Ordinary Girl

by Pamela Gossiaux

  “And community college is always a good start,” she says. As if killing my dream isn’t enough, now she has me living at home which I will NOT do and attending community college.

  “I know you’re disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?” I say. That’s hardly the word. “But I still haven’t heard back from Harvard.”

  “No. You haven’t. And it’s only March.” She sits there, watching me. There’s nothing else to say.

  “Thanks,” I mutter and gather my things. It’s really not her fault. She’s super nice and has been very supportive. It’s me. I’m just too stupid to get in.

  I drive my 2010 Chevy Aveo out of the student parking lot. It’s old, but it runs. Brit is riding with me. We stop and get a slushie on the way home. She likes to mix the flavors, but I always stick to Cherry Coke. It’s my favorite. Why mess with a good thing?

  “Do you work today?” she asks. Some of her slushie spills out on my upholstery as she tries to poke the straw in.

  “I do,” I say, reaching over to hand her a napkin from the backseat. My car isn’t exactly pristine, but I try to keep him as clean as I can. “Don’t stain Charger.”

  She wipes up the mess and tells me she is going home to do homework.

  “Aaron is coming over later for dinner,” she adds.

  “With the whole family?” I ask. It’s not like he hasn’t met them. He and Brit have been dating since Brittney turned sixteen. Aaron is cool and really good to Brit. He’s on the basketball team, the football team and is pretty handsome.

  “Yes. It’s Tim’s birthday. Mom calls it a milestone.”

  “Oh yeah.” I forgot. Her little brother turns thirteen today. A teenager.

  I drop her off at her house, then head home. Before I get out of the car, I pull out my phone to read my emails. I do this about every fifteen minutes. Please. Please. Please. I pray as I open the app. An email pops up from Western Michigan University. I don’t want to go to Western, but my counselor thought I should apply anyway. Just in case. I scroll through the rest of the new mail.

  Then there it is. An email from Harvard. My heart starts to pound.

  Harvard has been my dream since I was little. My great-grandma Heather went there back when they were first starting to admit women to their medical school. There’s even a plaque with her name on it. I’ve seen it.

  I breath deeply. Maybe, just maybe, it’s an acceptance. My hands are shaking as I quickly scan it.

  “We are sorry to inform you…”

  “No. No. No,” I murmur. Maybe incantations will make it go away. I squint at the type again. “…have to pass you up….”

  I quit reading and close the mail app.

  That was my last chance.

  I sit there a moment, eyes closed, feeling the life drain out of me. It’s almost like a death, this final rejection. The death of my dream. Of my life. Of all the work I’ve poured into high school and middle school and yes, even grade school.

  It has all been for nothing. Nothing! Four years of studying my butt off. Passing up parties, not dating. Not even when I had that chance to dance with Jake Willis at last year’s homecoming. Stupid, stupid, stupid, me.

  Tears burn my eyes, and I open the car door. I will be strong. This will not crush me. I will not end up like my mother. I brush my tears away as I walk up our front porch steps. No time for self-pity. I can and will make it to medical school.

  I unlock the front door.

  I walk in cautiously. You never know what type of day Mom is having. Today must be a bad one. The curtains are still drawn in the living room, and her purse hangs on the hook by the door. She didn’t make it to work.

  This is her fault. If I had a functional mother, I could have studied harder.

  I take a deep breath and exhale my anger. Then I walk down the hall and slowly open her bedroom door. “Mom?” It’s dark inside her room, but I can see a figure under the covers, and the top of her blond head poking out. “Mom?”

  She stirs. “Heather? What time is it?” She raises herself up on her elbow and looks at the clock.

  “It’s after school, Mom. Have you been here all day?”

  It’s clear she has. She’s still wearing the same nightgown she put on last night. This is where I left her this morning, sleeping. She doesn’t go in to work until 11 a.m. so I don’t usually see her before I leave for school.

  She gives a little moan and lays back down. “I had a rough day, sweetheart. Tomorrow will be better.”

  Sure it will.

