knew she was going to New York for sure, she was dying to make some concrete plans. The whole admissions letter thing gnawed at me constantly already, without her bugging me too.
At morning break, I went to the lab and signed onto a computer. The drama school’s website had an eight-hundred number, so I called them from the pay phone by the gym. I got connected right away to a guy I knew named Stevie. He was a student at the school and worked part time in the office. We’d met when I’d gone to New York to audition last fall.
“Sorry,” Stevie said. “I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“I just want to know if you sent out the letter already,” I explained. “The only reason I’m asking is because I had to move suddenly, and so if you did, I probably won’t get it.”
“Well…,” he said, “since you bought me that cinnamon roll when you were here, I guess I can tell you that. But nothing else.” I didn’t actually remember buying Stevie a pastry. He must’ve mixed me up with one of the other girls who was there to audition when I was, but I didn’t correct him. His fingers tapped the keyboard. “Yeah…okay,” he said. “We sent the letter last Monday. Give me your new address. I’ll mail you another copy.”
“Ummm…”
Crap.
I didn’t know the address of the motel. And even if I did, could I get mail there? I told him I’d have to call him back. Today was Friday. If a letter was sent from New York on Monday, it had probably been delivered already, but maybe not. It might come today. And if it did, I intended to be the one to get the mail.
Our school is super diligent about keeping us from skipping, so they take attendance at the beginning of every class, but I figured the afternoon was my best chance for stealing my mail because my dad would be at work, so I decided to worry about getting in trouble later.
Mira had quit her job as a dental assistant right before the wedding and might be home, but I could probably run faster than her if I had to. Was it a federal offense if I tampered with my
own
mail, but it was in someone else’s box? I hoped not. What I actually hoped was I wouldn’t get caught.
I parked three houses from ours and pulled my pink fleece hat as low as I could, trying to hide my face. Then I strolled casually down the street. We lived in a nice neighborhood, or at least, I used to live there. The ranch-style houses with two-car garages probably looked alike back in the seventies when they were built, but after all these years, people had personalized them with paint and new doors and fancy gates. Some yards were ragged with weeds, but my dad kept ours immaculate.
It was one of those clear, sunny February days, where the sky is such a brilliant blue you can’t believe it’s not summer, but the wind is so cold you think you’ll cry from the pain in your frozen ears. Even with the hat, I had goose bumps on my scalp.
When my dad and I had moved into this house, right after he got custody of me, one of the things I loved most was the designer mailbox—flat on the bottom, but with a domed top. The previous owners had decorated it like a ladybug, bright red with black spots. And they’d painted long eyelashes over the blue eyes. I loved getting the mail every day, and if I was outside playing when the mailman came, I would insist he stick our letters inside it so I could take them out. Every summer, Dad and I would get the paint out and touch her up, making her shiny and new again.
After glancing at the house and not seeing anyone, I turned to open the ladybug, but she was gone. In her place stood a gray metal mailbox. It wasn’t your standard one, either. It was the kind with a tiny slot for the mailman to stick the letters through, and the owner had to open it with a key.
I stood there staring at it, the icy wind whipping at my face. I swear to God if I’d had a bat, I would’ve bashed that mailbox intothe ground. Instead, I ran back to the Beast, slammed the
At morning break, I went to the lab and signed onto a computer. The drama school’s website had an eight-hundred number, so I called them from the pay phone by the gym. I got connected right away to a guy I knew named Stevie. He was a student at the school and worked part time in the office. We’d met when I’d gone to New York to audition last fall.
“Sorry,” Stevie said. “I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“I just want to know if you sent out the letter already,” I explained. “The only reason I’m asking is because I had to move suddenly, and so if you did, I probably won’t get it.”
“Well…,” he said, “since you bought me that cinnamon roll when you were here, I guess I can tell you that. But nothing else.” I didn’t actually remember buying Stevie a pastry. He must’ve mixed me up with one of the other girls who was there to audition when I was, but I didn’t correct him. His fingers tapped the keyboard. “Yeah…okay,” he said. “We sent the letter last Monday. Give me your new address. I’ll mail you another copy.”
“Ummm…”
Crap.
I didn’t know the address of the motel. And even if I did, could I get mail there? I told him I’d have to call him back. Today was Friday. If a letter was sent from New York on Monday, it had probably been delivered already, but maybe not. It might come today. And if it did, I intended to be the one to get the mail.
Our school is super diligent about keeping us from skipping, so they take attendance at the beginning of every class, but I figured the afternoon was my best chance for stealing my mail because my dad would be at work, so I decided to worry about getting in trouble later.
Mira had quit her job as a dental assistant right before the wedding and might be home, but I could probably run faster than her if I had to. Was it a federal offense if I tampered with my
own
mail, but it was in someone else’s box? I hoped not. What I actually hoped was I wouldn’t get caught.
I parked three houses from ours and pulled my pink fleece hat as low as I could, trying to hide my face. Then I strolled casually down the street. We lived in a nice neighborhood, or at least, I used to live there. The ranch-style houses with two-car garages probably looked alike back in the seventies when they were built, but after all these years, people had personalized them with paint and new doors and fancy gates. Some yards were ragged with weeds, but my dad kept ours immaculate.
It was one of those clear, sunny February days, where the sky is such a brilliant blue you can’t believe it’s not summer, but the wind is so cold you think you’ll cry from the pain in your frozen ears. Even with the hat, I had goose bumps on my scalp.
When my dad and I had moved into this house, right after he got custody of me, one of the things I loved most was the designer mailbox—flat on the bottom, but with a domed top. The previous owners had decorated it like a ladybug, bright red with black spots. And they’d painted long eyelashes over the blue eyes. I loved getting the mail every day, and if I was outside playing when the mailman came, I would insist he stick our letters inside it so I could take them out. Every summer, Dad and I would get the paint out and touch her up, making her shiny and new again.
After glancing at the house and not seeing anyone, I turned to open the ladybug, but she was gone. In her place stood a gray metal mailbox. It wasn’t your standard one, either. It was the kind with a tiny slot for the mailman to stick the letters through, and the owner had to open it with a key.
I stood there staring at it, the icy wind whipping at my face. I swear to God if I’d had a bat, I would’ve bashed that mailbox intothe ground. Instead, I ran back to the Beast, slammed the
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