any institution of medical
learning, after careful consideration, your name was not among
those selected for acceptance to next year's class. However, since
your scores were ranked within the top one hundred, your name has
been placed on the waiting list. This office will inform you
immediately of any change in your status as it occurs. If you do
not wish your name placed on the wait list, please inform the
Admissions Office immediately.
There was another paragraph but Quinn
couldn't bring herself to read it. Maybe later. Not now. Her vision
blurred. She blinked to clear it. She fought the urge to ball up
the letter and envelope and shove them back into the mailbox, or
better yet, hurl them into the road. But that wouldn't do. She'd
turned twenty-two last month. She was supposed to be an
adult.
Biting back the sob that swelled in
her chest, Quinn retrieved the rest of the mail from the box and
forced her wobbly legs to walk her back toward the
house.
What am I going to
do?
She felt dizzy,
half-panicked as her rubbery knees threatened to collapse with each
step. All those bleary nights of cramming, the cups of bitter black
coffee at four a.m., the endless sessions in the poisonous air of
the chemistry labs... hours, days, her whole life had been about becoming a
doctor. And suddenly it was all gone...in a few seconds—the time it
took to tear open an envelope...gone.
She stumbled but kept her balance,
kept walking. She clenched her teeth.
Get a grip,
Cleary.
She slowed her breathing, cleared her
head, brushed aside the panic.
Okay, she told herself. Bad news. The
worst. An awful setback. But there were other ways. Loans, and
maybe work-study programs. Maybe even the military—sell a piece of
her life to the Army or Navy for medical school tuition. She was
not going to give up. There had to be a way, and dammit, she'd find
it.
And besides, The Ingraham
hadn't slammed the door on her. She was on the waiting list. There
was still a chance. She'd call the Admissions Office and find out
how many were ahead of her. She'd call them every month—no,
every week . By
September when registration day rolled around, everyone in that
Admissions Office would know the name Quinn Cleary. And if any name
was going to be moved off the waiting list into acceptance, it was
going to be hers.
She quickened her stride. That was it.
She would not let this get her down. She wasn't beaten yet. One way
or another she was going to medical school.
As she stepped onto the front porch
she glanced up and saw her mother standing there, waiting for her.
Her mother's eyes were moist, her lips were trembling.
"Oh, Quinn."
She knows, Quinn thought. Does it show
that much?
Then her mother held out her arms to
her.
Quinn held back for an instant. She
was an adult, a woman now, she could handle this on her own. She
didn't need her mother cooing over her like a kid with a scraped
knee.
But somewhere inside she
wanted a hug, needed one. And the understanding, the shared pain, the sympathy she
saw in her mother's eyes tore something loose in Quinn. Inner walls
cracked and crumbled. Everything she had dammed up, the agony of
the months of waiting, the hurt, the crushing disappointment, the
fear and uncertainty about what was to come, all broke free. She
clung to her mother like a drowning child to a rock in the sea and
began to sob.
"Oh, Mom...what am I going to
go?"
She felt her mother's arms envelope
her and hold her tight and she cried harder, cried like she hadn't
since her dog Sneakers had died when she was ten years
old.
*
"You're secretly glad I was turned
down, aren't you?"
Quinn said it without rancor. She'd
pulled herself together and now she was sitting at the battered
kitchen table while Mom brewed them some tea.
Mom looked at her for a few seconds,
then turned back to the whistling kettle.
"Now why would you be saying such a
thing, Quinn, dear? Glad means I take some pleasure in your hurt. I
don't. Nothing could be farther from
learning, after careful consideration, your name was not among
those selected for acceptance to next year's class. However, since
your scores were ranked within the top one hundred, your name has
been placed on the waiting list. This office will inform you
immediately of any change in your status as it occurs. If you do
not wish your name placed on the wait list, please inform the
Admissions Office immediately.
There was another paragraph but Quinn
couldn't bring herself to read it. Maybe later. Not now. Her vision
blurred. She blinked to clear it. She fought the urge to ball up
the letter and envelope and shove them back into the mailbox, or
better yet, hurl them into the road. But that wouldn't do. She'd
turned twenty-two last month. She was supposed to be an
adult.
Biting back the sob that swelled in
her chest, Quinn retrieved the rest of the mail from the box and
forced her wobbly legs to walk her back toward the
house.
What am I going to
do?
She felt dizzy,
half-panicked as her rubbery knees threatened to collapse with each
step. All those bleary nights of cramming, the cups of bitter black
coffee at four a.m., the endless sessions in the poisonous air of
the chemistry labs... hours, days, her whole life had been about becoming a
doctor. And suddenly it was all gone...in a few seconds—the time it
took to tear open an envelope...gone.
She stumbled but kept her balance,
kept walking. She clenched her teeth.
Get a grip,
Cleary.
She slowed her breathing, cleared her
head, brushed aside the panic.
Okay, she told herself. Bad news. The
worst. An awful setback. But there were other ways. Loans, and
maybe work-study programs. Maybe even the military—sell a piece of
her life to the Army or Navy for medical school tuition. She was
not going to give up. There had to be a way, and dammit, she'd find
it.
And besides, The Ingraham
hadn't slammed the door on her. She was on the waiting list. There
was still a chance. She'd call the Admissions Office and find out
how many were ahead of her. She'd call them every month—no,
every week . By
September when registration day rolled around, everyone in that
Admissions Office would know the name Quinn Cleary. And if any name
was going to be moved off the waiting list into acceptance, it was
going to be hers.
She quickened her stride. That was it.
She would not let this get her down. She wasn't beaten yet. One way
or another she was going to medical school.
As she stepped onto the front porch
she glanced up and saw her mother standing there, waiting for her.
Her mother's eyes were moist, her lips were trembling.
"Oh, Quinn."
She knows, Quinn thought. Does it show
that much?
Then her mother held out her arms to
her.
Quinn held back for an instant. She
was an adult, a woman now, she could handle this on her own. She
didn't need her mother cooing over her like a kid with a scraped
knee.
But somewhere inside she
wanted a hug, needed one. And the understanding, the shared pain, the sympathy she
saw in her mother's eyes tore something loose in Quinn. Inner walls
cracked and crumbled. Everything she had dammed up, the agony of
the months of waiting, the hurt, the crushing disappointment, the
fear and uncertainty about what was to come, all broke free. She
clung to her mother like a drowning child to a rock in the sea and
began to sob.
"Oh, Mom...what am I going to
go?"
She felt her mother's arms envelope
her and hold her tight and she cried harder, cried like she hadn't
since her dog Sneakers had died when she was ten years
old.
*
"You're secretly glad I was turned
down, aren't you?"
Quinn said it without rancor. She'd
pulled herself together and now she was sitting at the battered
kitchen table while Mom brewed them some tea.
Mom looked at her for a few seconds,
then turned back to the whistling kettle.
"Now why would you be saying such a
thing, Quinn, dear? Glad means I take some pleasure in your hurt. I
don't. Nothing could be farther from
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