“But not this year? It was a great winter for snow upstate, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but I really wanted to make sure my grades were good and with studying for SATs it felt irresponsible to be out late on a Friday night and then wake up late on a Saturday morning.”
He raises his eyebrows as though I’ve just said I thought it was important to smoke weed every Friday night. “What about a job?”
“Well, no, not this year. I did volunteer in my junior year at the local hospital though.”
“For the required hours to graduate?”
I nod. Who on earth has time to do volunteer hours for fun?
“And how did you enjoy that?”
My mind goes straight to Dylan, and I can feel my face getting hot. “It was, um, great.”
“All right.” Vishwanathan picks up his phone, looks at it and places it face down on the desk. Am I running out of time? “Tell me, Pippa, is there anything else that you think we should know about you as a candidate?”
I take a deep breath. I purposely didn’t mention that David and my dad went to Tisch in my application, because I wanted to get in based on my own merits. Not because of the so-called legacy preference that is rumored to exist at a lot of colleges. But I’m feeling desperate. “I’m not sure if you know, but David Westerly is my biological father. And the father I was raised by is Evan Greene. Both are Tisch alumni. I’m not sure if you remember Evan too? Maybe you were all in the same class or something? Evan and David were best friends and roommates.” I try to read Vishwanathan’s face for any clue that what I’m saying is making any difference whatsoever, but he seems to have about as much emotion as an avocado. “Anyway, I look up to both of them so much. It feels like it’s in my blood, you know?” There. I’ve said it.
Vishwanathan leans forward in his chair. “Well, that’s certainly interesting. And we do love to see the passion for photography passed down, but of course we do not give any preference to legacy students. I’m sure you can see how that would be unfair to other applicants.”
My back feels sweaty. “Of course, I didn’t mean . . . I just meant that I’ve known about Tisch forever.” We stare at each other. I clear my throat. “Mr. Vishwanathan, I’m really, really grateful for this meeting and I came all the way here for it, on a bus, overnight, and it was to tell you that I have to—I need to—go to Tisch. I will seriously do anything it takes. If you’ll just tell me what you’re looking for, what I didn’t do that you were hoping I would, I’ll do it. I’ll rewrite my essay. I’ll change my portfolio. I’ll show you whatever you want to see. Maybe I just didn’t understand what you were looking for.”
He clasps his hands in front of him. “Actually, Pippa, I think that’s precisely your problem. It feels as though you’re so focused on getting in that you’re trying to give us what we want. When what we want is to see what makes you who you are. It’s your interests, your passions, your inspiration that make you a better photographer. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod numbly. But I don’t get it. My interests, my passions, my inspiration? It’s being a photographer. Taking pictures. Getting that great shot. It’s a photography program. How can I be so off the mark?
He stands, and then I realize that’s my cue. He’s kicking me out. He opens the door, then turns to me.
“Expand your experiences, Ms. Greene. Push yourself outside your comfort zone. Try things you normally wouldn’t. Take a stand for something. Join a sports club. Learn a new skill. Don’t just take pictures. In fact, don’t take pictures. Leave your camera at home and really live. Don’t be afraid to fail. That’s what we want to see.”
They want to see applicants failing? How about failing to get into their dream college? How can I show him that?
He puts a hand on the door. “You have the opportunity to submit a 500-word essay by May 18. The admissions committee reviews all essays and chooses the best candidates to fill any open spots. That is, should there be any openings available. You may not want to take that chance. Perhaps you will consider accepting an offer from one of the other colleges you applied to.”
Right. One of the other colleges I applied to. I stick out my hand to shake Mr. Vishwanathan’s, thank him for his time, and shuffle out the door.
“Oh, and Ms. Greene?” I turn. “Enjoy the rest of your time in the city.”
Yeah, I’ll get right on that.
