Chapter Twenty-Six
IT WAS just past four on a chilly, sunny afternoon as Victor and I walked from school to his house. That had become our new afternoon routine. As soon as the bell rang, we’d either go to the library and hang out there for a while, or grab a Coke at Sammy’s before walking home.
Our delay was because the postman came around four every day, and we had two mailboxes to check. We went to Victor’s house first because it was closest to school. Sometimes, since his father was between jobs again, Victor borrowed the car and drove me home.
We walked hand in hand, our shoes in rhythmic counterpoint, the winter sun casting shadows of branches on the sidewalk.
Holding hands was such a simple thing, but it brought so much joy.
It meant we were a couple. An us. We were in this together.
At this point, holding Victor’s hand felt like a comfortable habit.
Like something we’d do for the rest of our lives.
Except this must’ve been one of Victor’s distant days.
His moods had become less and less predictable the last few weeks.
Sometimes he was the sweetest guy in the world.
The bouquet of roses he gave me for Valentine’s Day was stunning.
And he always told me I was beautiful on days when I needed to hear it most.
But other times he seemed distracted, as though his mind was on the moon.
I could be feeling my most beautiful, and he seemed to not even see me.
And sometimes he could be a little acidic.
Last Wednesday, I wore a new skirt that made me feel like a million bucks.
I couldn’t wait to see his reaction, but instead of telling me I was gorgeous, he’d just eyed me over the rims of his glasses and said, “Iris, don’t you think that skirt is a bit short? ”
I’d laughed it off. “Victor! You sound like my father.”
“I mean it,” he’d replied. “I don’t want other guys ogling my girl.”
Part of me was thrilled he called me his girl. But another part of me was embarrassed. Later at home, I hung the skirt in the back of my closet. I was pretty sure I’d never wear it again.
Victor was just stressed. I had to keep reminding myself of that. Every day that passed brought us one day closer to getting the letters that would decide our future.
Inspiration struck. Maybe if I made him laugh, he’d relax a little bit.
“Remember today in choir when Johnny Lenn got the restroom pass stuck on top of the rafters in the cafeteria?” I giggled just thinking about it.
Mr. Gilbert’s restroom pass was a broken, old choir folder, and Johnny had a habit of tossing things to himself while he walked.
He’d thrown the folder so high it got stuck, and we’d all gone out to have a look.
“We lost six minutes of rehearsal time,” Victor pointed out. “That part wasn’t so amusing.”
My cheeks burned, and I stopped giggling.
Sometimes I felt like such a child compared to him.
He was more than a year and a half older, so that was part of it.
But sometimes I couldn’t shake the feeling that I annoyed him.
That my laughter irritated him. Some days it even seemed as though he couldn’t stand me.
That just must be part of being in a relationship with someone. You’re constantly thinking of the other person. You want to please them, you want them to love you, so you second-guess everything you do. But if that’s the case, then why do love songs only focus on the part that feels amazing?
We stopped on the sidewalk in front of Victor’s mailbox. The postman was halfway down the block, so the day’s mail had already come.
Victor glanced at me with a nervous smile and opened the box. My heart pounded as he pulled out a handful of envelopes and sorted through them. One or two were bills—I saw the big red OVERDUE stamp—but then . . . could it be . . .
“It’s here.” Victor held up an envelope with Whitehall’s crimson logo.
I smiled, and my heartbeat accelerated. It’s here. This is it.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” He was taking forever. I couldn’t stand the suspense.
His eyes turned cold. “I need a minute, Iris.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. Wait until you’re ready.”
He stared at the envelope as though willing it to contain the news he needed to hear. He blew out a breath that puffed up in the chilly air around us. Then he tore the envelope open.
He turned away from me, and I tried to peek over his shoulder, but his height meant I couldn’t. So I gave up and just prayed. Please let it be good news. Please let him have gotten in. Please don’t make him go to Vietnam. Please, please, please . . .
“I got in.”
He spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “What did you say?”
