(Now) Savannah: The Apology

"Seriously?" I asked Kendra, rolling my eyes at her and huffing out a frustrated breath.  I was beyond irritated that she had just asked me if I'd be able to leave Olivia and Brody alone at the wedding.  "What do you think I am, an immature child?"

"Sometimes, yes," Kendra replied evenly.  "It's my wedding, Savannah.  The last thing I need is a scene.  And if you're the cause of it, how will that look?  You're a bridesmaid."

"No one there cares about me anyway," I muttered.  I sounded like a snotty, spoiled brat, but I didn't even care.

Kendra rolled her eyes.  "You should try apologizing then."

I'd had just about enough of this.  "Apologizing for what?  I didn't know that everything would happen."

She just looked at me pointedly.  It was clear she didn't believe that at all.  I glared back at her.  Kendra was supposed to be one of my best friends, but now I didn't even get invited over when she had people at her house, because Brody and Olivia got their stupid little feelings hurt.

"Look," Kendra said, her voice a bit gentler now, "They're happy now.  If you could just apologize and stay out of their relationship, maybe people would be okay with you coming back and hanging out sometimes." 

"Whatever, I'll think about it," I responded, before changing the subject.  And I did think about it.  I thought about how sorry I wasn't.  It's not my fault their budding relationship couldn't survive a short trip to Miami.  And anyway, it didn't seem like Olivia had even been too broken up about it.  She certainly didn't waste any time moving on, from what I heard.

But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was pretty miserable since the happy couple had gotten back together and that fucking stupid bitch Allie had ratted me out.  (She was going to pay for that, by the way.)  I no longer had Allie, and I couldn't hang out with Kendra most of the time.  No one else really liked me in that stupid little group, but they tolerated me at least, and it was worth it to see Brody.

So a week later, I walked into the bar where they were all doing their stupid happy hour and scanned the tables.  I spotted Kendra and walked over.  I needed to tell her that I wasn't able to get the Friday of the rehearsal dinner off.  she already knew I probably couldn't, so I could have just called her, but I needed an excuse to run into Olivia and Brody.  I cringed inwardly at the thought of them thinking that I wanted to apologize to them, but that was what manipulation was all about....letting other people think they have the upper hand.

I sat down and filled Kendra in, and we chatted for a few minutes.  I said hi to Alex and Lauren and Christian, but neither Olivia nor Brody were there.  I waited for close to 15 minutes but then I couldn't stick around any longer without looking suspicious.  I walked out, irritated that I had wasted my time.

***

I hate weddings.  But this wedding was giving me an excuse to stare at Brody in a tux, so it was probably the best wedding I've ever been to.  I frowned when I saw Olivia, Lauren, Kinsley, and some guy walk over towards him.   I felt a huge stab of jealousy when I watched Brody's eyes travel appreciatively up and down Olivia's body, and a second stab when he kissed her, briefly but tenderly.

My teeth ground on their own as I watched them.  Everything about their body language screamed that they were in love, from the way she leaned in to beam up at him to his hand resting lightly on her hip, where it had been since the second she was within his reach.  It was a vaguely possessive gesture, as if he was worried that everyone else would appreciate her dress as much as he seemed to (it was actually a really great dress, but she ruined it with her cheap-looking shoes). 

"Savannah!"  I turned, snapping out of my jealous daze.  Kendra's sister, Nikki, was looking at me impatiently.  "We need to go.  What are you even looking at?"

"Nothing important," I muttered, following after her.

The wedding was nice enough, but it was hard to pay attention standing in the stupidly uncomfortable shoes that Kendra made us wear.  I guess some people can't afford to pay a lot for shoes, but I think it's worth it so you don't feel like you're standing on broken glass after 15 minutes.  But of course, no one asked me.

I was seated at a table with a bunch of acquaintances from college, and dinner was painfully boring and uncomfortable.   I humored one of the guys who was blatantly hitting on me, because it helped me pass the time.  The whole time, I kept one eye on the table that contained Brody and Olivia.  I was irritated with myself for caring so much, but I thought maybe I could catch them at a good time and throw out my apology.

My chance came when I saw them walk out onto the patio together, a couple hours after dinner.  I hastily excused myself from...Chris?  Craig?  I can't even remember.  Anyway, I stepped quickly out onto the patio behind them, rehearsing my apology in my head.

