The Dangerous Doors of Shannon Anderson

Chapter Thirty

By September, Jessa and Tucker had vanished off the face of my world to their respective institutions of higher learning, and I'd begun Senior Year Round Two at public school. It wasn't bad, really. Not wearing a uniform kind of sucked, actually, because I had to spend all this time trying to figure out what to wear in the morning. But the classes were easy and I just kept my head down. Except in drama, of course. Drama was easily the best part of this new school. St. Rita's drama department was pretty decent for what it was, but as a small private school whose primary focus was on core academic subjects, we didn't have a lot of resources or manpower. The drama department at my new school, on the other hand, was massive. They had their own auditorium and everything. And they were able to put on somewhat more controversial productions than the one's St. Rita's permitted. For instance, the fall musical this year was going to be Rent, which would never have even been a contender at my Catholic school, what with homosexuality being one of the Seven Deadly Sins and all.

It was only a few weeks in to the semester and I was feeling good about my chances of re-capturing NYU's heart. Having another legit production or two to add to my portfolio could only help me. Now I just had to nail the Common App and my artistic review. Again.

Of course, in keeping with the running theme in my life of "worst luck ever", the Common App essay questions had been revamped for this cycle for this first time in years, so I couldn't just recycle the stellar piece of writing (i.e. gush about my love for Donyale Werle) I'd submitted last time.

But then I read the questions, and I read the question that screamed redemption and totally reaffirmed my decision to try for Tisch a second time: Recount an incident or time when you experienced failure. How did it affect you, and what lessons did you learn?

My whole summer had been consumed by my failure to show up for those last few exams, failing said exams, failing to graduate high school, failing to retain my admission to NYU. I'd never failed so spectacularly in my life. This question was written for me. It was my opportunity to explain.

Of course, I'd have to explain in the form of a thickly veiled metaphor because I was pretty sure confessing to several weeks of seemingly hallucinatory literary adventures probably wouldn't do anything to help NYU's opinion of my mental stability, even at a place as deeply creative as Tisch. So I started brainstorming ideas that were more plausible than running away to the State Law Library, less absurd than purposeful poisoning by peanut oil, and easier to swallow than being struck by lightning and suddenly having access to hundreds of book universes via tiny magical doors.

In the end, I decided to try to be as honest as I could without sounding cuckoo. I didn't need to divulge the full details of why I'd missed my tests; that wasn't the important part of the question. The important part was How did it affect you, and what lessons did you learn? Keeping an aura of mystery around the actual circumstances of my failure might even make for a more compelling essay. I liked this plan. It was a good plan.

I had 650 words to convince NYU to look past my academic transgressions and to show them that I was an even stronger candidate than I was last year because of my demonstrated ability to grow and learn from my experiences. This was gold. I opened a fresh blank document on my computer and wrote.

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Recount an incident or time when you experienced failure. How did it affect you, and what lessons did you learn?