Puddin''

  I take a moment to absorb the room, with its dark wood panels and expansive windows. Every surface is covered with folders and stacks of paper. Almost every inch of wall space is covered with some type of certificate, degree, award, or picture with one of my all-time sheroes.

  I gasp. “You’re friends with Christiane Amanpour?” A picture of them on the deck of a beach house is wedged between a framed article and an award from the Associated Press.

  “Chris is an old friend,” she says with a warm smile.

  Dr. Michelle Coffinder is somehow even more beautiful in real life than her picture on the school’s website led me to believe. But more than that, she runs one of the most competitive journalism programs in the country.

  “What can I help you with . . .”

  “Millie,” I say. “Millie Michalchuk.”

  She smiles. “Millie. What can I help you with, Millie?”

  “I was rejected for the summer program, and I came to see why.”

  She nods. “Well, that’s not normally a request we cater to.” She huffs out a breath, blowing her bangs up. “Our admission decisions are final, but you can always apply again next summer.”

  I shake my head. “No, ma’am. It has to be this summer.”

  “Are you dying?” asks Dr. Coffinder.

  I think for a moment. “Aren’t we all?”

  “Right answer.” She chuckles. “Good girl.”

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, I am the hardest worker you will ever meet. I’m clever and thorough and . . . and . . . I drove all this way.”

  “All the way from where?”

  “Clover City, ma’am.”

  “Well, damn, that’s all the way out by Marfa.”

  “It is,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “But I’m sorry, Tillie—”

  “Millie,” I correct her.

  She smiles apologetically. “Yes, I’m so sorry, Millie, but our decisions are final.”

  “Did you even see my audition tape?” I ask, and my voice comes out a little too accusatory.

  Dr. Coffinder pushes back from her desk, like she’s about to stand up and dismiss me. “Well, no. Not in full.”

  “What? Seriously?”

  “Well, it’s not our process,” she explains. “Iris and Grant, my teaching assistants, do the application intake, and I’m their tie-breaking vote.”

  “You mean you rejected me without even reviewing my application in full?” I think back to how awful my nerves were the day I sent in my application. What a big deal it was for me. How much effort I put in. And then how quickly it was probably just discarded.

  She smiles again, but this time it’s a bit more sour. “Welcome to academia.”

  “Can you at least just watch my tape? After I drove all this way, can you at least do that?” I wish I could channel Callie in this moment. She would know just what to say and just what to do. Callie’s the kind of person who doesn’t think of the perfect comeback five minutes too late. She’s got her response ready to go before the last syllable is even out of the other person’s mouth.

  I take a centering breath. One thing at a time, Millie. “Please.” I persist once more. “It would mean so much to at least have your opinion.”

  She checks the thin silver watch on her wrist. “Well, they’ll definitely be out of barbacoa by the time I get there and wait in line. All right. Let’s see it.”

  Frantically, I dig through my backpack and hand her my phone with my audition tape pulled up.

  She sighs and hits play, slumping back in her seat.

  I hold my breath, studying every twitch of her face, but she’s unmoved entirely.

  After I’ve done my sign-off, she tosses the phone back to me and I fumble to catch it.

  “Well, I’ve definitely seen worse. Your puns were awful, but somehow . . . cute?” She studies me for a moment. “I was the tie-breaking vote on your application, Millie.”

  “Oh.” Somehow I hadn’t expected that. She’d just been so warm and accommodating even though I had stopped her from going to lunch. But it was her. She was the one who rejected me.

  She lifts herself onto her desk and crosses her arms. “Grant,” she says, “the Ken doll–looking TA out there, voted against you, and Iris voted for you.” She smiles at Iris’s name, and I can see she has a soft spot for her. “They both made their case for you, and I agreed.”

  “Their case for me?” I ask.

