I like to say it started with Dara, but really it started with the letter. The letter in the big yellow envelope with Stanford stamped at the top. The one my mother laid in front of me like it was the body of Christ himself. I was the only one sitting down, the rest of them standing silently around the table. They held one collective breath as I pulled out a crisp white sheet of paper, even though we all knew as soon as my mother walked into the kitchen. It was a yes—they only send the big envelope if it’s a yes.
Do you know what no one ever tells you about that letter? As soon as you open it, you become the worst kind of celebrity. Your friends talk about you, not to you. Your teachers stop teaching. Your parents don’t ask about your grades anymore. Instead, they frame your acceptance letter and place it on the piano, removing your sister’s second-place prize in violin to make room. Your chamber music club cancels its next gig at the senior living center. You have hours of free time.
Trouble is, I had no idea what to do with it. I went to class, home, back to class, until one morning I woke up with a pulsing pain behind my eyes, a pressure that kept building like I was diving to the bottom of a bottomless pool. March passed in a haze.
