The Dangerous Doors of Shannon Anderson

Chapter Nineteen

Once upon a time I had been thrilled to get mail, and never more so than when the letters came in those crisp white envelopes with the purple NYU logo stamped in the return address spot. I liked getting NYU mail even more than I liked getting the cards my grandma sent for every holiday with twenty dollar bills tucked inside. I had actually saved every promotional mailing, every brochure, and every letter I had ever gotten from them. My acceptance letter was still stuck to the fridge with a Washington Arch-shaped magnet. But times had changed, and as I stared down at the crisp white envelope that sat in the middle of the kitchen table with the purple NYU logo stamped in the return address spot, I thought I might throw up a little, and not from excitement.

I'd barely ventured out of my room in the week since graduation, let alone the house. Dad couldn't even coerce me into going to Jessa's grad party with the promise of twenty dollars. I could picture the whole thing: Jessa looking like a black Holly Golightly, complete with sophisticated up-do and little black dress; tables full of awards and honors and point shoes and baby pictures and college acceptance letters; a big white tent covering catered hors d'oeuvres, glass decanters of lemonade, iced tea, and cucumber water, miniature desserts, and the entirety of Jessa's massive family. She wouldn't miss me.

My own party - which was just going to be a fancy dinner out with Jessa, Tucker, my parents, and Grampy - had been canceled at my request since a Congratulations on Managing to Not Graduate High School Even Though All You Had to Do At This Point Was Show Up celebration seemed kind of inappropriate. So between that and my disinterest in anything that wasn't horrible reality television, Dad was beginning to think I was depressed or something. Well, if failing high school, becoming addicted to unmentionably atrocious TV shows, and contemplating PB&J suicide signaled depression, then his suspicion was spot-on.

Really, I felt more adrift than sad, like my ship had sunk and I was floating in an inflatable lifeboat on the Ocean of the Unknown - and not the exciting, threshold-of-life unknown that Jessa had talked about in her graduation speech. My dinky boat was taking on the murky waters of massive mistakes, while I was wrapped up in the impenetrable fog of unforeseeable consequences. And if I wasn't careful, it would swallow me right up.

The only time I felt more anchored than adrift was late at night, after Dad and Aidan had gone to bed, when I could go inside my books. Exploring stories made me feel present, like I was actually living and not just existing. Like my life had a purpose, and that purpose was adventure. My doors were the only way I could shake the numbness that overcame me as I wasted my days in front of the TV, the only reason I hadn't completely lost my mind as it cycled incessantly through the potential ramifications of missing my exams, each scenario a thousand times more bleak than the one I had inflicted on myself the day before.

In my week of hermit by day, literary Christopher Columbus by night, I'd found that Treasure Island wasn't nearly as interesting as New Switzerland, Dorothy's slippers were silver, not ruby, and that it was best not to visit any of Grimm's Fairy Tales unless you were in the mood for a fair amount of bloodshed.

Even with all these other worlds at my disposal, I still visited New Switzerland once a night. Fritz had fashioned a whistle for me out of sugar cane, so whenever I "came ashore" I could blow it and call for him. He'd taken me all over the island so that I could taste the best sugar cane fresh from Flamingo Marsh, swim in Safety Bay with the lobsters and ducks, and see all his best hunting spots from the top of Prospect Hill. One evening he took me to a shore I'd never visited, handed me a small brass telescope, and directed my gaze to an island not far from the coast.

"Whale Island," he said. "Do you see the rotting carcass?"

I could have done without seeing the rotting carcass, but it was too late for that.

"Father, my brothers and I carved off all the blubber and returned it to the mainland to use for oil. We even sampled a bit of the tongue, but it was horrid stuff."

I found Fritz' resourcefulness and sense of adventure charming, and the rest of him really nice to look at, but his zeal for dead animals was still kind of alarming.

But I wasn't in New Switzerland now, exploring wild forests or eating sugar cane with Fritz. I was in my kitchen, and there was a very sinister envelope on the table, taunting me with its purple NYU logo.

I grabbed it and tore it open, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Dear Ms. Anderson,

I am writing from the Office of Undergraduate Admissions at New York University because we recently received word from the college counseling office at St. Rita of Cascia Catholic High School that your grades from the second half of your senior year are not indicative of the same academic strength that you had illustrated when we initially admitted you, and your current academic profile is not the same one we considered when we offered you admission.

Please note that pending receipt of an explanation for the serious decline in your academic performance, your acceptance will either be rescinded or reinstated. Your letter of explanation can be submitted to the NYU Office of Undergraduate Admission at the following address:

665 Broadway, 11th Floor

New York, NY 10012

We sincerely hope that in the weeks to come you will reflect on your goals and renew your commitment to academic excellence. You certainly have the ability to excel at NYU, and we hope that you will rededicate yourself toward that end.

Regards,

William R. Larson

Dean of Admissions

I stood paralyzed in the middle of the kitchen, the letter clutched in my sweaty hands, the word "rescinded" ricocheting around my skull like a rogue pinball. Then, slowly, as if someone was turning the heavy crank to start the gear-filled contraption that was my brain, the cogs began to turn, and I had an idea. An idea so brilliant in its simplicity that I was surprised I hadn't thought of it immediately. I abandoned the letter and dashed up the stairs.

A/N: Shannon's got a plan! What do you think she's going to do? What would YOU do, if you were in her place? Let me know with a comment! As always, thank you for reading. :)