I shrug. “I didn’t really say much of anything.”
“Did you bring up foreign affairs like we talked about?”
I nod. “I did.”
Dad winks at me. “Good going, kid. I’ll get lunch set up on Monday.” He points subtly to a curvy blond woman in her mid-thirties wearing a gorgeous gold dress. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to Catherine Howe? She’s an executive producer at WorldNet Studios.”
Dad flashes his Work Smile at a group of old men across the room before leaving me standing alone in the corner again.
My phone buzzes in my clutch purse, and even though I shouldn’t, I take it out to check the message.
Foodie Fernie:hurry and finish up at that snooze fest. Party at my place! Jordan’s here ;)
I put my phone back into my purse and sigh. I’d love to ditch this stuffy gala and hang out with friends for a change. I’d love to show off my outfit to people who would actually care how cute I look tonight. But if I’m going to get into Columbia and then get a job at Street Media, I have to put in the work. I don’t have time for parties or boys or, lately, even my best friend.
So, I push my shoulders back, ignore my screaming feet, and head over to introduce myself to Catherine Howe.
Soft sunlight filters through my bedroom window as I lie on my stomach in bed, staring at the daunting Columbia application on my laptop. Outside, the soundtrack of the city plays on repeat—horns honking, a construction crew shouting, sirens blaring, pigeons cooing. Anxiety balloons in the space between my ribs as I enter my contact information—which is further than I got last time I opened the application.
Maybe I’m more nervous about college than I thought.
I click on the next section of the application and immediately bury my face in my plush white comforter. I don’t know why this is so stressful. Iwantthis.
I lift my head back up, and my gaze falls on the other tab I have open: the FIT home page. Last year I took fashion merchandising as one of my electives at school, and my teacher suggestedI look into the Fashion Institute of Technology, claiming I have a real aptitude for fashion. Of course, that’s not part of my life plan. Dad and I agree that journalism is a much more practical career path, and I’ve been working toward Columbia my whole life. But it won’t hurt to check out the FIT application—just to see what it entails.
I’m definitely not procrastinating on the Columbia application.
The website loads, and I click on the admissions page, a sense of calm washing over me, probably because it doesn’t represent my entire future or the pressure that comes with it.
I’m reading through the essay prompt—Tell us why you’re interested in fashion, including your experience and inspiration—when there’s a knock at my door.
“Come in!” I click on the portfolio requirements as Dad opens the door, his eyes tired and his posture slumped—a completely different person than he was last night at the gala. He trudges over to the bed and sits.
“What’s up?” I ask him. “Are you okay?”
“Your mom—” He stops as his gaze catches on my computer screen, and he narrows his eyes. My stomach plummets. “What are you looking at there? I thought we discussed this.”
“We did.” I close my laptop. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re very talented at designing clothes, Ellis, but we agreed that’s just a way to show Columbia that you have diversified interests.”
“I know. I was just looking. I figured it couldn’t hurt to apply to FIT as a backup school, though. Everyone applies to safety schools.”
“Uh-huh…” Dad nods slowly. Skeptically. “Well, keep your eye on the ball. Don’t let your hobbies distract you from what’s important. You have to be tenacious and focused if you’re going to be successful.”
“I know, Dad. I already started filling out the Columbia application. Don’t worry.”
Even if it was just my name and address.
“Good. Anyway, I came in here to tell you that your mom and I need to talk to you.” He stands and rubs the back of his neck. “She’s waiting for us in the living room.”
I draw my eyebrows together. Something isoff. “Okay…”
I leave my computer on my bed and follow Dad to the living room, where Mom is sitting stiffly on the gray leather couch, wringing her hands and staring at the floor, her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes match Dad’s. Warning bells go off in my head.
She looks up when I sit on the sofa next to her. “Good morning, honey.”
“Morning…” I glance at Dad, who’s staring at the wall behind me. “What’s going on?”