*
Outside, the cherry blossoms are in full bloom, lining the street in clouds of pinks and purples, perfect for my Instagram post this week, but now I can’t really focus on anything through my tears. And even if I could, I’m not supposed to take pictures? I’m supposed to . . . what? Climb the tree and break out in song? Or grab a stack of tissue paper and recreate cherry blossoms using Elmer’s glue?
I should probably let Aunt Emmy or David know I’m out of the meeting, but I can’t bring myself to rehash it all just yet, or deal with the guilt I’m feeling that they know what’s really going on when Mom’s still in the dark, thinking I’m in pre-orientation orientation land. I can’t bear to tell any of them that the meeting, and that coming to New York, was completely, utterly, hopelessly pointless. I walk through Washington Square Park and make my way over to an empty bench by the fountain. The sun shining down feels like it’s mocking me. Hey, cheerful sun, guess what? You suck. Just like everything else in the world.
I stare at the fountain in front of me and watch as a little girl, maybe four or five, walks closer to the water, holding her mother’s hand. The mother leans down and hands her a coin, the sun glinting off it. The girl winds up and then hurls the coin into the fountain. I wonder what she wished for and try to remember when I was that young. When I believed that your wishes could come true simply by tossing a coin in a fountain. I close my eyes just as my phone dings.
Ramona: Almost there.
I forgot I’d texted Ramona last night from the bus to see if she wanted to meet up after my meeting. I’m supposed to be at Think, this coffee shop on Mercer at West 3rd, in five minutes. I make my way back through the park to West 4th. I didn’t tell Ramona why I was coming to the city, because about 87 percent of me believed that when we met up, we’d be celebrating over five-dollar coffees that I got into the program, like her. Ramona got early acceptance to Tisch back in the fall.
“Pippa!” I look up to see Ramona waving at me from the steps in front of Think.
She bounds down the steps, her bright red curls flying everywhere. “I’m so excited to see you!” She chatters away as we walk in. We place our orders and then get our coffees at the other end of the bar. It’s not until we’re sitting that she asks why I’m in town. “How long are you here for? Who did you come with? Tell me everything.”
I take a sip of my latte, tears welling up in my eyes. I place my mug back down on the wood table. “I got waitlisted.”
Ramona’s jaw drops as she leans forward, slapping her hands on the table. “Shut. Up. You’re kidding.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t understand. Your stuff is amazing. Did they tell you why?”
“Uh uh.” I tell her about David getting me a meeting with Vishwanathan, and how I’m supposed to show him how I’m not taking photos to get into a photography program. “The worst part is that now I have to go home to my mom and tell her that there’s a really good chance I’m not going to get into Tisch and that I have no backup plan.”
“Yikes. But wait: you already told her you got in, and she bought it, and she thinks you’re here because you got in, right?”
I nod, staring into my coffee cup.
Ramona claps her hands together and I look up. “And you still want to go to Tisch, obvs. And there’s still a chance you will; you just have to, like, expand your horizons or whatever. Which, how hard could that be? Point is, if your mom already thinks you’re going to Tisch, then why bother telling her anything at this point?
Why not just make sure you get in? And you’re here, right? In the most fun city in the world, and you’ve got an entire parent-free afternoon and night. Sounds like the perfect recipe to start doing some of those wild and crazy things Vishwanathan wants you to be doing.”
“He didn’t say wild and crazy.”
Ramona waves a hand at me. “Text your mom and your aunt and David and whoever else you need to. Tell them that everything is awesome and you’re hanging out with me for the rest of the day. Go on.”
I bite my lip and then pick up my phone. I pause for a second, and text Emmy first, then David, then Mom. Then look back to Ramona. “OK. Now what?”
“Now? Now we have some fun.”
*
Eight hours later we’re standing at a street corner in Chelsea waiting for the light to change. We cross the street toward a lineup of twentysomethings in hipster variations on T-shirts and jeans.