  “Grant said you’d be better suited behind the camera or on radio. Iris disagreed.” Her brow furrows, and I can see that for the first time she’s feeling a bit uncomfortable. “You see, Millie—and you should know I don’t agree with this—there’s just a certain look that reporters have. It’s archaic, but it’s what sells. And being on television is all about ratings and ratings are all about ads and ads are all about money.”

  I don’t respond. I don’t quite know how to. I feel like I’ve walked into a brick wall.

  Dr. Coffinder must see how stunned I am. “When I was a girl, the only thing I was serious about was ballet. I loved it. I breathed it. My parents spent so much money and time carting me to classes and sending me to prestigious camps and workshops, but at the end of the day, when the time came to turn pro, no one wanted me. Bad feet. Too short.” She says it so simply, like it’s been said to her so many times that she hears it in her sleep.

  My heart aches for her. “That’s awful.”

  She nods aggressively. “Yes, exactly. It was awful. Someone could have saved me years of pain and suffering. I could’ve spent all those years concentrating on something I was actually capable of achieving. Do you see now?”

  “No,” I say quietly. “Not at all. What’s awful is that you have to be a certain height or have certain kinds of feet to be a dancer. Your height and your feet, though. Neither of those things is awful.”

  “Try telling my podiatrist that,” she mutters. “Millie, maybe you’ll thank me one day. You’re a smart girl. There are so many things you could do. You know, half the people on the news are just talking heads. Some of ’em are real journalists, but it’s a dying breed. I’m really doing you a favor. Saving you some valuable time.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” I tell her. “But my mind is made up about broadcast journalism.” I stand up and shoulder my backpack. “I don’t know if anyone has one true calling. I can’t say you were destined to be a ballerina or a journalist or a rocket scientist or whatever, but what I can say is that you should be able to be any of those things regardless of your height or your feet.” I motion down the length of my body. “Or your weight.”

  “I didn’t say it was right,” she says, her voice more timid than I expect.

  “Think of all those times you tried to become a professional ballerina and someone said no to you. What would your life have looked like with just one yes? There’s no telling.” I point to her desk, like my application might magically appear there. “You know I’ve got the chops. Heck! I know I’ve got the chops. All I need is for you to say yes. Someone closed the door for you, but you have the chance to open it for me.”

  Her phone rings, breaking the loaded silence between us. She leans back and hits a button. “Yes?”

  “Dean Gomez is on line three,” says Iris through the speaker.

  “Thanks,” says Dr. Coffinder. “I’ll be right with him.” She looks back to me. “Millie, I must ask you to leave. I’m sorry to say my decision stands. Even if I wanted to change my mind, we’ve reached capacity. Maybe try applying for a different track in the program next year.”

  I nod. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will stand here in my serious fun dress with my lipstick that is the perfect shade of red and I will square my shoulders and say, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Coffinder. This won’t be the last time you hear the name Millie Michalchuk.”

  Dr. Coffinder gives me a stiff smile and motions for the door.

  I walk to the front office, where Callie waits for me.
I hold my hand out for her to take, because I think the only way I can carry this disappointment is if I am somehow physically connected to her and she is carrying this ache right alongside me. I don’t look at Iris or Grant. I just head for the exit and squeeze Callie’s hand so, so tight.

  “Well?” she whispers.

  I shake my head, and as the door shuts behind us the first tear falls. “No. It was a no.”

  She squeezes my hand back, and we walk in silence out of the building and through a canopy of trees to my van.

  I count my tears as they fall. Twenty-eight before my eyes are finally dry. I count them because I want to remember what the cost of this heartbreak was. I hope and pray that someday, when I count up all my tears, that whatever life I’m living will have been worth it.

  “Wait!” a voice behind us shouts. Neither of us turns around. There are so many people on this campus. No way is that one single voice directed at us.

  “Wait!” it says again. “Millie.”

  Callie stops before I do. We turn around to find Iris running up the hill toward us. Her glittery cat’s-eye sunglasses shimmer quietly from the sunlight shining through the trees. If I was in a better mood, I might ask her where she bought them.

