I hover my finger over the mouse pad.
“Ah,câlice!” I swear loud enough for a few people to turn their heads when I accidentally click before I’m ready.
“Oh, shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I look around for a cancel button, but there isn’t one.
It’s a terrible letter. It’s stupid. They’re going to read it and laugh.
I clutch my empty lemonade glass so hard I’m in danger of breaking it as I keep staring at the screen. I’m sure I could cancel the whole application, even if I have to give up the fee, but I keep squeezing the glass to stop me from doing it. I force myself to focus on something my psychologist said in our last session. I only started seeing her again a couple weeks ago, and it was the first time I walked out of her office feelingbetterand not just confused.
She said all our fears are a story we tell ourselves.
I let go of the glass and open up a blank document on my computer. I decide to write myself a new story. It’s a short one—just one sentence long—but it might be the best story I’ve ever come up with. Even as my heart beats loud and fast in my ears, there’s a part of me somewhere deep inside that knows my story is completely, totally true:
It’s a great letter, and I am so brave.
Twenty-Five
DeeDee
FLOAT: the act of pouring a light liquor on top of a heavier liquor to create a drink with a layered effect
“Open it!”
“I’m too scared!”
Valérie puts her hands on her hips. “Open it, or I’ll open it for you.”
We’re standing in our tiny kitchen, looking at the envelope Valérie just slapped down on the counter. She grabbed the mail on her way up to the apartment a few minutes ago and found a letter from Cheveluxe.
The letter is addressed to me.
“You sneaky bitch!” Valérie teases. “You didn’t even tell me you applied.”
I didn’t tell anyone. The school is popular enough that you have to do a phone interview after you get past the first round of application reviews. I’ve never been good at writing, and as the weeks after I submitted my application went by, I got more and more sure they’d take one look at my letter and put it in the reject pile. I didn’t want to have to face anyone’s disappointment but mine.
I was so shocked when they called me I almost fell over. I don’t even remember the questions they asked, or what I said back. That was a week ago, and they told me they’d be making final decisions by the end of July.
“DeeDee, open it! You totally got in.”
I shake my head and chew on my lip. “I don’t know.Tabarnak, I just don’t know.”
“Well, you won’t know unless you open it.” Her voice gets softer. “Do you want me to do it for you?”
I take a deep breath. “Non. I will do it, but first I need to sit down.”
My fingers are trembling when I reach out for the letter and take it into the living room. I tuck my legs up under me on the couch and start ripping the paper open. My hands are shaking so much it feels like it takes half an hour just to get the letter out. I can feel Valérie’s eyes on me as I hold the folded page up in front of my face.
This is it.
This is the whole reason I was supposed to come to Montreal in the first place. This was going to be my adventure with Clém, the one we talked about since we were teenagers having sleepovers in her basement, whispering about dumb boys we’d kissed and the dreams we had for our futures.
That was before the club—and the men, and the nights when the only thing that seemed to put a smile on Clém’s face were those little white pills—but even then, we’d talk about this. We’d talk about the day her letter would come from makeup artistry school and mine would show up from Cheveluxe.
We were going to do it together. I was never supposed to do this alone, and I think that’s what stopped me from trying. That’s what kept me behind the bar all these years, telling myself it was the only thing I wanted when my heart was always beating for something more.
I wipe the tears out of my eyes, and I think of Clém, free and happy somewhere, as I open the letter and read the first line.
The paper falls to the floor. My hands fly to my mouth.