Liv was hostile right off the bat, which surprised me.  I honestly didn't think she had it in her.  It threw off my plan, which left me a little irritated.  But I was even more surprised by Brody's response.  Even though his voice was calm, I could tell he was pissed and didn't want anything to do with my apology.

I got annoyed really quickly at their united self-righteous insistence that I was out to ruin people's lives, one unsuspecting victim at a time.  Could they be any more dramatic?  It was almost as bad as listening to Mother rant about how the poor people are responsible for all the bad things in the world. I lost my cool pretty quickly, and I knew this wasn't going to work.  So when Brody told me to leave, I was happy to.

I nearly ran over one of Kendra's cousins or something, and then I walked right into Chris/Craig/whoever as I came back in.  He nearly spilled his drink but quickly recovered to walk with me towards the bar.  I patronized him for about one and a half more drinks, and then I left abruptly for the dance floor.  I danced with some of the other wedding party members, and then everything after that is a little bit blurry.

I woke up in my hotel room, still in my bridesmaid dress.  My head was sore from sleeping on the bobby pins that were shoved into my scalp.  As I sat up, I realized I even still had one stupid, uncomfortable shoe on.  I shook it off and quickly laid back down.  The last time I had been this hungover was at Brody's cabin over the 4th of July weekend.

I looked at the clock, and saw that it was only a little after 8.  I needed to be down at brunch at 10.  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to piece together the night.  I remembered talking to Brody and Olivia, then dancing.  I remembered dancing with Kendra's brother, Nick...  The rest of the night came rushing back to me as soon as I remembered dancing with, and trying to kiss, Nick.  I groaned to myself.  Maybe I'd skip brunch.

I went back to sleep, but woke up to my phone trilling shrilly a bit later.  I dug it out of my clutch and answered.  "I don't care how awful you feel, don't even think about skipping brunch," came Kendra's sister's voice.

"I doubt anyone actually wants me there," I croaked.

"That's probably true," she agreed, "But you'll be there anyway."  Then she hung up.  Bossy bitch.  I hauled myself out of bed and into the shower.  After fighting the urge to throw up, and then to pass out, I managed to get clean.  I pulled on some clothes and choked down some aspirin and half a bottle of water.

I stuck to myself and kept my head down during brunch.  I didn't eat much and as soon as it was socially acceptable, I went up to my room to pack my stuff up so I could get the hell out of here.  I was just about to leave when someone knocked on my door.

I pulled it open and saw Kendra standing there.  Thinking fast, I smiled and said, "Happy first full day of being a married lady!"

She glared and me and shouldered her way into the room, shoving the door shut behind her.  Shit.  "What in the fuck is your problem?" she snapped.  I forced myself to keep my face neutral.  Kendra hardly ever swore.

"Umm...." I offered weakly.

"Yeah.  I'd be speechless too if I were you.  You said you could behave.  And then you went and caused conflict with Olivia and Brody, tried to kiss my brother, and threw up all over the floor.  So fucking classy, Savannah."

"You're the one that told me I should apologize to Olivia and Brody!" I protested.

Kendra just stared at me for several seconds.  "Are you serious?  I didn't mean at my wedding.  And it didn't seem like a very effective apology."  She paused, waiting for me to defend myself.  But if there's one thing I learned growing up with Mother, it's when to keep my mouth shut.  This was a good time for that.  Eventually Kendra sighed.  "Everyone else is right.  I just kept giving you the benefit of the doubt but I'm done.  This friendship is done, Savannah.  The first thing you should have done when you opened that door was apologize, but all you can do is try to blame it on me."  And with that, she turned and walked out.

I sat down on the bed, fighting the urge to spit a nasty name after her.  I considered her final words.  Apologizing hadn't even occurred to me.  I thought about that for a couple minutes.  For some people, apologizing was an automatic thing.  But in my world, it just didn't happen.  Growing up in my home, apologizing seemed more like a sign of weakness than something you were supposed to do.  I thought a little longer, and realized that the only person I could think of ever apologizing to me was Brody.  And I had been so caught off guard when he had done it, so long ago, that I had reacted with hostility.

I sighed and grabbed my bag.  I wasn't fully convinced that Kendra was done with me.  She just needed a break.  In the meantime, maybe I can let Allie apologize for ratting me out.  Keep your enemies closer, right? 