  Once she makes it to us, she pushes her sunglasses into her curls and clutches a long white envelope to her chest. She holds a hand up for a moment to tell us to hold on while she catches her breath. “Here,” she says, handing me the envelope. “Lesson for you, kids: pencil skirts were not made for running.”

  “What?” I open the envelope, sliding out the papers. “What is this?”

  She rests her hands on her hips. “It’s your welcome packet,” she says in a matter-of-fact way.

  “But I just—Dr. Coffinder just—”

  Iris swallows, still catching her breath. “I was eavesdropping the whole time, and, like, side note, you are just as rad as your audition tape led me to believe. So after you left, I went in there and told Dr. C we had one student decline their spot. And, like, she’s my PhD mentor, so I didn’t want to really step in it or anything, but I very politely told her that I thought she was wrong about you.”

  “Oh my gosh, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I did, though. Millie, I voted for you because you were good. Not just because you’re a fellow fat girl.” She holds up a fist. “Don’t get me wrong, though. Fat girl pride. Riots not diets and all that.”

  “Riots not diets? I like that.” Note to self: add to my to-stitch list.

  Iris continues, “Dr. C’s always been cool with me, and that’s probably because my concentration is more behind the scenes with production, but she was wrong about you. And she knew it, too. She sent me out of her office and called me back in a few minutes later before agreeing to give you the spot.” She rolls her eyes. “Listen, Dr. C won’t admit she’s wrong anytime soon. She’ll probably treat you like you’ve got something to prove all summer, but I think you’re up for the challenge, no?”

  I hold the envelope to my chest like it’s made of gold. I don’t even bother wiping away the tears now. “Thank you. Thank you so much!”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “Just prove me right this summer.”

  I nod feverishly. “I so will.”

  She motions to the envelope. “And get a jump on that paperwork. Parental signatures and everything.”

  I gulp.

  “She’ll get it all back ASAP,” promises Callie.

  I’d almost forgotten she was there.

  I thank Iris once more and ask if it’s okay to hug her, before squeezing her to death.

  As we’re walking back to the car, our arms linked, I turn to Callie. “I have to get them to say yes.”

  “You will,” she assures me. But even Callie doesn’t sound so sure.

  I know my dad would have probably preferred if I’d stayed the night in Austin instead of driving right back, but I’ve got too much adrenaline to even think about sleeping. And with my parents’ signature on this form looming, I’m feeling antsy about just getting back home.

  Callie and I stop to eat on South Congress at a place called Home Slice Pizza. It’s the first time I’ve ever parallel parked the minivan on a busy street, and that definitely inflates my ego a bit. Before heading out of town, we stop at Amy’s Ice Cream, where we each get a scoop of sweet cream, mine mixed with Oreos and Callie’s mixed with strawberries.

  When we get back to town, I drop Callie off first.

  “Your mom is going to be so upset,” I tell her.

  “It was worth it,” she says. “Besides, you’re, like, her favorite person, so she might just support the cause.”

  I don’t know how to say thank you. I keep trying to think of the perfect way. Putting the car in park, I turn to her. “I love you, Callie, and I’m so glad you’re my friend.” I shake my head in disbelief, remembering her scratching on my window just last night. “I would’ve never done this without you. I spend a lot of time telling myself to be brave, but you make me brave.”

  She laughs, and it almost comes out like a sob. “You jerk. You’re making me cry. I love you, too, Millie. How ridiculous is it that we’ve lived in this town together for so long and it took us all this time to become friends?” She uses her knuckle to wipe away a tear. “You make me brave, too. You make me brave enough to be the person I am and not the one I think I’m supposed to be.”

  I pull her to me for a hug before she heads inside.

  Since I’ve been in contact with my dad every hour, like I’d promised, my parents knew I would be arriving soon. They’re waiting for me at the kitchen table when I get home.

  “Hi,” I say before dropping the welcome packet on the table in the hopes that it will speak for me.