He turned to me, all smiles, and showed me the letter. “I got in, Iris! I got in!”
I took the letter from his hand and read it out loud.
“‘Dear Mr. Nelson, I am delighted to inform you that our Committee on Admissions has accepted you to the class of 1974 as a member of our Music Theory and Composition Program. Please accept my personal congratulations on your outstanding achievement . . .’” Happy tears blurred my eyes, and I couldn’t read any more, so I just beamed up at Victor and handed the letter back. “You got in!”
“I got in.” The paper shook in his hand.
“Oh, Iris, I can’t tell you how relieved I am.
How thrilled. There’s just . . . there aren’t words for it.
I don’t have to worry about ’Nam anymore.
I don’t have to worry about my parents anymore.
I get to start over. I get to learn from .
. .” He trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut. Twin tears dove down his cheeks.
“Victor.” Moved at his outpouring of emotion, I pulled him close and just held him. He wasn’t the only one crying.
“I’m so happy, Iris.” His voice was ragged. “I’m just so happy.”
And that was it. That was all he said.
He didn’t thank me for writing the piece that changed his destiny.
Did he even remember that? Did he remember that even though his name was on that acceptance letter, his work hadn’t been in that envelope?
He did. Of course he did. How could he not? He’d thank me. I knew he would.
Wait a minute. If his letter had arrived, then mine likely had too. It sat in my mailbox. Waiting for me.
Unless my parents already got the mail. Unless they already knew . . .
“Let’s go to my house next.” I grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the car. “Want to drive me so we’ll get there faster?”
Victor pulled back. “But I have to go tell my parents the good news.”
It was so strange. When I cried, my face turned red and blotchy, and my eyes stayed swollen for a good ten minutes. But Victor’s face looked totally normal. Hadn’t he just sobbed on my shoulder a second ago? One would never know. How did he do that?
I blinked up at him. “But don’t you want to come see if we both have good news?”
“Well yes, of course, Iris, but I have to tell Mom that she doesn’t have to worry about me going to ’Nam anymore. I have to go tell Pop that he can stuff it, because I’m better than he thinks I am. I have a way out now.”
A way out that I gave you. And I need to go see if I managed to find a way out for both of us, not just you.
As though he’d read my mind, he put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about, Iris. If I got in, there’s no way you didn’t.”
“I’d still like to know, though. Preferably before my parents do.” Would they hide an acceptance letter from me? My father wouldn’t. But Mother . . .
“Just let me tell my parents,” Victor said. “Let me tell them, and we’ll—”
“You know what?” I fought to keep my irritation out of my voice. “Go. Be with your family. I’ll walk home. It’s not that far.” I’d done it before, after all.
“Iris Wallingford, you are an absolute gem. What would I ever do without you?” He kissed my cheek, then started up the walk toward his house. “You’ll call me tonight, right? Let me know the good news?”
“Of course.” Did he really not want to be with me to find out? Was he really going to make me do this alone?
“Mom,” he called as he opened the door, and then he shut it without even looking back.
Okay. That was that.
I started home—that white-columned world I’d be trapped in if I didn’t get into Whitehall—fueled by adrenaline and anger, my heels tapping against the sidewalk in a rapid staccato. It wasn’t that cold out, thankfully, but I didn’t think I’d have felt it if it had been.
Victor was probably right. One of my pieces had been good enough to earn an admission. Surely the other one would be too. Right?
I bit my lip as I opened the mailbox. Sure enough, there sat a crisp white envelope with the same bold crimson seal.
I tore it open, my heart hammering in my throat.
Dear Miss Wallingford,
On behalf of the Admissions Committee, I want to thank you for submitting your application. We have carefully reviewed your materials, and while you were a competitive candidate, we regret to inform you that we cannot offer you admission. We wish you the best . . .
The letter fell to the ground, and my heart sank right with it, shattering into a million pieces along with my hopes and dreams and ambitions.
I didn’t get in.
I didn’t get in.