(Then) Savannah

Eyes on Cornell Part 3

December

I walked into the house after school and dropped my bag in the middle of the floor.  It really never got old.  I went into the kitchen for a snack and saw Mother and Daddy sitting stiffly at the kitchen table.  "Hi," I said, ignoring the weird looks they were giving me.  I had no idea why they were sitting there.  We never sit at the kitchen table.  Only poor people sit at a kitchen table.

"Savannah," Mother said, in a strained voice.  It was the voice she used when she wanted to yell but wouldn't, because people who Maintain Appearances don't yell.

"What?" I asked, not turning from the fridge, where I was digging for an apple.

"Please come sit down," Daddy said stiffly.  Now I was a little nervous.  I abandoned my quest for the perfect apple and walked over to the table.  I sat and stared from Mother to Daddy.

"What?" I asked again.  Silently, my mom pushed an opened envelope and letter my way.  "What is it?" I asked.  Then I saw the Cornell letterhead.  "You opened my mail?"

"It's a good thing we did," Daddy said firmly.  I pulled the letter to me, butterflies dancing in my stomach.  The butterflies quickly turned to large lead weights that settled at the bottom as I read.  "...regret to inform you that due to the plagiarism in your personal statement, your application will not be considered, and applications made in subsequent years will be unable to be considered as well.  This decision is not able to be appealed."

My mouth hung open as I read the sentences over and over.  There was more, but it didn't matter.  I looked up at Mother and Daddy.  "This is a mistake!" I exclaimed, my voice rising in volume and pitch.  It earned me a disapproving look from Mother, but I continued, getting closer and closer to squeaks.  "I didn't plagiarize!  I wrote my statement.  I worked so hard.  I worked on it for weeks!  Julia helped me edit it.  Julia..." I trailed off as a thought occurred to me.  I remembered what Julia had said about my personal statement.


***

I opened the email from her, my hand shaking with nerves.  Did she hate it?  Was it awful?  I read carefully.  "Savannah, your statement is good!  I made a few small changes.  I also added a paragraph at the end that nicely sums everything up and will make the readers think a little.  If you hate it, feel free to take it out, but I think that it helps bring it from a really good statement to an amazing one.  Let me know if you have questions about the changes!"

I opened the document next, looking at the changes she'd made.  She was right about the last paragraph.  It really pulled everything together, and it was good.  It didn't sound exactly like my writing, but I liked it, so I decided to keep it.

***

"Shit!" I shrieked.

"Savannah Lynn," Mother admonished, but I was already racing out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room.  I pushed the button to start my computer.   With shaking hands, I opened the personal statement document.  I copied the last paragraph and pasted it into Yahoo search.  When I hit Enter, my screen was immediately filled with exact matches.  Panic gripped me.  Why hadn't I searched it?  Why had I trusted her?  "Trust no one" is pretty much unwritten rule number one of Maintaining Appearances.

The panic increased as I realized I had used the same essay with some small changes for Penn State and Purdue.  I began to cry, forgetting that my parents were waiting for me downstairs, probably completely irritated at my sudden outburst and flight from the room.  I got up and turned the lock on the doorknob, then threw myself on my bed.  I was sobbing uncontrollably now.

30 minutes later, the panic had subsided to numbness, and I lay on my bed, curled in a ball.  I was no longer crying, just staring at the wall.  A knock sounded at my door. 

"Savannah?  Can I come in?" Daddy's voice was gentle.  I didn't respond.  "Savannah," he continued, undeterred.  "We can fix this.  If you really want to go to Cornell, I can call--"

"NO!!  I don't want you to fix this!" I wailed. 

"I just wish you would have told us, sweetheart."  Ha, so they could talk me out of it before I bothered applying, I'm sure.  I was silent.  "Okay, well, we can talk more later.  Maria says dinner will be ready in 15 minutes."

"I'm not hungry," I said.

I didn't go down to dinner.  I didn't go down for breakfast the next morning.  I was thankful it was Saturday, because I wouldn't have to go to school.  I laid in bed, wallowing, until a gentle knock sounded at my door around 11:30.  I wasn't going to answer, but then a soft voice followed.

