Kids These Days

Chapter 3: Becca

There's a letter in my left hand, and a knife in my right. Slowly, I slide the sharp edge of the knife under the flap and tear open the envelope; cautiously, reverently, knowing that my entire future is tucked inside. Without warning, my hand gives a nervous twitch, and the knife slips, ripping a jagged line across the creamy paper. I inhale sharply. As far as I can tell, the contents of the envelope are still intact, but I'd rather not risk tearing my only college acceptance letter in half.

I take a deep breath and tighten my grip on the knife. Calm down, I chide myself. It's just a letter. But it's not; it's more than that. I'm not enough of a fool to believe otherwise.

My abuela hovers next to me, gleefully snapping up photos with her clunky Canon camera. (I asked her to not make a big deal about the whole college thing. She politely declined.) "Qué es lo?" she demands. For a seventy year-old woman with bad knees, she can be impressively annoying when she wants. "Becca, órale. Dimame!"

I cluck my tongue at her. "Paciencia, por favor." I've been waiting for this letter for months, but now that it's finally here, I find myself hesitating. "I need some time to process."

"Process what?" she asks in Spanish. "How to open a letter? I doubt you'll get accepted into university if you still don't know how to open a letter."

"I know how to open a letter, thank you very much. I'm just trying to... savor the moment. I want it to feel special." I'm not sure how to explain my nerves to abuela. The only good comparison I can think of is skydiving, but a Reyes would never put their faith in a flimsy sheet of plastic. (Reyes is my mother's maiden name, and it's so goddamn poetic that it puts Fisher to shame. I hope she regrets taking my father's surname when they married.) "It's like... I'm about to make this big, scary jump, and I'm terrified of falling, but I'm so excited to land. And I know I'll only get this chance once in my life, so I don't want to waste anything. I want to savor every moment."

Abuela presses her palms together and lifts her gaze to the ceiling. She's never been one for religion, so I know she's just making fun of me. "There. The moment has officially been savored. Now you can open the letter."

"That's not what I meant--"

She taps the side of my head, a not-so gentle reminder that I've lapsed back into English. It's been getting harder and harder for me to stick to one language, especially when I'm worked up. It doesn't help that I've stopped speaking Spanish outside of the house.

All my school friends-- well, acquaintances-- speak English. The only fluent person I know is Julia, and she doesn't talk that much anymore. She used to write poetry, but the second rehab center wouldn't let her bring pencils, and her interest slowly dwindled away. Pencils. Que chafa. What's an underweight seventeen year-old girl going to do with pencils?

"Mija. You are not someone who hesitates," abuela continues sternly." When I try to argue, she drowns me out in rapid-fire Spanish. "If you want to make your jump, then make your jump! The faster you fall the sooner you'll land. Eventually, we all have to hit the ground."

"Okay, but have you heard of skydiving--"

Abuela snatches the envelope out of my hand and tears it open. Before I can protest, she begins reading. "Dear Becca Fisher, we are writing to... to inform you of our decision to... what is this?" She jabs at the bold print with a scarlet fingernail. "I can't see anything without my glasses," she mutters. I can hear the frustration in her voice. "Becca, ayudame."

Gingerly, I retrieve the envelope from her grasp. "It says..." My mouth is suddenly as dry as the Mojave Desert, and I have to swallow a few times before continuing. "It says they've denied my application. I didn't get in."