I never fully expected to get in.
For two reasons.
One: it was a shit ton of money. A shit ton of money that I didn't have. Meaning I applied for a scholarship.
Which was arguably even harder to land.
Two: I was a transgender male. Applying to a school for boys.
Which was logical in all aspects. Except my best friend Molly had applied to an all-girls school and was turned down for the use of she/they pronouns.
Pretentious boarding schools were kind of assholes like that sometimes: thinking that by using two sets of pronouns, Molly deserved less of a chance to be a part of their student body.
It made me think that if even one transphobic bitch was on the board, they could bar me from acceptance.
Which was messed up.
And which threw me off track of reasons why I wanted to go to one in the first place.
Which, in turn, highly dampened my spirits.
••••
My dad tromped down the hallway, knocking on my door.
It creaked open in a horror movie-esque style, a spine chilling sound. A sound that I was eerily used to. It had been making that sound for years and we never bothered to fix it.
Like most days though, my nose was tucked into a book.
Words turned into pictures that I visualized in my mind's eye, a whole world that belonged to me and only to me.
Nobody else could see the world like that.
"Basil!" My dad half-spoke, half-shouted.
I still was only vaguely aware of his presence, eyes scanning over more and more words.
"Basil!" Full shout this time.
I rip my eyes up and away from creamy white pages, landing on his pajama-clad-coffee-cup-holding form. He was unshaved, and bags were heavy under his eyes. That's the downside of being a lawyer, I suppose.
But at least he was home more often these days, a previously unknown feat.
"This came for you." He hands me a letter.
White envelope, the color that envelopes are on a mostly regular basis.
It feels heavy in my hands even though I'm also highly aware that a gust of wind could blow it away easy peasy.
I think it's just heavy inside of me because whatever it says in this thin sheet holds the future of my education. Determines if I become a pretentious bitch, or if I go to a public high school and fall back into the shell of the nerdy extrovert I had been in middle school.
"Shit. Fuck. Shit fuck." I have approximately the mouth of a sailor, although my dad has never once called me out on it.
He just lets me curse as much as I want. Which I appreciate.
I don't think I could break that habit easily.
I nearly rip the whole letter in two, impatience sweeping through me in waves.
Mr. Basil Whitman,
It is our pleasure to inform you that a spot in our academy is set to be filled by you.
I don't feel the need to read any further beyond that. Which is ironic, since I am the reader in my family and amongst my friend group.
But the anxiety had set in, in dad as much as me, and the air in the room was thick.
"Holy fuck." Dad's eyes are set in a wide manner, studying me expectantly for a continuation of my outburst. "I got in!"
I haven't squealed in a long time. Maybe ever.
"Oh my gosh, Basil, I'm so proud of you kiddo!" He sets his mug down on the edge of my desk and rushes over to where I sit on the edge of my bed.
His arms wrap around me, and I can smell his pungent cologne. The cologne that will never wash off no matter how hard he tries.
It's his scent now. I associate it with him.
"Holy fuck." And then I find myself sobbing.
Sobbing for reasons that are unbeknownst to me, and that are undoubtedly so far beyond my grasp.
I set the letter down on my bed gently next to me, not wanting to get it wet.
And dad just stands there, watching me like I'm a weirdo.
And perhaps I am.
But I'm a weirdo who is going to Monarch Academy. And you can't stop me.