  My dad motions for me to sit down, and my mother looks like she hasn’t showered, slept, or even done her hair since I left. She sits with her arms crossed, but she doesn’t look angry like she did when the garage door closed early this morning. More confused than anything else.

  “They let me in.” The words burst out of me like an impossible-to-keep secret.

  “Well . . . wow,” my dad says, and it comes out like a gasp. “They’re better off for it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I look to my mom. “But I can’t do it without y’all. I need your permission, of course. And then we’d have to see if we could get our deposit back from Daisy Ranch. And this counts for college credit, too. Just so you know.”

  My dad takes the envelope and looks over the papers briefly, including the tuition payment plan. “This looks manageable,” he says. “Certainly not as pricey as Daisy Ranch.” He chuckles and nudges my mom to try to get her in on the joke, but she’s nonresponsive.

  I appreciate my dad’s willingness. So much. But he’s not the only one I want to hear from. “Mom?” I ask. “What do you think?”

  She looks me in the face for the first time since I walked in. “I think you’re a different person than the girl I raised.” Her voice is flat.

  That knocks the wind out of me. I feel it right down to the bone.

  She drags her hands down her un-made-up face. “But maybe that’s not such a horrible thing.” My dad squeezes her shoulder before she continues, “I don’t know what to make of everything that you said today and, honestly, things you said even weeks ago, but if this is what you truly want . . .” She pauses. “I support you, Millie.”

  I stand up and rush to the other side of the table to hug her. I squeeze her tight, and after a moment she reciprocates. Because I’m always getting ahead of myself, it’s hard for me not to think of a future when me and Mom are out doing things like shopping and she’s having a great time, not huffing over the size of her jeans or the way her stomach pooches. Maybe it’s a long way off, or maybe she’ll never quite get there, but the fact that she’s agreed to support me is all that I’ve ever wanted.

  I take a few steps back. There’s one last thing I have to say. “And y’all should know: I have a boyfriend. His name is Ma
lik, and he’s nonnegotiable.”

  Mom eyes me suspiciously. I might be pushing my luck. “Well, I don’t know about that. There are some serious ground rules to consider.”

  “How about we start with inviting him over for dinner and go from there?” my dad says, and then turns to my mom. “What do you think?”

  “Well, I guess we better officially meet this mystery man.”

  I shriek with excitement before heading back to my room to message Malik. We have so much to squeeze into our last few weeks together before I leave. And of course I have a going-away party to plan!

  I crash-land on my bed, watching as the ceiling fan spins on low. For the longest time, I thought the power of positive thinking would get me by. And it helps, that’s for dang sure. But it takes more than thinking and hoping and wishing and praying. You need a whole lot of doing.

  Callie

  Thirty-Eight

  A week into June and two days into summer vacation, Mama pulls up in front of city hall and parks in a two-hour parking spot.

  I reach for the door handle. “I thought you were just dropping me off.”

  She chuckles. “If my baby’s gonna address the school board, I’m gonna be there to watch.”

  She checks her lipstick in the rearview mirror and holds it out for me. “You want some?”

  “Sure.” I don’t know if lipstick will do much to make these old farts listen to me, but I’ll try anything at this point. I pull my mirror down and carefully apply.

  Mama tussles her hair to add volume and shuts the car off. “Showtime.”

  When Millie dropped me off after our truly epic road trip, Mama was doing the dishes before bed. She pulled a plate of food from the fridge labeled CALLIE and sat with me as I ate. Finally, as I was finishing up, she asked me where I’d gone and why. When I explained, she sat there for a long moment and finally said, “Two weeks grounded.”

  And that was it. That was the cost of doing business.

  I decided to take a page out of Millie’s book and let my clothes do some of the talking, which is why I’m wearing my white Shamrock uniform with matching white boots. I ditched the hat, though, because some heads were made for hats, but mine was not, so I opted to just wear the bun I’d normally don beneath the hat.