For Us (The Girl I Loved Duet 2)
5
Amber
Past
I feel like I’ve been waiting for hours for them to call my name, even though it hasn’t been. It feels like that because we got here early and I’ve watched at least ten other kids get called in and then come out. All artsy kids like me. I’ve gone into the bathroom three times just to make sure that I look okay and not like a total crazy person. I’m sure mom would be teasing me if she didn’t already know that I was crazy nervous.
All the fidgeting I would normally do, I can’t. I can’t pull my sleeves down over my hands cause that will mess up and wrinkle my shirt. I can’t bite my fingernails because of the shiny clear manicure I got before coming down. I can’t scream and cry like a toddler because I’m in a room full of strangers. Okay, so I wouldn’t normally scream and cry but I’m nervous enough that I’m tempted.
After the car ride where all I thought about was how I didn’t want to be in New York, the nervousness took me a little by surprise. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. I’m here. It’s about to happen.
I glance up at the clock on the wall. I swear it’s standing still. Five more minutes and I’ll be called in. Holy shit. They’re going to notice how much I’m sweating. They’re not going to let me in because they’re afraid I’ll just leave sweat stains on everything. I’ll be known to the admissions team as ‘that sweaty one.’
Stop it, Amber. You’re being ridiculous.
As if my mother can sense it, she reaches over and places her hand on top of mine. “It’s going to go great.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Of course I do,” she says, winking. “I know everything.”
I laugh in spite of my nervousness, which is exactly what she’s aiming for.
A woman in a sharp suit steps out of one of the offices. “Amber Dwyer.”
My stomach plummets to my feet and I think that I’m going to pass out, but I pick up my folder and head toward her. I hear Mom’s whisper behind me. “Knock ’em dead!”
I was expecting something other than a fairly plain office that looks like every other office in the history of time. Maybe part of me expected there to be electrodes that I’d be hooked up to in order to make sure that I was giving the right answers. That it would look more like an interrogation cell than an office. But it’s just an office. Desk, two chairs in front of it, some degrees and photos hung on the wall.
The most notable part of the room is the view from the window down onto the New York City street. But we’re not that high up, so I wouldn’t label the view as impressive. The normality of it all calms me a little. I’m not totally together, but at least I’m not completely freaking out.
The woman closes the door behind me as I take a seat. “How are you today, Amber?” she asks.
Honesty. Always go with honesty. “Nervous.”
She chuckles. “You’re going to be fine. If you end up studying with us, I’m sure you’ll find that the interview is probably the easiest part of this degree.”
“I look forward to that.”
She smiles while she opens a plain folder in front of her. “I see that this is a deferred application from last year. What happened?”
“It was a medical deferment,” I swallow. “I have an arrhythmia. Bad enough that I had to have pacemaker surgery, physical therapy, and recovery.”
“Wow,” her eyes go wide. “They mentioned it was a medical deferment but not the actual problem. How are you feeling now?”
“Really good. I’m eager to be at school and doing something besides just worrying about my heart. But I have my current medical records with me,” I say, opening my own folder and handing her the papers. “Along with a signed statement from my medical team that I’m healthy.”
She takes the papers and glances over them. “Thank you. I asked how you’re feeling because our program is strenuous. Any degree in the arts is, but it’s long hours and lots of work. Are you sure you’re ready to take that on?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I was ready last year because this is what I want to do. And even though I’m really grateful that I’m alive and okay, I’m desperate to get back to doing what I love.”
She smiles. “Okay, so tell me why you want to direct and more importantly, why you want to study at NYU to get there.”
This, I can do. I take a deep breath and launch into the rehearsed speech that I’ve prepared—the one that I kept reciting in the car. But I’m suddenly making edits on the fly about how much I want to do this, and they’re true. This version of the speech is more passionate, because now that I’m here, I can once again taste the creative freedom that this will bring, and I want that. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. Well, almost.