Paris Adieu #featured #Wattys2017

Chapter 4 - Fake it Till You Make it

Over the next two weeks, following my meeting with April, I received the four college admissions office letters I'd been waiting for. Bates and Bryn Mawr accepted me but offered no financial aid. Bowdoin turned me down.

When the letter from Yale arrived, I knew something was up. It was bulkier than the others. I went upstairs before opening it, ignoring Mrs. Griffith's curious stare, encouraging me to open it in front of her as she handed me my mail that early evening on my way back from a day of classes. No way.

Upstairs, I unlocked the door to my room and sat down on my bed. This was big. Very big. The envelope in my hands was big, too. I began to sweat. I knew I had a chance. A lively Japanese-American lady in the office of AmericanCollege in Paris had interviewed me, and we'd clicked.

I'd told her about being lost and confused the summer before when I'd been so ashamed about dropping out of music college. I'd been in between gigs, I explained, out of high school, self-ejected from music college and ready to experience life, not books or Bach. When I'd mentioned wandering around Guatemala on my own until a priest enlisted me to accompany him on visits to mountain-dwelling parishioners, I'd seen her eyes widen. She'd been intrigued by my story, which had the added advantage of being true, thanks to my father sending me an employee-pass plane ticket to escape my grandparents while I figured out what I was doing with my life. Our conversation lasted over an hour, and at the end, my gut told me she'd liked what she heard.

That evening, Mr. Griffith asked how the interview had gone. I said, 'well' to which he replied that my interviewer was a former member of the Yale Admissions Committee. It was a great stroke of luck for me. Her word would be gold back at headquarters in New Haven.

I said a short prayer. Then, I opened the letter from Yale Office of Admissions.

Yeow! I was in. Sacré bleu de putain! I'd come across the oath, meaning sacred blue of a whore, in a Victor Hugo novel. I'd never heard it spoken aloud in France. Thank you, thank you, thank you, God.

The news was so monumental, I couldn't breathe. It wasn't just that I'd been accepted. After the acceptance page, another letter from the Office of Financial Aid informed me YaleCollege would put together a financial aid package that would allow me to attend no matter what my financial resources were. Putain du diable! This meant whore of the devil, another French oath I'd seen in a book written over three hundred years earlier and never heard anyone in Paris ever say.

The rest of the evening was poignant. Bursting with the best news of my entire life thus far, I had no way to share it with anyone. First, I wanted to frame the letter and send it to my grandparents. My grandfather wouldn't be surprised, but my grandmother would figuratively fall on the floor. Then, she'd rush out, and in the guise of taking a walk around the block, share the news with every neighbor she bumped into.

I'd let my parents know next time I sent either of them a postcard. Not having anything to prove to them, there was no rush.

It didn't seem right to share the news with Mrs. Griffith first. After all, she was a Brit. What did she know about how significant it was to get into an American Ivy League college? Jean-Michel was out of the question. He was at work, I didn't have a phone, and I hadn't spent the past two months with him not to know how utterly provincial his outlook on such news would be. He'd probably sniff and say something like, "So when are you leaving?" as if he didn't care and just needed to make plans for his next round of American girlfriend hunting on the Boulevard Saint Michel.

It was a strange sensation to receive great news and have no one to share it with. Too excited to sit in my room, I decided to share my joy with Paris at large. Putting on my stiletto boots, I applied red lipstick – something I didn't ordinarily wear – and went out for an early evening stroll.