I dropped the letter, stunned. Heather had lied to my face. She’d said she applied on a whim, that Dr. Garvey had approached her, but this letter said the opposite—proved she’d been planning her application, had maybe even wiggled her way into Dr. Garvey’s class in order to get his all-important recommendation.
A second thought punched me in the gut: If Heather had lied about that, could she have lied about what she’d done to get the letter? Did she go to dinner with Dr. Garvey and then back to his house, just like me? When I’d asked her, heart in my throat, if she had—with all the other questions thrumming underneath: are we the same, do you understand why I did it, do you lie awake at night and feel his hands on you—she’d denied it. Had she meant for me to be buried alone under all this shame?
Swallowing nausea, I tore open my own folder, searching until I found twin letterhead, a twin signature slashed across the bottom of the page.
Dear Fellowship Committee, I write to recommend Jessica Miller, whom I have taught in four classes here at Duquette. Jessica is a talented student, as evidenced by her high grades. She has demonstrated sophisticated thinking for an undergraduate, as I have remarked on her papers.
My heart started to sink. I scanned down the letter, the words hitting like fists: pleasant, important contributions, sure to have a successful career.
It was so tepid, so perfunctory. So unlike his letter for Heather, full of tangible respect. He could have slipped any name in place of Jessica Miller and gotten the same result.
This was what I’d bought with my soul?
I slumped to the floor, dizziness from the mix of pills and cheap whiskey making my vision swim. I’d thought, for a few stupid, hopeful minutes, that I could steal Heather’s file so there was no record of her application, and the fellowship would have to go to me, the runner-up. I’d thought I could scratch her name out and write mine in. Type up a new decision on Duquette letterhead, forge committee signatures, if I had to. Whatever it took.
Now that I was here, the dumb futility of my plan was plain. The righteous rage that had convinced me it was possible was dissipating. Numbly, I flipped open the folder labeled 2009 Committee Notes. My breath caught.
It was the line-up of winners. First, second, and third places. I should be there, typed in black and white print, under second place. But there was no Jessica Miller.
First place: Ms. Heather Shelby. Second place: Mr. George Simmons. Third place: Ms. Katelyn Cornwall.
I wasn’t even on the list. I stared at the names, and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a different kind of truth hit me.
My father was dead, and he was never coming back. I couldn’t rewrite him, couldn’t turn him into a person who was successful by proxy, who loved me, who was happy. Nothing I could do was going to change the man he’d been. He’d squandered his chances. Hadn’t lived up to what anyone expected of him, least of all himself. And that was who he was going to be forever—a man with wasted potential, who died bitter and alone. That was who we were going to be forever, him and me—never close, never forgiven, never redeemed. The ink on the story of my dad and me was dry. The book was shut.
I clutched my chest, heart hammering. Coming here had been a terrible idea. I had to get out.
I shoved Heather’s file back in the drawer but couldn’t bring myself to put mine back, let them have this record of my failure. I slipped the committee ranking into my folder and slammed the drawer shut, then ran to the window, wanting to be out under the night sky where there was room to breathe.
I threw the file out the window and scrambled after it, thinking only of getting out. But I was clumsy—the window’s jagged teeth caught my hands and thighs, tearing at me, trying to keep me pinned. I cried out at the pain, like lines of white-hot heat opening in my skin, felt the slickness of blood on my hands. I used all my strength to keep moving, to tip and tumble out the window.
I landed in the grass, the wind knocked out of me. Air. I clutched my chest with bloody palms. Breathe. Steady. Breathe.
I had to leave before anyone found me. Had to think of a place to go, somewhere safe. But the truth was—the truth was—I wanted more than safety. I wanted…
Oh, how I wanted. I could finally confess that now, couldn’t I? Now that I was at my lowest, now that there was no use keeping the mask of indifference on, now that I had so little of myself left to protect. It was my secret shame: I wanted, I wanted, I wanted.
A woman who wanted was an ugly thing. I knew it made me childish and vulnerable. My whole life had taught me that lesson. But still. For one moment, laid out on the grass, all my ruined, pointless, pent-up wanting was too great to contain—