Picture Us In The Light(2)
“You see?” my dad said again, and without a word she turned and walked out of the lab, her shoes clicking down the linoleum hallway like she was trying to get out as fast as she could.
Later, at home, my mom begged him to quit what he was doing. They argued about it when they thought I was sleeping, but she won, and extracted a promise from him—he’d dismantle the experiment. They never talked about it after that, and I never found out why it had pulled at her the way it did.
As for me, though, I wanted to believe him that his results proved something. I did believe him. I still believe him. Because if you’re tangled up in someone else, if your futures are tied that way, if that’s real and if you know when it happens—then it means you know who you belong to, and you know whose fates are tied to yours, whether you like it or planned it or not, whether they still exist in the same world with you or they don’t, and I think that’s where everything begins and ends. I think that’s everything.
The letter from Rhode Island School of Design comes Thursday.
In the moment it most likely arrives at my house in all its power to alter the course of my entire life, I’m sitting next to Harry in the Journalism Lab, trying to fake my way through the graphic Regina asked me to illustrate for Helen Yee’s op-ed. I’m not checking my email, and in fact I’ve logged out of my account, partly because based on my obsessive stalking of old College Board forums I’m not expecting the decision just yet, but also partly because I know I’ll never feel ready to find out and I can’t risk getting that email at school in front of everyone.
When I get home that afternoon my dad is back from work early. He doesn’t even let me get onto the property line before he’s waving the letter in my face. My chest goes so tight it feels like it’s splitting right down the middle, my exposed heart pounding in open air.
“That’s from—?” I start to say, and then can’t say it aloud.
“Yes, yes. It’s finally here from RISD.” He and my mom both pronounce it like four separate letters, R.I.S.D., instead of ris-dee. He’s beaming. “Open it, Daniel, what does it say?”
“Okay. Um.” I take a deep breath, try to calm my thudding heart. “Okay. Let’s go inside first.”
“It’s the same outside or inside.”
Except that inside we don’t risk the neighbors getting a live-action shot of my every dream disintegrating. “Well—”
“Open it. Why wait?”
I applied for early decision two months and four days ago, and I’ve never been one of those people who can just put something so life-altering out of my mind. It’s stupid how you can wait for something with every part of you, your every atom aligned toward that one moment, and then when it gets there you want more time. It’s just that—if I didn’t get in, I don’t want to know it yet. I want the safety of hope just a little while longer.
“Here.” He grabs it from me. “I’ll open for you.”
“Wait, Ba, I—”
He’s too fast for me, though. My parents are convinced I’ll get in. The day I turned in the portfolio my dad brought home sparkling cider and three mismatched champagne flutes he bought that day at Goodwill, and I haven’t let myself imagine what it will do to them if I didn’t make it. He’s already got the letter out, is already reading it. “Dear Daniel—”
“Ba—”
Then he flings the letter to the grass. I’ve lost all vision. The world is a blur. His arms stutter toward me. Finally, I bring myself to look at his face.
He’s laughing. Oh God. My heart swells, shoving my lungs against my rib cage and ratcheting my pulse so high I’m dizzy. I did it. All this time, and I did it. It’s real.
He reaches out and pats me awkwardly on the shoulder, and then—he can’t contain himself—crushes me in a hug before stepping back, embarrassed, smoothing his shirt. His eyes have reddened.
“Congratulations, Daniel,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Everything is going to be all right for you now.”
It’s real. I did it. I can picture it: my whole life radiating like a sunbeam out from this one point.
I got a scholarship beyond what I let myself hope for, so even if my parents can’t pay a dime, I’m going. Inside, I text Harry a picture of the letter. He doesn’t answer right away, and even though I know it’s because he’s in SAT tutoring, there’s an empty space inside my excitement and relief that’s waiting for him. A few minutes later—he must be hiding his phone from his tutor—his messages come flooding in:
Holy shit Cheng!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You did it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I effing told you
Man you were so worried, but I told you
Okay draw me something and sign and date it, gonna make hella money off that someday when you’re famous
Yo actually draw me like ten things, 10x the $$$$$$$$$$$$
That empty space fills, spills over. I can’t keep the smile off my face.
Maybe I will draw him something. There’s a pull of momentum that’s carried over from opening the letter. I pull out a sketchbook, a pen. Maybe muscle memory will take over and I won’t have to overthink anything. I slide the pen against the page, let a tiny stream of ink spill out.