  “I have to get ready for work,” I say. I quietly close the door and lean back against it. I’m the daughter who doesn’t exist on days like these. The daughter she can’t care for. How I wish she’d ask if I got any emails from colleges.

  My cat Gracie comes up and rubs against my legs. I bend down to pet her.

  Mom is depressed. Clinical depression, they call it. It’s not her fault, they say. But it is. It’s her fault she isn’t taking care of herself.

  After Daddy died, Mom got really sad. That was normal. I was ten and didn’t think much about it. She slept a lot and we had people bring over meals. Some days we would talk about Daddy and cry together. Some days she spent in bed, and I just watched a lot of TV and stuff. I eventually returned to school, and after about six weeks, Mom returned to her nursing job.

  But she never really got better. The sadness crept back in to our lives. And now…

  But I don’t want to think about that. I have to get to work.

  Pushing the Harvard email out of my mind, I change into some black pants and the signature “Cozy Coffee” t-shirt I’m supposed to wear at the coffee house. I grab myself a granola bar, pet the cat again, and head off.

  My shift starts at 4 p.m. and I walk in the door five minutes early.

  Mr. Sneeder sits at his usual spot at the counter. He’s one of our regulars and comes in every Tuesday and Thursday evening to sip coffee and work on his laptop. He’s middle-aged, graying around the temples, and wears a wedding ring. He’s pleasant enough, and we always get into interesting conversations on a variety of subjects.

  “Hi Heather,” he nods, as I step behind the coffee bar and tie on my apron.

  “Hi Mr. Sneeder,” I say.

  “How was school today?” He always asks. That’s more than I can say for my mom.

  “Surprise quiz in Calc,” I say. He shakes his head sympathetically.

  “Don’t let the pressure squash you, Heather,” he says. “Relax and —

  “—have a cup of decaf,” I say, finishing his sentence for him. We both laugh. He says this to me every time because I always come to work in a hurry, stressed from a busy day at school.

  He’s watching me over his glasses. “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say cheerily. “I mean…I got the email from Harvard today.”

  He frowns. “Not what you hoped?”

  “Nope.” Tears threaten my composure.

  He shakes his head. “They don’t know who they’re passing up.”

  I shrug it off because I will not be like my mom. Mr. Sneeder picks up his phone and starts typing in a text. I need to let him get back to work.

  I walk over to talk to my boss, Jess, who is heading home for the evening. I’ll work until 9 p.m. and then help Cherise, the shift manager, close up. Jess tells me the specials on today’s menu and what I need to make fresh. We get a steady stream of people, and I’m busy for a while with the “after work” crowd. When it slows down, I mess around with the machines for a few minutes, then turn back to Mr. Sneeder. “You need a refill?”

  He looks up from his laptop and nods. “Yes, please.”

  I turn to get the coffee pot for him. Despite his jokes about decaf, he drinks black regular coffee, straight up, for about two hours while he’s here. As I refill his cup, I see three young men, about college-age, walk in the door. They take a seat over by the window.

  Cherise is behind the counter with me, so I grab a message pad and head over t
o their table. They’re trying to read the menu, which is written in chalk on the wall behind the counter. “May I help you?”

  “How’s the chicken salad sandwich?” says one of the guys. He turns his blue eyes on me when he speaks and holds my gaze, waiting for my answer. He’s amazing to look at. He has blond, wavy hair that is parted just right and one side hangs slightly over his left eye. He’s wearing a charcoal button-down, which he has open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves.

  He raises an eyebrow, and I realize I haven’t answered his question.

  “It’s my favorite,” I say, recovering. “It’s made with red grapes that give it just the right amount of sweetness.”

  It’s what we’re told to say when customers ask. Jess has trained us all on the right descriptions of her entrees. But I blush when I say it.

  A smile spreads across his face. “Sounds delicious,” he says. “I’ll have one. And can I have chips with that instead of the coleslaw?”

  “Of course,” I say, scribbling on my notepad so I don’t have to look at him. Even though I could remember his order by heart.

  The other two order Reubens and all three ask for iced teas. I retreat to hand in their orders, then I take their teas over to the table.