“Who were you supposed to come with again?” I ask Ramona as we join the line. An hour ago over pizza and Cokes, after an afternoon of deliberate non-photography activities—shopping (her) and window shopping (me), the Central Park zoo, the Guggenheim, 10-dollar manicures, green smoothies, a visit to the Strand (where Ramona had to steer me clear of the photography books and into the stationery section)—she told me Ryder & Chase had a show tonight. I’d already texted Emmy to ask if it was OK if I got to her place around midnight, having assumed that Ramona meant she had two tickets to the concert and wanted to give me one of them.
“Hmm?” she says now.
“The extra ticket. Whose was it?”
“Riiiiiiight. About that. There’s just one teensy tiny catch,” she says. Ramona smiles a smile I haven’t seen in a while. “It’s a sold-out show—plus it’s 21 and over. And my fake ID is on backorder or something, and I’m guessing you don’t have a fake driver’s license . . .”
“I don’t even have a real driver’s license.”
“So we’re going to have to sneak in.”
“Um, what?” I whisper. I shake my head. “On top of everything, I really don’t need to get arrested.”
She laughs. “Think of it as a challenge. Have you ever snuck into a concert before?”
“No.”
“See? You’re expanding your horizons. Yet another non-photography experience to add to your day. You’re welcome”
“I’m not sure this is what Vishwanathan had in mind.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” She grabs my hand, and we move away from the line to the side of the building and down an alley.
“What are we doing?”
She sees my skeptical look and shrugs. “If everyone else is going in the front, then we better go around to the back. The band’s got to get in some way, right?”
“I think I’m having a panic attack,” I venture. “Yeah—”
“Nice try. It’s called an adrenaline rush. It’s because you’re excited at the prospect of doing something exciting,” Ramona whispers. “C’mon.”
The alley is dark. But when we make it through to the back, a black tour bus is parked a few feet away, with a couple of other cars parked beside it on the gravel lot. We come to a black metal door, but it’s one of the ones that doesn’t have a handle on the outside. Ramona twirls a curl. “OK. Let’s hang out here until the door opens. Then we just walk in. Calmly, like no big deal, but, like, quick enough that we can catch the door before it shuts.”
We wait. The longer we stand there, the more nervous I get.
“Why don’t we just go to a movie?” I ask, just as the door opens and a guy—tall, skinny, jeans sliding down his butt—emerges. Scratchy guitars mix with a heavy drum beat—the opener must already be on stage. Ramona grabs the door, turns to check that I’m right behind her and then we slip inside. The guy barely glances over as he puts a cigarette in his mouth. I press as close to Ramona as I can. We step into the hallway and let the door close behind us. And grin. Could it really be so easy?
“Not so fast.” This guy looms over us. He’s burly, hairy, all in black, clothes a size too small. I look up at his face with its deep lines and slowly back away. He blocks the hallway with one big arm. The bouncer could crush us both with one hand.
“Pippa?” I turn around to see who could possibly be calling my name. Dark brown hair sweeps over the top of his head, hanging just long enough to tuck behind his ears. His face is chiseled, his cheekbones jutting out more than I remember. That dimple. And those green eyes that are locked with mine.
Dylan McCutter. He shoves a box toward me and I grab it. “You guys are so late. Come on!” His eyes are wide. “Sorry about that,” Dylan says to the bouncer. “I guess they got locked out.”
The bouncer looks past us, already disinterested, and lets his arm drop.
We follow Dylan down the long dark hallway to the merch booth, where he unlocks the door and holds it open for us, taking the box back from me and giving me an amused smile. I open my mouth, unsure where to start.
Thank you.
You saved us.
What are you doing here?
You’re so hot.
He shakes his head. “Philadelphia Greene.” He sets the box down on a bunch of others on the floor, then points to a large cashbox under the counter. “Cashbox’s under the counter. Prices on the wall. You—” He nods at Ramona.
“Ramona,” she says, wide eyed.
“You write down the order in the notebook.” He slaps a notebook at Ramona’s chest.
“Um, OK?” Ramona says, looking at me.
