Conventionally Yours (True Colors 1) - Page 8

“Food looks good. Thank you.” Weekends were one of the rare times they cooked big meals together, and growing up, we’d anticipated the Saturday bounty like a mini-Hanukkah.

“It’s that challah I made when Rebecca was home on spring break,” Mimi enthused. The mention of my genius older sister, who was in her final year at Harvard Med, made my jaw ache. But Mimi was undaunted as she served us all generous portions of the egg casserole and sides of turkey sausage and fruit. “Thought it might be a nice treat as we head into the end of the semester rush.”

“Yeah. Lots of grading for you?” I was intent on keeping the focus off me as long as possible.

“Well, lots of grading for the teaching assistants.” Mimi laughed lightly. A biochemist, she was a long-time faculty member at the university—one who brought in more than her share of grant funding for her groundbreaking research. “And you? Lots of papers due?”

Here we go. “Some. It’s a light term.”

“Well, let me know if you need me to look anything over.” Mimi might be one of the busiest faculty members, but she’d always made time for us kids, everything from homework to heartbreak.

“And don’t forget about the writing center,” Mom added.

“Got it.” Writing wasn’t my strong point, but my classes for the postbachelor certificate program were notoriously soft, most students having done what I’d intended to do—use the program as a stepping-stone toward other graduate programs. A number of students were in my same boat, having missed out on acceptance letters senior year and going for a second try at the programs they’d really wanted. But even knowing that I wasn’t alone didn’t make my situation any easier to stomach.

“Alden. Are you taking exams seriously?” Eyes narrowing, Mom set her fork aside to lean forward as she warmed to her favorite topic—how to fix my life. “It’s past time we discuss your future beyond this year.”

“Is it?” I groaned, the couple of bites of casserole I’d managed turning to glue in my stomach.

“We know you’re disappointed.” Mimi’s kind eyes were full of sympathy, but there was also a resignation there that made me want to squirm. This was high school all over again, them bound and determined to figure out why I was fine academically and floundering socially. The endless pressure to add extracurriculars and pursue prestigious colleges like Gracehaven. Me never feeling quite good enough, letting them down over and over.

Disappointed didn’t begin to cover it. Disappointed was last year, when the first wave of rejections for my medical school applications had come in. But everyone had said to try again, to spread my search wider, to be more flexible. Do this certificate, work even harder, get better references. And be patient.

This? The feeling after all that had failed, after there wasn’t a single acceptance, as even the chances of being waitlisted dwindled to nothing, was devastation. Disappointment was something I knew how to navigate, but this emptiness inside me was on a scale that I hadn’t yet figured out how to cope with.

“You’ve got options though.” Mom held up her hand, ticking them off on her well-manicured fingers. “You can finish the certificate program, do the second year focusing on health administration. Or transition to an MBA.”

“A PhD program is also still a possibility,” Mimi added. “Especially with your strong grades. With an undergrad in math and minors in biology and chemistry, you’re well set for any number of options.”

Ah. Options. The moms were huge on plans of action and choosing acceptable options. But no one wanted to hear about the option I really wanted, which was to play Odyssey until I forgot that we’d ever dreamed of me being a doctor. But I didn’t say that, just nodded and forced myself to take another bite to buy myself time.

“I do wish you’d written your entrance statement on being neurodiverse. I really think it would have helped.” Mom shook her head.

“Yes, embracing your differences and challenges would have shed a better light on your résumé,” Mimi agreed.

“So say my mothers,” I groaned. “And when not even medical professionals can agree—”

“Which is what you could write about.” Mom always acted like the parade of experts they’d dragged me to in junior high and high school were a fun field trip, a life-enrichment experience, and they both had zero problem bringing it up around other people. I, on the other hand, didn’t much care for public airing of my issues—and really didn’t like remembering their quest to fix me, unable to understand why things were so much harder for me than my older sisters, who had glided through school and landed in top medical programs with almost balletic ease.

“It’s too late now, anyway.” I did not want to rehash my shortcomings all morning. At least they weren’t dredging up how many times I’d taken the MCAT entrance exams and all the money involved in the tests and application fees and study courses. I had the grades, sure, but those tests. I never failed to freeze up. “I’m…weighing my options.”

Tags: Annabeth Albert True Colors Romance
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