Dear Diary, I'm Completely Lost

Time To Take Action

Dear Diary,

I’m lucky to have a best friend like Leslie. And I think she’s lucky to have me. We’re finding ourselves to be in the exact same situation as the other. We’re both dealing with a long-distance relationship. It feels a little easier, when you have someone who you can talk about it to.

I talked to my brother the same day he got to his college. It’s weird for him too, not having me around every corner. He’s lived with me his entire life. And there’s no way he’ll admit that he misses me, but I know he does. Otherwise he wouldn’t take the time to speak with me.

He’s loving his new school as much as Hunter. But sadly, they don’t have a Family Weekend there, like Yale does. So, I won’t be seeing my brother until Thanksgiving. He has classes until the end of October, and then, he has midterms.

Leslie is really sad about it. I think she secretly envies me for being able to see Hunter before Thanksgiving. But to be fair, he’s also left a month sooner than Aiden did.

My parents come back home on Friday, in the early hours of the morning. Despite trying to be as quiet as possible, they wake me up. And I’m sort of glad they do. I sleep a little better then, because I know I’m not alone anymore.

When I get up, I still feel like a train ran me over. It always messes me up, if I wake up in the middle of the night. My mom is downstairs, already preparing breakfast. I have no idea how she’s up after barely getting a few hours of sleep, and looks this cheerful.

“Morning, sweetheart. We came back a few hours ago,” she lets me know. I yawn, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Morning. I know, I heard you come in,” I let her know, yawning again as I sit behind the kitchen island, leaning my head on my hands. I can’t wait to sleep in tomorrow.

“Oh. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize we were this loud,” she says as she turns back around, pressing a button on the coffee machine. The sound it makes as it starts grinding the coffee, makes me feel the need to puncture my eardrums with a fork. I can’t wait to get home from school. And I didn’t even leave the house yet.

“You weren’t. I just wasn’t sleeping well,” I let her know once the coffee machine finally stops torturing me. When mom places a steaming cup of coffee in front of me, I forget about how annoyingly noisy our coffeemaker was just a few seconds ago. I could go over and kiss it, the moment I take a sip. “Ah. Thanks mom. This is perfect,” I tell her as I put the cup down.

“You’re welcome,” she responds, then turns around with a plate of freshly baked apple pancakes. Um. What did I do to deserve this? Am I missing something? “Your dad is still asleep. I’ll be taking you to school today,” she lets me know. Ah. Okay. But this is not the full story, is it? I think she has something to tell me, but doesn’t know how to say it.

“Thanks mom,” I mumble, glancing at her in a really cautious way. She grabs her own plate and joins me behind the kitchen island. We eat in complete silence, which I find even more strange than her, preparing a special breakfast. On a weekday. Without any birthdays in sight.

She doesn’t say anything, while we’re still at home, though. She lets me get ready in peace, then starts talking once we’re already driving. Okay, whatever she’s about to say must be really bad. She probably didn’t want to risk me, getting upset and waking dad up.

“Perrie, honey, have you thought about which college you want to apply to?” she wonders innocently, making me let out a long breath. Seriously? Like I don’t hear enough of this crap in school.

“No, mom. It’s September. I’ve barely even begun my senior year,” I reply in a little too defensive way. I know it’s too defensive, because it makes her inhale sharply. Uh-oh.

“You need to have a goal in mind. If you want to get into an Ivy League school, you have to make your application stand out. They won’t even consider you, if you don’t have any achievements to show!” she starts lecturing me.

“Oh, really? What makes you think I want to get into an Ivy League?” I say, just to shut her up. She doesn’t need to know that I intend to follow Hunter into New Haven. I don’t need another lecture about the fact that I don’t know what will happen in a year. I just don’t want to hear it.

She seems taken aback. “Well, I … I just thought … I thought you wanted to be closer to Hunter,” she remarks carefully. Now I’m the one inhaling sharply.

“Of course, I want to be closer to Hunter, mom. But let’s be real here, I don’t think I stand a chance at getting into an Ivy League school, let alone Yale! Like you emphasized so kindly, I have nothing to show them! Hunter has been to so many national scientific competitions, he’s been an athlete since elementary school and he’s able to charm a walking stick, if he puts his mind to it! I have none of the assets that he has!” I burst out, shaken because until a moment ago, I wasn’t even aware that this was all bottled up inside me.

My mom pulls over and sends me a stern look. “Listen to me very carefully, young lady. Firstly, I won’t have you talking about yourself in this way. Second of all, you have your own talents and I’m sure the people at Yale will be able to see them. But thirdly, you need to start nurturing them. Go grab some teachers by the sleeve, ask about competitions. Attend them. Volunteer at an animal shelter, I don’t know, do whatever interests you, but you have to act. If you don’t, no one will know how extraordinary you are,” she tells me, patting my shoulder in an encouraging way. “And know that I’m here to help you, whatever you need.”

I keep thinking about her words even as I’m already sitting in class, listening to Mr. Barnes, going on and on about the civil war. She’s right. I’m not really doing anything to make my application look good in any way. I know what I want to do with my life, I want to write. But how do I get into a writing competition? Is that even a thing?

I decide to try my luck with Mrs. Ramirez. She’s the English teacher, she surely knows about writing competitions, if there even are any, right?

I look for her during the next break, finding her in the teacher’s cabinet. She approaches me in her usual stern way, but the moment I mention what my unannounced visit is about, she completely changes course.

“You want to attend a writing competition? That’s great news, Miss Hughes. We have one right now, but I need to check the deadline. I hope we’re not too late to sign you up. Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” she starts chit-chatting with me like we’re old pals.

“Oh, I … I guess I just wasn’t aware that such competitions even existed. But please, if it’s not too much to ask, I would really like to go,” I tell her. The woman nods at me in what I decipher as a friendly way.

“Of course. I will check the deadline, then come to look for you so you can sign the application form. You are eighteen already, aren’t you?” she asks, making me nod in response. “Okay, good. You can sign it on your own, then. Do you have something written already? You need to submit a group of three poems, a fictional short story or an essay. Personal or academic, whatever you find suitable.”

I freeze at her question. I have literally nothing right now. I mean, I’m writing a book. But that’s a little too lengthy to apply in the short story category. And it’s unfinished. I have literally four chapters. “Uh … I’ll come up with something,” I find myself saying. She nods slowly, suddenly not seeming so pleased with me anymore.

“Alright. I’ll inform you of the deadline. And I’ll write down the link to the site, you have to submit your work through there. Make sure you state my name, because you need a teacher, vouching for you. Actually, when you have your story or whatever ready, bring it to me, so I can read it. Then I’ll help you with submitting it. Okay?” she tells me. I blink in surprise. The woman literally changes her mind within seconds.

“Okay. Thanks, Mrs. Ramirez.”