Page 82 of Better Than Gelato
The deadline to apply is tomorrow.
My heart starts pounding, and within seconds, my whole body is covered in sweat.I can’t pull this off. I need more time.Isa notices me hyperventilating on the couch and comes over.
“Cosa c’e che no va?” Isa asks. What’s wrong?
“I’ve got a big project due, and I’m not sure I’ll get it all done in time.”
Isa says, “You can do anything.”
That’s all she says, but the look in her eyes is so sincere and confident, I take a deep breath and channel my thoughts into an action plan.
I reach out to my two favorite professors from last year and ask for a letter of recommendation adding that I need it by tomorrow and promising all kinds of Italian treats in return.
Then I jump into the photo section. The application asks for six different photo samples: portrait, landscape, action, still life, architectural, and photojournalism. I don’t even know what the last one means.
I pull up the folder of all the photos I’ve taken since I’ve been here. I feel frantic, but Isa’s surprisingly calm presence next to me grounds me. I quiet my mind and take my time sorting through. I find my action shot right away. It’s the snowball fight in Switzerland. Paolo is running from Diego, and Carmen is sneaking up behind Jake.
“Just looking at that makes me feel cold,” Isa says, and I take it as a good sign.
I move on to landscapes and pull up three I took in Florence. With Isa’s help, I choose the best one and then go looking for a portrait.
I stumble onto a photo I don’t even remember taking. It’s Isa at the park. She’s holding a frog, and her eyes are wide, and her mouth is a little ‘O’ of surprise. Her delight and wonder jump off the page.
“That’s me!” Isa says pleased.
“It is,” I say. “Do you mind if I use it?”
“I think you’d better. It’s the best one.”
For the still life, I choose a photo of a caprese salad I ordered at a restaurant near Parco Sempionewith Jake. Bright red slices of tomato topped with creamy white chunks of mozzarella and dark green basil leaves. The whole thing is drizzled with a violet vinaigrette glaze. It makes my mouth water.
I’m feeling good. Four down, two to go. I check the time. We’ve got another hour and a half until Marco and Sofia come home. They’re laid back people, but I know they feel like they don’t get enough time with Isa, and I want to be there when they get home from work.
“Okay, Isa, we’ve got two more photos we need. Should we head downtown and find them?”
“Yes!” she says and leaps off the couch. Her enthusiasm pumps me up, and by the time we walk out the front door, we’re skipping and leaping and bounding to the bus stop. I’m doing the math in my head. Thirty minutes to get downtown, thirty minutes to take two amazing photos and then thirty minutes home. It’ll be tight, but we can do it.
Until we can’t. The bus makes it less than three blocks before dying in the middle of traffic. We wait thirty minutes for a mechanic to come and twenty more while he tries to fix it. At this point, Isa and I are the only ones still on the bus. Everyone else figured out a long time ago that this bus isn’t making it downtown today.
My shoulders slump with frustration and anxiety.
Maybe there are some amazing photos I missed when Isa and I looked through them?
But deep down, I know we would’ve spotted them if they were that good. And I can’t submit photos that aren’t good. I’ve got one shot at this.
“It will be okay,” Isa says.
“Of course it will,” I say. But I’m lying to make her feel good. Inside, I’m filled with doubt.
After dinner I call Jake. I’m euphoric at being so close to my dream and panicked I won’t get my application in on time. My words come out fast and crazy like a squirrel who’s had an espresso and is trying to explain quantum physics.
“Hold on, I want to make sure I have this right,” Jake says. “Your parents are selling the dry-cleaning business?”
“Yes!”
“And you get to be a photographer?”
“Yes!”
