Donatelli’s
office, finishing by offering over the sheets
of volunteer options to Dad, who has been nodding the entire time.

“Keep them.” He sounds amazingly calm. “We’ll discuss this
in the evening. In the meantime, cross out the options of any hospital or
clinic. Too many snoopy people work in those places. That garden place sounds
like it might work, but I’ll check it out thoroughly before deciding. Make a
call and set up a time for us to visit the place and review the time commitment
and security of the grounds.”

He looks at his Blackberry and turns to leave. “I have to run.
Get your list done and then make the calls. And, Talia, if this works out,
you’re
gonna
save this
ol
’
man a ton of money.” Do I detect a smile forming at the corners of his mouth?

With that, I watch Dad’s back exit the cafeteria, and the
first word on the lilac notepad has grown dark and thick, the ink now combined
with the sweat from my palm, which held onto it for dear life every second Dad
stood across from me. Always watching. Always testing. I don’t know when the
shaking began, but I can barely hold the paper straight as I force myself to
read the printed description entitled, “Volunteer opportunity: Calling all
Green Thumbs.”

“Are you cold?” Lagan asks when he sits down in his usual
near but far seat on the opposite side.

Startled for the third time today, I vow to stop reading in
social settings. At this rate, I’ll die of a heart attack before any ploy of
Dad’s destroys me. Sheesh.