therapy.
I was wrong. There were five pages of blanks. I am not sufficiently interesting for five pages. Five lines , maybe.
The only successful spot on the whole page was 17 Featherbed Lane, and that certainly wasn’t original with Holly Carroll. The blanks, far from being friendly little white spaces to fill with comforting letter shapes, loomed like a nightmare of gravestones. I was a zero—a nothing—and yet I had to package myself successfully and sell myself to those colleges. On that grayish recycled paper. I had to face the fact that I was not the best student, the most interesting writer of essays, the finest athlete, or the incoming freshman with the most leadership potential. There were going to be all sorts of spaces I’d have to leave blank because I was blank.
I pictured Stein filling out his. He’d need extra paper, the way Honor Society types need extra paper during essay tests. I’m there writing three paragraphs in my most sprawling script, and they’re writing a book, they know so much.
I must capitalize on my strong points, I told myself firmly. I’m okay, they’re okay. I’m number one. Good in Spanish. Really nice hair. Functions exceptionally well in heat waves.
I left the college form on the desk and wandered over to my dollhouse and its new octagonal barn. I need to cut hay, I told myself. Make some miniature geraniums out of red tissue and green wire, and plant them along the path from the house.
But the pleasure was gone. It was difficult to believe I had ever actually done that sort of thing. Decorated dollhouses and daydreamed of miniature oriental rugs. That sort of occupation was as remote as the five-year-old for whom it had been made. Right now there was room for nothing in my mind but college and Jamie. Also, Jamie and college. And the general worthlessness of Holly Carroll for either.
I got myself so involved in trying to figure out Truth and Who Am I that I got even more depressed and ended up lying on my bed drowning sobs in the pillow.
If Christopher comes into my room right now, I thought, I’ll murder him. Then I’ll be sent to prison and that will decide the future for me. My career will be making license plates.
I left my room eventually only because I was starving. The only truth I had come upon during my weeping was that food solves a lot of problems. I decided upon an open-faced cheese sandwich. Cheese melting and getting soft and golden brown, running down the sides of a thick slice of whole wheat bread. Yes, the more I considered the toasted cheese sandwich, the more food mattered and the less college did.
Still, when the phone rang, I decided not to answer it. If it wasn’t for me, there was no point in rushing to get the call. I chewed another delectable bite of hot cheese and bread. And if it was for me, I wasn’t interested in discussing anything with anybody anyhow.
“Holly!” yelled Christopher, with a particularly jeering tone in his voice. Rotten little creepy kid brother, I thought. Why didn’t I strangle him back when he was small enough that I could have done it easily? “What?” I bellowed back.
“It’s Katie Bait.” (An old nickname, from when Kate used to go fishing all the time and Christopher hated her because she babysat for him twice and he wished somebody would go fishing with her .)
I got up, cramming the last of the sandwich in my mouth, and went to the phone. Christopher had intelligently withdrawn from the combat area. “Mmhellmo?” I said through the cheese.
“Hollyberry,” said Kate excitedly. “Guess what we’re doing tomorrow?”
“What?”
“Stein had this great idea. Last week he went over through Swann’s Wood to the waterfalls and they’re frozen and extremely beautiful and—”
“Nature at her very best,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
“And everybody decided to have a winter picnic by the falls. You and Lydia and Susan and Gary and Stein and me and Ross…”
Oh, no, I thought.
I was wrong. There were five pages of blanks. I am not sufficiently interesting for five pages. Five lines , maybe.
The only successful spot on the whole page was 17 Featherbed Lane, and that certainly wasn’t original with Holly Carroll. The blanks, far from being friendly little white spaces to fill with comforting letter shapes, loomed like a nightmare of gravestones. I was a zero—a nothing—and yet I had to package myself successfully and sell myself to those colleges. On that grayish recycled paper. I had to face the fact that I was not the best student, the most interesting writer of essays, the finest athlete, or the incoming freshman with the most leadership potential. There were going to be all sorts of spaces I’d have to leave blank because I was blank.
I pictured Stein filling out his. He’d need extra paper, the way Honor Society types need extra paper during essay tests. I’m there writing three paragraphs in my most sprawling script, and they’re writing a book, they know so much.
I must capitalize on my strong points, I told myself firmly. I’m okay, they’re okay. I’m number one. Good in Spanish. Really nice hair. Functions exceptionally well in heat waves.
I left the college form on the desk and wandered over to my dollhouse and its new octagonal barn. I need to cut hay, I told myself. Make some miniature geraniums out of red tissue and green wire, and plant them along the path from the house.
But the pleasure was gone. It was difficult to believe I had ever actually done that sort of thing. Decorated dollhouses and daydreamed of miniature oriental rugs. That sort of occupation was as remote as the five-year-old for whom it had been made. Right now there was room for nothing in my mind but college and Jamie. Also, Jamie and college. And the general worthlessness of Holly Carroll for either.
I got myself so involved in trying to figure out Truth and Who Am I that I got even more depressed and ended up lying on my bed drowning sobs in the pillow.
If Christopher comes into my room right now, I thought, I’ll murder him. Then I’ll be sent to prison and that will decide the future for me. My career will be making license plates.
I left my room eventually only because I was starving. The only truth I had come upon during my weeping was that food solves a lot of problems. I decided upon an open-faced cheese sandwich. Cheese melting and getting soft and golden brown, running down the sides of a thick slice of whole wheat bread. Yes, the more I considered the toasted cheese sandwich, the more food mattered and the less college did.
Still, when the phone rang, I decided not to answer it. If it wasn’t for me, there was no point in rushing to get the call. I chewed another delectable bite of hot cheese and bread. And if it was for me, I wasn’t interested in discussing anything with anybody anyhow.
“Holly!” yelled Christopher, with a particularly jeering tone in his voice. Rotten little creepy kid brother, I thought. Why didn’t I strangle him back when he was small enough that I could have done it easily? “What?” I bellowed back.
“It’s Katie Bait.” (An old nickname, from when Kate used to go fishing all the time and Christopher hated her because she babysat for him twice and he wished somebody would go fishing with her .)
I got up, cramming the last of the sandwich in my mouth, and went to the phone. Christopher had intelligently withdrawn from the combat area. “Mmhellmo?” I said through the cheese.
“Hollyberry,” said Kate excitedly. “Guess what we’re doing tomorrow?”
“What?”
“Stein had this great idea. Last week he went over through Swann’s Wood to the waterfalls and they’re frozen and extremely beautiful and—”
“Nature at her very best,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
“And everybody decided to have a winter picnic by the falls. You and Lydia and Susan and Gary and Stein and me and Ross…”
Oh, no, I thought.
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