Chapter 39 #2
As luck would have it, I make the hourly train a few minutes before it leaves at 12:17 p.m. I’m jittery for the entire two-hour
ride, but the jitters turn to excitement as I get to Grand Central. I exit into the soaring main hall, which is decorated
for the holidays, with lit-up wreaths, ribbon garlands, and more than one twinkling Christmas tree. The subway from Grand
Central down to the West Village is packed with people all bundled up, many of them with large shopping bags.
I know from the tour I went on earlier this summer that the Tisch classes are mostly held at the building on the corner of
Broadway and Waverly Place, so that’s where I head when I exit the Astor Place subway station.
Even though it’s a bitterly cold day and the wind slices at my exposed skin, there’s so much energy on the streets. People
are everywhere, and I can tell some are NYU students. I enter the building, and a guard behind the front desk stops me.
“Student ID?” he asks.
“I don’t have one,” I admit. “But I just got in.”
I pull the acceptance letter from my backpack and show it to him. “Do you think it would be okay for me to walk around a little?
I won’t disturb any classes.”
“I shouldn’t . . .” He falters, then sighs. “But I love when the new admits come to visit. You’re lucky I’m a softie.” He
takes my ID and pushes a sign-in sheet toward me, and just like that, I’m in.
As I promised, I don’t go into any classes. I just walk the building, listen to students talking as they move through the
hallways, going from class to class. I peek into a small window in one of the doors. There are about ten students inside,
with an older woman sitting at the center of the room, holding a rolled-up script in her hands. Two of the students are standing,
nodding thoughtfully at whatever she’s saying. A camera is set up, too, facing the area where the students are standing. I
wonder what notes she’s giving them on their performance. Whether it was their diction, their projection, the way they were
emotionally living in their characters.
And I feel a rush of pure adrenaline.
I want to be in that room. I want to be the one getting notes. I want to be the one living in a character, making her my own.
Back out on the street, I have so much energy coursing through me it’s hard not to start running. I head into the NYU Bookstore.
I want to buy myself something in NYU purple before I go home.
I stop at a table of sweatshirts that have the Tisch logo.
They’re stupidly expensive, but I’m still going to buy one.
I snap a quick picture of the sweaters all piled on top of each other.
I wish I could tell Luke. After everything, he’s still the person I want to tell.
The person I want to celebrate with, even though we haven’t spoken in over a month. I go as far
as unblocking him and I start writing him a message, along with the picture, when I stop. Because what else would that bring
but more heartache? I don’t want to choose someone who didn’t choose me. It’s time to leave him in the past. For real this
time. Dr. Z even said something along those lines; she said that closure is a decision, not a feeling. So I decide that in
this moment, instead of looking back, I’m going to look forward.
Thank you for everything that was good, I think, aiming my mental energy west, toward California. Toward Luke. And goodbye. Then I delete the message and briefly hold my phone to my heart before taking a purple hoodie to the cash register.
I get home around seven.
Mom is out working, catering a holiday party for a family in Greenwich, and doesn’t get home until past eight.
The blood in my veins feels electric. I want to go to Tisch so badly.
I know it’s expensive. We won’t know what my package looks like until my FAFSA form is processed by the school.
I was never able to bring myself to cash either check from Luke.
Maybe I’ll regret it once I’m saddled with debt, regret being romantic instead of practical.
But I want to keep that time for what it was—the two of us finding each other again, even if it ended badly.
I spent the entire train ride home researching need-blind scholarships for the performing arts. I will apply for every single
one.
When I hear her keys in the front door, I’m basically levitating.
“Claire?” she calls from the entryway. She sounds tired. “I got a call from school, they said—”
When I walk to greet her, and she notices my sweatshirt, she stops dead.
“I got in!” I tell her.
“Oh, Claire!” Mom drops the two tote bags full of random work stuff onto the floor and wraps her arms around me in a huge
hug. Then she pulls back and takes my face in her hands. “I’m so happy for you. So proud of you!”
Mom doesn’t mention anything about the tuition costs, about whether we can afford it or not. Not even a flicker of worry crosses
her face. I can tell she wants me to have this moment to be proud of myself, to not worry about anything else.
“It’s so expensive—” I start.
“We can talk about that later, honey. Let yourself enjoy this accomplishment. I know how hard it is to get in.”
“No, I know, and I am happy about it. But the thing is, I want to go. I want to go more than anything.” I hesitate before saying what I’m about to say next.
I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.
The entire train ride back. Hell, I’ve been thinking about it for basically two months straight.
“And I’m ready to take legal action against Dad. ”
Mom’s eyes search mine. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Do you think Johnny would still be willing to connect us with that lawyer?”
“I’m sure he would,” Mom says. “But it might take a while before we see anything from it. If the financial aid package isn’t
good enough, you might need to do a year in state and then transfer. Or defer a year. I’m not even sure what funds your dad
has at the moment.”
“I know,” I tell her. “And I’m ready for that. But he owes me this, at the very least. And I want the closure.”
Mom takes my hands and squeezes. “Whatever it takes, Gus, we’re going to make it work. We’re going to make this dream come
true.”
And for me, right now, that’s more than enough.