Authors Note: Hola, mis amigos. For you, I have a story. This is only the beginning, and it's been stuck in head for forever.
"Heather, your letter is here! Heather! Heath, hurry!"
I freeze.
My letter is here.
My letter.
The letter that has the potential to send me off into unknown territory, land that holds my hopes, dreams, and future in its palms. My letter is here.
My mom is still screaming, but I can't move.
What if it has a big, bold "no" written in its pages? What if they deny me, mocking me with the silly hope of a chance of being accepted into such an undeniably remarkable school? God, I don't know what I'd do.
But my letter is here and I can't even walk down the stairs.
Somehow my mother must have sensed my paralyzed state because I hear four quick raps on the door, not patient. She rushes into the room, a panicked, wild fire in her bright blue eyes. She looks the same as me with every facial expression she makes. Her eyes move back and forth between the tightly packaged and (thankfully) thick envelope in her hands and me. Finally, she sighs loudly, unnerving almost, letting me know she would simply combust if I didn't take the package from her hands and dismember it like the bomb it could or could not be.
She holds it out.
I use whatever mental capacity I have left to snag it slowly out of her clenching hands. She obviously had not realized she was holding on so tight, because she lets go quickly, causing my hand to fly back past my shoulder. She whispers an inaudible sorry across from me and brings her hands up to the small, slightly rusting cross beneath her chin. Her hands go into a praying clasp around the charm and she shuts her eyes momentarily, and I know she's praying to God, but also to my father. I clench my mouth into a tight line, bracing myself for the sting of tears.
They come.
But, I hold them back, because there are more important matters to be dealt with than the death of my father, which has been years ago now.
My letter is here.
My letter is here and my mother is standing in front of me, praying to a God and to a father in heaven, and I cannot open my letter because I am petrified of what it contains.
My mother opens her eyes.
"Heath, you have to open it someday. I'm right here, baby, I'm here. Open it."
My heart is pumping blood into every cavity of my body and I'm almost positive I will fall over and die in less than 30 seconds from a heart attack, aneurism, something.
I feel sick.
But my letter is here, and I have to open it now. I have to rip off the bandaid like never before.
I look down at the package in my hands, feel the promise of the many pieces of parchment inside and it gives me hope. It tells me there is something to believe in. I trace the inscribed name written in gold in the center, Heather E. Morris. My address, with the silly little town name written directly below it.
I flip it over.
God, the envelope seal is thick like molasses and has the symbol of my dream school stamped onto it, perfectly, the edges smooth as grace. Exactly like the seal in Harry Potter.
That thought calms me a little. I love Harry Potter.
I bring my fingers to slip under the envelope's tongue, watching my fingers twitch from adrenaline. I let my finger run down the path from the top right corner to the seal and pull up slightly. The ease with which the seal breaks from the envelope scares me immensely, knowing this moment is coming faster than anticipated.
I pull the top of the envelope above its delicious interior, and take one last breath before leaping off the cliff. I hope it's soft where I jump, and not jagged, mountainous terrain quick to puncture my sorry soul like life has so many countless times.
My mother watches my every miniscule movement and I can't blame her. She's every bit as excited as I am.
When she sees me so close to the ultimatum of epic proportions known as college acceptance or rejection, she braces herself further. Her knuckles are white and her breathing is rough as bark. There's sweat on her upper lip and a pulse point sticking out in a vein on her temple.
I take it back. She might be the one about to kill over.
This is it, I think. No more simplicity, no more getting by in school to maintain those perfect A averages, no more Disney movies or Scooby snacks, no more pretending growing up didn't have to be a reality. It's time to grow up. It's time to be an adult, face adult decisions, some not made by me. One in particular made by some very important, adult people who would help or hinder me from facing my one dream, the dream I'd dreamed since my daddy called me his "little dancer". It's my time to be a big girl and chase what is rightfully mine.
But my letter is here and I have to open the damn thing to find out if that dream is or will be a reality.
I tug the full envelopes contents out of their trap and hold them like a baby bird that's just fallen from a 20 foot tree. I peel the papers apart and let the thirds they have been folded in lay straight, as they were before they were placed in the envelope I have received. I read the first line, carefully, not missing a single word.
I smile.
Juilliard.
School of dance.
New York.
A yes planted at the top of the page, which my mother can see visibly.
She's crying now, and I feel her sobs rack through me as she holds onto my frame as though her life depends on it.
Good god.
It is a pleasure to inform you that you have been selected from a pool of elite scholars to attend our fall
And then the lines, and words along with them, blurred incredulously.