I wake up one morning and I get dressed. I choose each article of clothing for a reason.
I want to be comfortable so I choose a dress. There’s a background to this dress, but am I not thinking about it. I do think about how I got guacamole on it before the big presentation I bought it for. I think about how the dress did an admirable job of hiding my mistake.
I need good luck for today. I slip my grandmothers ring onto a chain and tether it to my neck. It is not a fancy ring. I did not know my grandmother well. My mom looks panicked when I enter the kitchen with it on. It is one of the few things my mother kept. She insists I be careful with it. She has never told me not to wear something of hers. Not when I unknowingly wore her wedding reception dress for a choir costume, and not when I dig through her jewelry box. It is only this piece that she wants to be safe. I cannot think of a way to explain how I’ve gotten the idea into my head that wearing something that belongs to somebody who loves you will bring good luck. I am 16 and I cannot say the words that I love my mother dearly and I know she loved her mother and I’m hoping that the love infused in that piece of jewelry kept safe will help me.
I shove my feet into sketchers (again, comfort). I try to ignore my unshaven legs (shaving is not comfortable. Still, I cannot shake the shame of hair). I carry a purse instead of a backpack because I want to feel different. I want to feel like an adult. I am only mascaraing as one.
I go to school and I go to my assigned room. I use my school issued laptop and take the required ACT test. I go home. I move on. When the weeks tick away until the day our scores are supposed to be announced, I cannot bring myself to call and speak to a human being about it. The scores are nowhere to be seen. I am in study hall. To make a phone call I would have to talk to somebody to leave. I try the instant messaging feature on the website.
In the time before I saw my score, I went to lessons to improve my next score. I hated them. They were two hours long. Afterwards, I would take myself to get something ridicious from a Starbucks and listen to “How To Be A Millionaire” by ABC. For some reason, this relaxed me.
After weeks of this practice I took the test again. I saw my first score shortly after.
In the end, the score comes when my mom calls my counselor. She says the scores are out and she does not know why I don’t have mine. I wake up late on a Wednesday morning when my mom tells me to check my email. She already knows the result. I do not know this.
I got a 35. Weeks later, my second score would come. After all my hours of practice, I recieved a 32.
My mom buys me flowers for my 35. They came with a note from my mom, handwritten by the florist, saying she was proud of my hard work. That note is in a scrap book now, along with pressed petals from the bouquet.
My 35 will get me a chance at a full ride to my dream school. I will make it to the final round of interviews. I do not win.
My 35 gets me into the honors program at my dream school. Over a year after I took that test, I move into the honors dorm. I move on a Saturday. On Monday, I come home to a police officer in my dorm room who lets it slip that one of my roommates went through our other roommates belongings. I cannot shake the discomfort. I move.
I move into the first open dorm. I am no longer in honors housing. My floor is for sports enthusiasts. I learn to love my suite.
One of them asks me my ACT score. I, like an asshole, asked if she really wanted to know. She said yes, so I told her. She screamed and then asked “Why are you here? You could have gone anywhere!”
That’s not true. College admissions are wildly competitive. I’m far from the only kid with a good gpa and test score.
She informs the rest of our suite. I try to explain that it doesn’t really matter. It’s a test, it doesn’t mean anything other than I’m good at taking standardized tests. My suitemates dreamily tell me where they would have gone, if only they’d gotten in. This school was my top choice. I love it here. I chose it because I thought I could build something for myself here.
When the conversation moves on, my suitemate looks at me and informs me that I should be proud. She says it with a terrible fondness for me.
I shouldn’t bitch about having a good score. I was angry about it for a while. When I got the scholarship rejection, I had a brief meltdown. I could have gotten into my dream school with the same scholarship I was getting for a hell of a lot less work. My high school years looked like a pointless exercise to me.
But I can’t change the neurotic ways of my own past and I can’t know for sure if the 35 did or didn’t make a difference in my life. It lead me, in a strange way, to where I am. A grimy freshman dorm with a group of people who am I lucky to have love me.
Planetary (Gab!) 