Page 26 of Surfside Sisters

The day before the spring semester ended, Uma handed Keely a short story she’d carefully critiqued. Clipped to it was a brief note on her teacher’s pale blush cards.

See me after class.

Keely’s heart jumped a bit, but she reminded herself to stay cool. So many students at this college were writing brilliant books. Keely wouldn’t allow herself to hope for anything.

But by the time class was over and Keely gathered her notebooks and approached the front of the classroom, her heart was racing.

Today Uma wore what looked like a light summer quilt with holes in it for her neck and arms. It rippled fluidly as Uma came around her desk and smiled at Keely.

“Keely. I like your fiction. I believe you are the real thing. A writer.”

“Oh.” Keely went numb all over with shock.

“I have an idea.”

“Okay…”

“Have you heard of the Berkshire Writers’ Colony?”

“Yes…”

“They have a three-year MFA program connected to UMass Amherst. Students receive intensive one-on-one tutorials on their writing—plays, poetry, novels, whatever. Of all my students, you show the most promise by far. I advise you to apply.”

Keely felt her entire body flush with heat. “Oh. Well—thank you.” When Uma didn’t say anything else, Keely took a deep breath and added, “The thing is, I don’t have the money for grad school.”

Uma shrugged. “That’s not unusual. If you really want to go, you could get a full fellowship. I would give you a reference.” She smiled. “And they like me there.”

Keely flushed again. “That’s—that’s wonderful.”

“Good. So here’s what you should be doing now. GetTheNorton Anthology of Short Fiction. You don’t have to buy it, get it from the library. For the next two years, polish up some short stories. Send them out everywhere. I can give you a list of literary magazines. That should be your focus from now until senior year when you’ll apply to the workshop. You need to get a couple of short stories published, something to prove other people have read your stuff and like it.”

Keely nodded her head eagerly. “I’ll do that.”

“Sign up for this course for both semesters next year. I want to work with you.”

“I will. I’ll do it all. I’m so honored.” Keely’s voice trembled with emotion. “Thank you.”

—

Was this when Keely broke her bond with Isabelle?

She knew Isabelle wanted to be a published writer, too, but Keely didn’t tell her about the workshop.

Keely didn’t allow herself to feel guilty. That summer, Isabelle went with her parents to British Columbia. If Isabelle wanted to write, she certainly had time to, Keely reasoned. The little gnat of envy that had irritated her for years whenever she compared her hardworking life to Isabelle’s easy one began to hum in her heart. Keely mentally swatted it away. Keely hadthis, the chance to be a real writer.

Sebastian graduated from Amherst and went to live in Sweden with Ebba.

Keely cleaned houses. She sang while she cleaned. She awoke at five in the morning, drank huge cups of coffee, and wrote for two hours before she started work.

Tommy was on the island, too. Sometimes she ran into him at beach parties on the weekends. They smiled, talked about the latest news from Isabelle, and politely wandered off to talk with someone else.

Keely wrote and wrote. She sent short stories off to magazines and every kind of fiction website. Often she received only a brief, polite refusal. One or two editors took the time to write a personal note, telling her to keep writing.

At the end of August,storyshotaccepted one of her stories.

—

That October, Isabelle and Keely managed to steal an hour from classes to meet for coffee. Isabelle seemed more mature to Keely, which only made sense. They were juniors. Twenty-one years old. They had island friends who had two children by now.

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