"Savannah?  It's Maria.  I brought you a sandwich.  You must eat, love." I dragged myself out of bed and cracked the door open.  Our cook and housekeeper Maria stood there, promised sandwich in hand.  "Let me in, love," she prodded gently.  I pulled the door open and she stepped in.  She closed it behind her and handed me the plate with the sandwich.  She sat on my bed as I ate.  When I finished, she took the plate and set it on my desk.   Then she pulled me into a hug.  The tears came again, and I sobbed into her shoulder as she stroked my hair and whispered soothing words to me.

When I stopped, she held me at arm's length.  "Tell me what happened," she directed.  I told her the whole story.  My plans to go far, far away for school.  Struggling with the statement, asking Julia for help.  Using the same, plagiarized statement at my top 3 schools.

"Did you apply anywhere else?" she asked kindly when I had finished.  I nodded miserably. 

"Cal Poly and Denver," I hiccuped.

With a decisive nod, she said, "Well, then I guess you are going to Denver, yes?"

With a wry, watery smile, I replied, "I guess I'm going to Denver."
 _______________________________

This wraps up this part of Savannah's story.  I'm sure there will be more on her later, but for now I'm going to move to other characters.  Thanks for reading!

(Then) Savannah

Eyes on Cornell Part 2

Julia had offered to help me with my essay as soon as I told her I was applying to Cornell, but unlike most of the people I knew, I wanted to try it on my own first.  Well, now I had tried and failed.  Not getting into Cornell wasn’t an option, so hopefully Julia would be able to help. 

She came over the next day and carefully read the part of my application that told me what to write.  Then she gave me some tips and talked me through my ideas.  She had me write down some notes, then told me to write and email it to her to edit when I was done.  I hugged her and thanked her for her help.  I actually had an idea of what to write now.

I did some writing and revising.  I couldn’t spend too long working on it at once without Mother getting suspicious, so I did the best could over the next several days.  I felt good about it the morning of the party, but decided to sit on it for a couple more days before sending it to Julia.

Mother helped me get ready for the party.  Or, rather, Mother stood in my bedroom and directed the people she had hired to help me get ready for the party.  I sat perfectly still like a good little doll as Mother’s hair artist (Seriously, lady? Hair Artist? Come on.) swept my long blonde hair into a perfect updo.  Then the makeup person, who must be new, painted my face.  Mother was horrified after and snapped something about drag queens.  Then she made the makeup person take it all off before she fired her and did my makeup herself. 

I regarded myself in the mirror when they were all finished fussing over me.  I looked like I could have been one of the developers’ third wives.  They go younger and younger each time, you know.  Mother frowned and regarded my arms, which were perfectly sculpted from hours of tennis practice.  “It’s a good thing we got something with a little bit of a sleeve at least,” she muttered, poking at invisible fat at the back of my arm.

“Don’t frown, mother.  Your plastic surgeon works hard enough already.”  It came out with the perfect amount of haughtiness.  It’s a tone that’s well known amongst the people that “Maintain Appearances.”  She quickly forced her face into a relaxed state, but it didn’t stop her from glaring at me.  You only need your eyes for that.

She ushered me out of my room and we walked downstairs.  I walked as easily in my 4 inch stiletto heels as I do barefoot (not that being barefoot is allowed, being barefoot is for poor people).  Another one of those things I’ve been forced to practice since I could walk. 

“You look beautiful, honey,” Daddy said, as I made my way down the stairs.

“Thank you, Daddy!” I chirped, kissing him on the cheek.  We waited patiently while Mother rattled off the rules.  I don’t know why she bothered.  The first thing Daddy did every time he took me to one of these things was give me a glass of champagne.  That was definitely against Mother’s rules. 

We arrived at the party venue, a chic museum that had been transformed, with a string quartet near the ticket window, a bar opposite, and tables lining the empty spaces.  The middle of the entrance hall now contained scale models of properties: houses, golf courses, even this very museum.  Because of course Daddy had done the flawless addition to this building 6 years ago.  One of his assistants stood near the models, answering questions politely. 

“Mr. Charles!” came a voice.  “And is this the Mrs. Charles?” The tall man took my hand and kissed it.  Who was this guy?  No one does that anymore.

Daddy chuckled.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bob.  This is my daughter Savannah.  Savannah, this is Bob Bradley.  Bob is an owner at Bradley and Smithson Development.”

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Bradley,” I simpered, with a coquettish smile.  Daddy nodded in approval. 