  “Thanks,” says the blond-haired demigod. He gives me a shy smile. My tummy does something funny, and I turn before he can see the smile that crosses my face.

  I walk back behind the counter. Mr. Sneeder looks up from his computer.

  “I think that young man over there is a bit smitten with you,” he says quietly.

  I can’t help but glance over at the table. The cute guy is watching me, but as soon as he sees me, he drops his gaze, as if embarrassed.

  “I think he’s college-age,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else.

  “Maybe. He’s probably what, twenty? And you’re seventeen?”

  “Eighteen in a few months,” I say.

  “Two years difference. Not bad.”

  I’m pretty sure my mom, on one of her good days, would have a different opinion, but I don’t say that out loud. Cherise puts their orders on my tray. I carry them over to the table. Suddenly I’m nervous.

  “Thanks,” blond-guy’s friend says. “We’re starving!” The friend grabs the ketchup bottle and squeezes some on his plate. “Want some, Cory?”

  So blond-guy’s name is Cory.

  “Not on chicken salad.” Cory brushes a lock of hair away from his eyes and meets mine again. “Can I have a refill on my tea?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say. He has drained his glass already. I reach for it, but he’s already handing it to me. Our fingers touch. His are warm.

  I take the glass back over to the bar to refill it. I can’t believe he’s talking to me. And the way his eyes hold mine, like they want to know more. I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling like an idiot. My hands are sweating a little bit. When I return with the tea, his friend, the one with the ketchup bottle, says to me, “He wants to know your name, but he’s too shy to ask.”

  I look at Cory. “I’m Heather.” I once again try to stop the smile that is spreading across my face. But I fail. Then I feel my cheeks burning. What is wrong with me?

  “I’m Cory,” he says. He smiles at me. It makes his whole face radiant. “Would you, um, want to have a cup of coffee with me, or dessert, or something when your shift is over?”

  I glance at the clock. That’s an hour and a half from now. I remind myself about my self-imposed no dating rule. But what’s the point of that now?

  “Um. Sure!” I hear myself say anyway. “But, I don’t get off until nine.”

  “I can wait,” Cory says.

  “Heather! Customers!” Cherise yells from behind the counter. I look over and there’s a line.

  “Gotta go!” I say and Cory nods. I hurry over to the cash register.

  It’s the longest hour and a half of my life. I’m so busy I don’t have time to think, but I see Cory’s friends leave after they finish eating. Cory pulls out a laptop and starts typing. Probably doing homework. College homework. Every time I walk by his table to wait on a customer, he smiles at me.

  There’s a handsome college guy and he’s flirting with me. OMG. Wait until I tell Brittney! But no, maybe he’s not really that interested. Maybe I should wait and see. I mean, can he be? And I’m not dating because I have a no-dating rule. It’s just one coffee. Just to be polite.

  I’m driving myself crazy.

  Finally, it’s 9 p.m. Everyone is gone except for Cory. Even Mr. Sneeder left some time ago; I didn’t notice when. Cherise locks the door.

  “Go,” she says. “I’ll clean up. Romeo over there has been waiting a long time.” She sets two decaf coffees down on the counter for me, and two pieces of our signature chocolate cake.

  I glance over at him. His blond head is bowed as he’s intently reading something on his computer. I guess I’m going to do this. I mean, what’s the harm of a little visit, anyway? It’s not like I’m asking him to prom or anything. I untie my apron and take it off. Then I go into the restroom. I finger-comb my thick brown hair and freshen up my lip gloss. Not bad. Not great, but not bad. I take a deep breath to quiet the butterflies in my stomach.

  Will it bother him that I’m only in high school? What do college guys even talk about? What if I say something stupid?

  I look in the mirror again and square my shoulders. It’s just a conversation and coffee. That’s it.

  And then I go out, take the two cups of coffee and cake, and go sit next to Cory, while Cherise scrubs counters and pretends not to watch.

