Page 93 of Better Than Gelato
“Yeah.” I say. And then wait some more.
“Well, that was clearly our fault,” she says. “I am sorry about that.”
“So what can we do?”
“I’m afraid at this point, there’s not much to be done. The deadline has passed, and all the spots have been filled.”
Are you kidding me? This is how this ends?
“I followed the instructions and submitted my application by the deadline,” I say. I keep my voice calm, but rage is building in my chest and racing toward my mouth. “This is not fair.”
There’s a sympathetic noise from the other end of the phone then Lottie says, “Well, you can apply next year. And I’ll make sure we update the application page with the correct email.”
Oh, would you? How helpful.
I bite back a sarcastic reply and say, “Thank you, Lottie. I appreciate the additional information.”
I hang up. Then I walk into the kitchen, close the door, and yell every Italian swear word I know. A whole string of beautiful profanity gives voice to my fury. I see Isa’s head peek around the door. Her eyes are wide and I take a deep breath. I’d feel worse about swearing in front of a child, but I learned most of those words from her.
I slump onto the kitchen floor and fill Isa in on what I learned. Tears of frustration leak out of my eyes, and I brush them away, annoyed.
“But that’s not fair!” she says. “It was their mistake not yours.”
“I know. But Lottie says they already filled all the spots in the program.”
“Who’s Lottie?” Isa asks, and I realize I never told her the receptionist’s name.
Then I think,Who’s Lottie?I sit up straighter.Is she the one calling the shots in that place? Probably not. Is she the person that’s going to keep me from something I have dreamed about for years? Definitely not.
“You’re right, Isa,” I say. “We need to talk to the person in charge. And that is not Lottie.”
I get off the floor and march over to my laptop on the couch. I pull up my rejection email and look at the signature. Walter O’Brien, Department Chair. With Isa hovering over my shoulder I pull up the photography department faculty page and find him at the top. I copy his email address, paste it into a new email and start typing.
I explain everything. I tell him that I have dreamed of studying photography for years. I tell him I will accept not getting into their program if my application does not merit it, but I will not accept rejection because of an administrative error. I ask him, kindly but firmly, to please look at my photos and consider my application.
I attach all six of my photos and a link to my saved application. I read through it twice, translate it for Isa, and reject all of Isa’s suggestions of clever insults to include. Finally, I hit send.
I call Jake that night and tell him everything.
“I can’t believe it,” he says. As I’m retelling it, it does seem unbelievable.
“I guess they didn’t notice because all the other applicants dropped off their photos in person.”
“I’m really proud of you for fighting for this,” he says. His words feel like a hug.
“Thanks,” I say. “It was only because I was bullied into it by a six-year-old.”
“She is a wise and fierce six-year-old,” he says.
“Agreed.”
“So now you just have to wait for a response from the chair,” he says.
“And hope that he responds at all,” I add.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Against my wishes, June arrives. I wake up early and watch the sun settle on the world outside my window. Today is Isa’s last day of school. I can’t help thinking about that morning, a million years ago, when I brought her to school on her first day.
