Chapter Two
Charlotte checked the mail every day, hoping to hear something from SCAD. She had sent in the scholarship application weeks ago but had no way of knowing how long the process would take.
Every evening like clockwork, Charlotte found herself perched on the edge of the worn, floral-patterned sofa that seemed as much a fixture of the house as the walls themselves.
Her eyes, fixed in an unwavering stare, were drawn to the narrow view of the front porch through the living room window—the paint chipping off the windowsill bearing silent testament to neglect.
She should offer to paint the house; it would take her mind off the scholarship.
Maybe. No. She couldn’t. The smell of paint would disturb her mother.
Charlotte’s fingers drummed a staccato rhythm against her knee, the tick of the old grandfather clock in the corner harmonizing with the silent melody of her anxiety.
The mail’s arrival was never constant; the delivery times were as varied as the patterns of her mother’s moods.
But the vigil remained; it was all she could do not to sprint to the box the moment she heard the distant clunk of neighboring lids.
Graduation loomed—a mere two weeks away—and with it, the closing of a chapter that tasted of stale air and lingering frustration. Each tick of the clock, each turn of another calendar page, was a stark reminder of the finite nature of time and the urgency of her anticipation.
As dusk settled in, painting the world in shades of twilight, the reality of another day without a word from SCAD sank in, leaving behind a hollow echo in her chest. Yet she remained steadfast, the flicker of hope refusing to be extinguished entirely—as stubborn as the mold on the side of the house.
Tomorrow she would sit here again, watching, waiting.
She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, grabbed a can of Coke.
Closing the door, she saw an old photograph that had been wedged beneath a magnet on the refrigerator door.
It was one of her school pictures, fifth grade, where smiles are stretched too wide and eyes hold no secrets.
Her fingers traced the outline of her younger self.
The edges of the photo frayed from years of being handled each time she was in the kitchen.
She vowed to herself that if she ever had children, she would frame their pictures all over her house for all to see, not keep them hidden behind a local pharmacy magnet.
Four days before graduation, Charlotte skulked by the mailbox, her eyes darting between the slits of the rusted metal door.
Her breath hitched as she spied the corner of a thick white envelope peeking out.
She opened the lid and saw the embossed logo of SCAD.
Her fingers trembled and her heart beat wildly.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the bustle around her fading into a muted backdrop.
She clutched the envelope to her chest, the weight of her future pressing against her sternum.
Charlotte wanted to leap into the air, to twirl and scream her triumph or despair for all the neighborhood to witness.
But she was a fortress of restraint; no crack in her facade would appear in public view.
She slipped through the front door, navigating the familiar creaks of the wooden floorboards with practiced ease.
Her mother wasn’t home yet, a small mercy in this moment of reckoning.
Charlotte retreated to her sanctuary—her room, where teal walls were adorned with photos that captured fragments of the world as she saw it, each image a testament to her dreams.
Her fingers rubbed at the seal of the envelope; she was almost afraid to open it.
She didn’t dare imagine Mr. Baker’s face, the creases of concern when he’d asked about her submission, his voice always tinged with unspoken support.
Nor did she let herself recall Peggy’s inquisitive gaze, how the postmistress had lingered just a second too long over her envelope, her interest as transparent as the glass of the post office window.
She held the thick envelope close to her as her heart raced and her hands shook.
This was her moment, and she did not want her mother to share any part of it.
No matter if the news was good or bad. It was hers to receive.
The paper’s texture was smooth and elegant.
Made with high-quality cotton. For a moment she wondered if this fancy paper was reserved for those who only received bad news.
She used her fingernail to carefully open the envelope.
Maybe this was their way of easing the letdown.
Charlotte took a deep breath and then exhaled, a slow stream of air that carried with it the fears of denial.
This was her rite of passage, the culmination of hidden hopes and quiet toil.
She carefully opened the envelope and removed the single sheet it contained.
Unfolding it, she willed herself to read it but hesitated.
The paper crinkled under her fingertips as she held the letter close to her chest.
Summoning her courage, she read: “Dear Charlotte,” her whispered voice barely above a breath as her eyes devoured the words printed before her. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the world, as she searched for the sentence that would either forge her path or fracture her dreams.