“Bob, please,” he said, smiling broadly.  And ogling.  Daddy never insisted anyone call him by first name.  He said it was a sign of weakness.  Mother would say that only poor people insist someone call them by their first name.   Mother makes a lot of assumptions about poor people, because I’m pretty sure she’s never met someone who actually qualifies as poor.

The rest of the evening was much of the same.  Daddy didn’t limit my champagne, and by the end of the night I was a little wobbly on my feet.  I also didn’t notice the lecherous stares as much. 

We left the party a little after 1, with Daddy insisting it was improper to keep a 17-year-old out any later, because nothing good happens after 1 am.  This statement, which he repeated over and over, was accompanied by a wink and a laugh.  I did my best to paste a smile on my face and not shudder.

In the car, I loosened the straps of my shoes and wiggled my toes, which had now been numb for roughly 4 hours.  They tingled slightly as the blood flowed back into them. 

“Another successful event,” Daddy muttered.  “Thank you, Savannah.”  I nodded silently. 

When I got home, I pulled off the dress and left it in a heap on the floor.  I took a long, steamy shower, scrubbing the makeup off my face and trying to exfoliate away the lingering memories of the stares and hungry smiles.  Each time I went to a party like this, I got a little more used to it.  A small part of me even started to enjoy the attention.  But after, I always felt gross.

The next day, I got up and re-read my personal statement.  I made a few small changes.  I still couldn’t bring myself to send it to Julia, so I told myself I’d give it one more day, then send it.  I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day.  I went to tennis practice, then to the beach with Jeff and some of his friends.  I told Mother I was shopping, of course.

As I read the statement one more time the next afternoon, I couldn’t find any changes to make.  I knew it was time to send it to Julia.  Summer was almost over, and I needed her to have plenty of time to look it over.  I was planning to apply early decision to Cornell and I wanted to get everything take care of as soon as possible. 

I took a deep breath and hit send.  I felt a rush of anxiety as the “Your message has been sent” dialogue popped up, but there wasn’t anything more I could do but wait to hear back from Julia.

(Then) Savannah

Author's Note:  This is the first post in my new Friday series.  It's a Savannah back story flashback, and it's told from her perspective.  Going forward, you'll be able to know if it's a flashback because it will say (Then) in the title.  A different character's perspective on the current storyline will say (Now).  The character will be denoted in the title too.  I hope it won't be confusing, but if it does get confusing, please let me know and I will figure out how to make it more clear.  I hope you enjoy the first part of Savannah's story!

And of course, credit where credit is due:  If it weren't for Marci at Love Life LA asking me to do a guest post on one of her character's backgrounds awhile back, I probably would not have thought of back-stories for my characters!  Check her blog out if you haven't already.
_____________________________________________________

 

Eyes on Cornell Part 1

I walked in the door after my tennis lesson and dropped my bag on the floor.  Right there, in the middle of the living room.  No one would say anything about it, but it gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction anyway. 

I moved into the kitchen, hoping for a snack.  But of course Mother was there, barking directions at people.  She looked at me with disdain.  “Savannah, aren’t you going to change?  And shower?”

“I just got home, mother.  I’m pretty sure the shower will be there for awhile.”  I opened the fridge, but I could feel her judgmental eyes on my back.  I grabbed a bottle of water instead of the leftover chicken I was eyeing and shut the door. 

“Your father called,” she said, when I was about to walk out of the kitchen.  I turned back. 

“Oh?” I prompted.

“He wants you to attend a party with him next week when he gets back.”  She looked at me critically.  “We’ll probably have to get you a new dress.  I don’t think you’ll fit in the navy one anymore.”  The comment was made casually, but it stung.  “We’ll go tomorrow.  We’ll find you something a little more grown-up than the navy one, anyway.”  With that, she turned and I was clearly dismissed. 

I walked out of the kitchen and back through the living room.  My bag was already gone, probably stashed safely away in the entry closet.  I trudged up the stairs to my room and got in the shower.  I wanted nothing more than to put on a pair of sweats, but I was probably causing Mother enough stress by needing a new dress, so I pulled a sundress out of my closet and shimmied into it. 