  Every year at the beginning of the school year, Brittney and I make a list of the top ten cutest guys at our school. Jake Willis, this cute brown-haired lacrosse player in our grade, has always been my number one pick. But I think Cory tops them all. And here I am, sitting across from him.

  “This is really good,” he says, taking a bite of the chocolate cake.

  “It’s Jess’s own recipe. Our owner. She’s makes the best food.”

  “I’d have to agree. The chicken salad sandwich was superior. How did you describe it? Just the right amount of sweetness?”

  We both laugh. “That’s what we’re supposed to say. She makes us memorize the entire list of sandwiches, complete with all their descriptions, which she makes up herself. Of course.”

  “Of course.” Cory smiles at me again. I notice he has a dimple on his left cheek. But only the left side. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I feel like a dork. I can’t stop smiling. You’re just so pretty.”

  I blush and take another bite of my cake. I have no idea what to say. I could tell him how cute he is, but that seems stupid.

  “Do you go to school around here?” I ask to break up the moment.

  “Yes. I’m a sophomore at the University of Michigan.”

  Wow. He’s obviously smarter than I am. He must have grades. And money.

  “What’s your major?” I ask.

  “I want to be a doctor,” he says. “I have my eyes on Harvard or Johns Hopkins for medical school. I know—I’m aiming awfully high! At least that’s what my dad says.”

  “No! Not at all! I want to do that too! I want to be a doctor, and I was hoping to get into Harvard for undergrad.”

  But I didn’t. I feel a momentary pang in my heart, but I push it down. I haven’t gotten into Michigan either. I don’t want him to know how stupid I am.

  “Seriously?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “How cool is that? Well, if Harvard is your goal, I may have an “in” for you. My dad’s best college roomie is a Harvard professor. Endocrinology. What do you want to study?”

  “Neurology.” He may have an in for me?

  “Wow. The brain, huh? I want to be a vascular surgeon.”

  I can’t believe we both want to be doctors! This guy is more than perfect. We launch into a nerdy discussion about science and all the classes that colleges require you to take in high school. He took like all of the AP science and math cl
asses his high school offered, just like I’m doing. I don’t ask about the Harvard connection. I don’t want to appear too eager. Cherise comes over and takes our empty plates and glasses in the back to wash. I’m going to owe her big time.

  “I can’t believe your dad’s friend is a medical professor at Harvard,” I say casually to Cory after a while. “Wow. I mean, what are the odds? That’s the top school on my list.”

  “Have you heard from them yet?”

  I’m not sure how to answer that. I think of the email.

  “That bad, huh?” he says.

  I give a little laugh but feel my cheeks burning again. “Does it show? Yes. I just got my rejection today,” I say, because why not? It’s not like I can call them and beg them to change their mind.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s still the University of Michigan,” I say.

  It’s March. U of M has until April 30 to let me know. Ms. Neilson doesn’t think I’ll get in. I should probably read the email from Western. Most of my friends have their college plans figured out already

  Cherise comes out of the kitchen. “Okay, fun’s over,” she says. “We have to lock up now.”

  I look at my watch. It’s 9:45. Cherise took extra-long cleaning up so I could have time with Cory, and yet the time flew by.

  I push out my chair and stand. Cory does the same.

  “Let’s go,” Cherise says, her key in hand. She shuts off the lights and holds the door for us as we exit. She turns and locks the door behind her.

  “Have a good night. Nice to meet you,” she says to Cory and heads for her car.

  We stand there, outside the door, in the cold darkness lit by the streetlights, and watch her pull away.

  “So what now?” Cory asks. “Do you need a ride home?”

  There are two cars left in front of the Cozy Café. Mine, and a red Corvette.

  “Is that your car?”

  Cory grins. “Yes. My dad gave it to me when I went to college.”

  “Your dad gave you…wow.” Yes, I want a ride home! I want a ride home very badly. But I can’t leave Charger here alone. How will I get to school in the morning? And I’m supposed to give Brit a ride to school. Practicality takes over. That’s the problem with me. I pass up incredible situations, like this one chance to ride home with a cute guy in his hot car, because I am trying to be practical.