Chelsey by Chelsey Shannon

Author:Chelsey Shannon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
ISBN: 9780757395956
Publisher: Health Communications, Inc.
Published: 2010-08-29T16:00:00+00:00

Adjustment

IN SPITE OF MY excitement for the SCPA interview, returning to Ohio wasn’t easy. On the drive home from the airport with my grandparents and aunt, I expounded upon all the things I’d learned and the experiences I’d had with great zeal, unwilling to show the anxiety and sadness I was feeling at the prospect of going to Aunt Chris’s condo instead of my house. When we pulled up to the condo complex I knew so well, my grandparents having lived there since my birth, I took a deep breath and lugged my suitcase upstairs, trying my best to be optimistic.

The room that had once been a spare bedroom and a place for my cousin Andrew to stay on occasion was now my bedroom, housing all my things. My cats had moved in and were anxious to see me. I slowly began unpacking my suitcase, trying to shake the sensation that I wasn’t home yet, that this was just a layover and I shouldn’t get too comfortable.

I tried not to dwell on my living situation as I prepared for my audition. On the big day, I dressed professionally in black dress pants, a white camisole, and a black blazer. I wore one of my mother’s gold necklaces around my neck and carried one of my father’s rings in my pocket. To me, this was more than just an attempt to get into a high school. Though I had backup plans, I didn’t accept any of them. “If you don’t get in here, you’re going to go to McAuley,” my aunt had said. I had nothing personal against McAuley High School, the all-girl alma mater of my mother and a few of my aunts, but in my heart, I didn’t feel it was the right place for me.

So for me, this interview was the only option. I didn’t know what I’d do if I didn’t get in. Though I hadn’t started writing seriously since earlier that year, I wanted SCPA with an intensity I was familiar with, and I wouldn’t let myself fail.

My grandfather drove me downtown, all the necessary materials in my hands and butterflies in my stomach. Though it was simple enough to gather some writing samples and send them to a woman I didn’t know—the creative writing teacher, Joy Fowler—it was quite another to sit with her face-to-face and explain why I felt I deserved to attend SCPA.

I checked in and waited for my turn to arrive. When it did, I acted with a cool professionalism that I hoped masked my true anxiety. But contrary to my notions, Dr. Joy wasn’t a mean woman who was bent on ripping me apart. She was a middle-aged, soft- but clear-spoken woman with pleasant hands and long, wavy hair the color of iron. She wore gold, half-moon glasses, a long, old-fashioned dress, and socks and Birkenstocks. Her eyes were hazel, contrasting against her olive skin and sleet-colored hair: they were sharp and quick, but simultaneously warm and empathetic. So I didn’t

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