I flopped on my bed (flopping wasn’t allowed, but it certainly didn’t stop me) and tried not to think about my purpose at the party next week.   In a couple years, I’d be too old to be of much interest to the middle aged men that liked to ogle me as Daddy paraded me around.  At least all they did was ogle.  Ogle.  What a stupid word.

As the 17-year-old daughter of one of Orange County’s richest, most successful developers, I had very little purpose but to be ogled.  Seriously, who made up that word, anyway?  I had been created as a toy to dress up.  “Maintaining Appearances” is the only thing that matters in my parents’ world. 

The next day, I spent 3 painful hours shopping for a dress with Mother.  She rejected all of the choices pulled for me by the personal shoppers, then huffed about having to find something herself.  We walked out with a floor length black dress with a sweetheart neckline.  Its lace sleeves started just below the bust and went up over my shoulders, then down to the waist in back, leaving a deep V of bare skin showing.  Bronze stilettos and accessories complimented my blonde hair and tan skin, which I’m sure Mother will insist I get sprayed again before the party.  Can’t have tan lines from tennis practice showing.  Only poor people have tan lines. 

When we got home, Mother shoved the dress into one of the staffs’ hands and strode away.  I walked up to my room and turned on my computer.  I pulled up the essay I was working on for my Cornell application.  Not only did Cornell have the best Hospitality Management program in the US, but it was also in New York.  Do you have any idea how far away New York is from California?  My parents would have a cow, but all I would need to do was remind them of how much fun they would have telling all their inane, vapid friends about how their darling daughter was going to Cornell. 

I had been working my ass off to keep my grades at Ivy standards.  Luckily, part of “Maintaining Appearances” is having a well-rounded high school resume.  I attend an exclusive prep school (excuse me, Preparatory Academy) where I was president of the Italian club and National Honor Society, an associate editor of the yearbook, and treasurer of our school’s chapter of SADD.  I also had landed the lead role in the last 2 school plays and had my eye on the lead for the fall musical in my upcoming senior year, and I sat on Student Government.  Then, of course, there was tennis.  My school doesn’t have sports, but I play in the local club league, and I’m number 1 singles.  I also dutifully do my volunteer work: feeding the homeless in Chino (Mother fought that one), walking the dogs at the shelter, reading and singing to the old people at the nursing home.   All I have to do is not bomb my SATs.  If I can get to an interview, I’m sure I can charm the interviewer.  Charm is another essential ingredient for “Maintaining Appearances.”

Of course, I had backups.  Pennsylvania State, Purdue, Cal Poly, University of Denver—in that order.  Cal Poly is probably the only one that Daddy would approve of (can't have his little doll too far away, becoming corrupted by the outside world), but I had been manipulating him since I was old enough to speak full sentences, so I wasn’t too worried.  I just had to get in. 

My boyfriend Jeff had promised to help me study for the SATs.  He’s one of those annoying people that are perfectly brilliant but refuse to apply themselves to anything worthwhile.  Mother hated him right away. (“He goes to public school!” she had shrieked, as if it was the worst thing in the world.  Of course, only poor people go to public school, so to her, it probably was.)  Daddy was on the fence, but a few bats of my genetically perfect eyelashes had Daddy convincing Mother to tone it down.  It’s disgusting how easily I can manipulate him.  Sometimes I feel bad about it, but then I remember being paraded around galas and fundraisers and charity balls, and that kills the guilt straight away.

Daddy wasn’t even convinced of the need for me to apply to colleges at all.  He thought he’d just set me up with a son of one of his business partners and marry me off the second I graduated from high school.  Luckily, Mother was on my side for that one, but only because she thought I’d find better potential husbands in college, and being able to brag about all the worthy potential life partners throwing themselves at my feet was appealing to her.  Ah, the Mrs. Degree, alive and well in sunny Southern California!

I stared at the two paragraphs I had written so far in my personal statement.  I read through them and frowned.  I quickly stopped frowning, though, because wrinkles won’t get you anywhere in life.  I sighed (sighing is allowed, in fact, it’s encouraged—at least if you judge by how often Mother does it in a typical day) and deleted everything.  I had started and deleted this statement at least 17 times.  Finally, I picked up my phone.

“Hi, Julia!” I said cheerfully when she answered the phone.  My friend Julia was the editor of our school newspaper and founder and president of the Poetry Slam club.   “I’m ready to take you up on your offer to help me with my Cornell personal statement.”