I let my eyes run over him—his hair is longer, his face older, more angular, his shoulders broader, and the Ryder & Chase T-shirt he’s wearing is tight on his upper arms. Swoon.
“Hey, thanks,” I say, my voice catching.
“If we can get through this line before the band goes on, I’ll be thanking you. I’m understaffed tonight. All right, let’s get at it.” He nods to the guy in line who’s holding a twenty.
“Finally. Gray T-shirt with the logo.” He points at the wall behind our heads.
“Gray T-shirt with the logo!” I shout.
“Size!” Dylan hollers back.
“Eek right! What size?”
“Large.”
I look at the price on the bright yellow cardboard starburst pinned to the shirt on the wall and turn back to him. “Twenty dollars.”
He hands me the crumpled bill as Dylan tosses the shirt to me.
I fiddle with the cashbox but it won’t open. Ramona’s scrambling around the floor, yelling that she’s dropped her pen and people are barking orders and I want to crawl under the counter and hide from this insanity. But then Dylan’s crouching beside me, popping open the cashbox and our eyes meet and then he helps me back up and I’m taking the next order, and minutes later, I’m in a groove. We’re doing it. Selling the stuff. It’s so fast-paced I barely—barely—have time to think about what is going on. I’m in New York, at a concert I snuck into, selling T-shirts with Dylan McCutter. I wipe my palms, which are hot and sweaty, on my jeans, glad I wore a cute outfit. Even if it is all black.
Eventually the line clears and Dylan comes over to stand near me, his back against the wall. He kicks the toe of my shoe with his. “Whew. You did it. That was impressive.”
“And intense.”
“Yeah.” He grins as Ramona comes over to stand near us. “I’m Dylan, by the way. I guess I forgot to mention that.”
Ramona presses her lips together and looks from Dylan to me, and I know what she’s thinking because she knows everything there is to know about Dylan. From when we were together until when we broke up, and that epic text that I never replied to.
“So . . . what are you doing here?” Dylan says, his eyes twinkling. I try to remind myself that his eyes always twinkle. They’re twinkly eyes. That’s it. They’re not twinkling for me.
; “I always wanted to sell T-shirts?” I fiddle with the handle on the cashbox.
“Living the dream.”
I smile. “Actually, Ramona invited me to the show. She just forgot to tell me that we didn’t have tickets.”
He laughs.
“Luckily I know that deep down Pippa is wild and crazy.” Ramona hops over the counter, hollering that she’s going to the washroom.
Dylan turns back to me. “Wild and crazy?”
“Long story.”
“So what are you doing here, in New York?”
“I had this thing at Tisch—”
“So you got in. Of course you got in. Seriously, what can’t you do?”
“Actually . . .” I say, trying to get the truth out. But Dylan’s grabbing my shoulders and pulling me in for a hug.
“Come here.” His arms are around me and he feels so good and everything seems to stop—except my pounding heart, which I’m pretty sure Dylan can feel through my chest. Finally we pull apart. “Way to go.” He slaps me on the shoulder, like I’m his frat brother.
I clear my throat. “So, um, what about you?”
“Me? Harvard. The music program. And remember JJ? He’s at Boston College and Sig’s at UMass, so we’ve kind of gotten the band back together and are taking it mildly seriously. Setting up a few shows for the summer. I could let you know, if you’re around. If you wanna come sometime.”
I would love to see Dylan’s band but as if I’m just going to be around New York City. “Wow. So you guys are here for the summer? In New York?” I say.
“Nah. I’m just here for the week to work for my uncle. It’d be cool to stay the summer, but I’ve got to save up for school. I’ll be working the merch booth at Hanlan’s. It’s a Spalding summer for me.”
My heart is racing. Dylan is moving back to Spalding. Which, OK, I know it’s not because of me. But for the first time in days, I feel genuinely excited about something. Then I remember this is our first conversation in more than a year, and he probably has a girlfriend. Or has long moved on from even thinking about me. Or both.
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