“Good.” He nodded, pleased. “Glad to hear it.”
A week later, the first book arrived. Test Best: Preparing for the S.A.T., I think it was called, although in the months following he sent so many more it was hard to keep them all straight. Books about taking tests, writing powerful essays, making your application stand out. About picking a college, calculating your chances, making sure you had the right backup and safety school. One by one, they crowded out my novels and magazines, taking over the entire shelf to the point where it sagged in the middle. I wasn’t stupid. I knew that with all these words, bound between covers, he was building me a way out of Colby, one book at a time.
The thing was, even though I was a good student, the schools where he wanted me to apply—Dartmouth, Cornell, Columbia—were ones my guidance counselor hadn’t even suggested. Plus there was the question of money, always tight. “Don’t worry,” he assured me, whenever I got up the nerve to broach this subject. “Leave the finances to me. You just concentrate on getting in.”
It was a big promise, though, coming from someone who did not exactly have the best track record. This was something my mom, in particular, could not ignore. Our e-mail relationship was one thing; at least there, he was still at a distance, existing to me only, really, in cyberspace. But money and promises were real. As was the disappointment I’d feel if he wasn’t able to deliver.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,” she told me. “When I knew Joel he was a big talker, but not so big on delivering.”
“Mom, he was my age then,” I pointed out. “Would you want to be judged based on how you were at eighteen?”
“I didn’t really have a choice,” she said. “I had a child.”
Point taken. And I got where she was coming from. She’d done everything she could to make sure I didn’t have the same experience, on any level, that she did. Luckily, I had some people on my side.
“Stop worrying,” my grandmother said to her more than once, when I overheard them discussing this behind a door that was supposed to muffle their words. “He wants to get her there and pay for it, let him. You’ve done everything else.”
“I don’t want her to get let down,” my mom replied. “The whole idea of being a parent is your kid not repeating your mistakes.”
“People do change, Emily. He’s a grown man now,” my grandmother told her. “And anyway, no matter what happens, she has you and Rob. She’ll be fine.”
The books, essay prep, and hard work all paid off: I got into three of my top five schools, and my safety, East U, offered me a full ride. It wasn’t until the e-mail came from our first choice, Columbia, however, that I finally let myself exhale. The first thing I did was hit Compose and type in my father’s address.
Columbia, I wrote in the subject line. Then, below, without a greeting or closing, only, I got in. Then I hit Send.
I expected a quick response, as, like me, he checked his messages almost constantly. Instead, it was about five hours later that he wrote back. Great news, the e-mail said. Congratulations.
It wasn’t like he’d ever been that effusive in our exchanges. But I had expected a bit more excitement—or something—at this particular news. He’d written me pages about Huckleberry Finn. This was only three words.
I tried not to think about this, though, as I hit Reply and thanked him, saying I’d be sending along some links to financial and admissions stuff we needed to work out. No response. In fact, the next time I heard from him was three weeks later.
Emaline,
I am so sorry to have to tell you this, but due to unforseen circumstances, I will not be able to supplement your tuition to Columbia. It was always my hope and intention to help you, but some things have occurred that make it impossible. I hope you understand.
Supplement? I thought. Not only was the deal off, it had never been what I thought in the first place. Also, I couldn’t help but notice that the tone—distant, almost automated—sounded not unlike messages I’d received from the schools that had rejected me. All that was missing was a We regret to inform you.
So that was that. Columbia had been a long shot. I’d gotten there, and now it was being pulled away again. Sucker. To make matters worse, it was too late to apply for financial aid, which I’d assumed I wouldn’t need. And while we theoretically could have taken out a loan, all I could think of was my dad, who never bought anything on credit, paid his bills in full each month, and expected all of us to avoid debt with the same vigilance we did pedophiles and rabid animals. I could only imagine his face when I told him we’d need to borrow about as much as he’d make in a full year. Luckily, I didn’t have to. When he and my mom sat me down after dinner the next night and told me there was no way we could afford Columbia, I wasn’t surprised. After all, it had never been their promise.
So East U it was. I had a full ride, it was a good school: you didn’t have to have a degree to see it was a no-brainer. That night, I sat at my desk, looking at that full shelf of college prep books, all lined up in a row. Thanks to ongoing budget cuts, they numbered more than the entire collection on the subject in my school’s media center. Just as I thought this, I had a flash of my mom graduating eighteen years earlier, while I watched from my grandmother’s arms. How different our lives were, then and now. She’d wanted so much for me: the moon and more. But maybe, right now, the moon was enough.