“The mind that is anxious about the future is miserable.” ~Marcus Seneca

Son of a bitch.

I throw the “Peaches’ Guide to Life” quote book towards the edge of my bedroom door and curse my mother for ever giving it to me. The black and red sequins fly off and the glitter shimmers into the carpet. I must have hurled that thing pretty good ‘cause now there’s a dent on the wood paneling. The Boys Are Stupid; Let’s Throw Rocks at Them postcard my so-called boyfriend gave me as a joke, comes loose and it’s barely hanging on by a string of spearmint gum.

“Inspirational” quotes my ass; they don’t help me a lick about the future. Especially the ones about writing which is the only thing I actually have some sort of talent in.

“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.”
“Being an author is like being in charge of your own personal insane asylum.”

Well, duh. Seriously. This book sucks. My life sucks. And I’m not feeling this way just because I got that letter from Red Kite Publishers—the publishing company I’ve worshipped since I read one of their Young Adult novels entitled, Buckles and Beads and Bows. Oh My!

Seriously, I have been working my ass off (well, for the most part) writing this YA novel since freshman year and it now it’s all crashing down. I’m starting to think I don’t have a future in anything. I collapse on my bed and count the little bumps in my ceiling. As I get to number 37, I take a deep breath and try to forget this horrible day.

It all started this afternoon when I came home during lunch period. The mailman comes around 12:30 and for three months, I raced home in my crappy yellow Volkswagen bug to check the mailbox. And today, the letter was waiting for me.

“I got it! I got it!” I tried to pull up my bedroom window to share the news with the rest of civilization. I “argh”ed, “grr”ed and said “Dang these stupid old windows” until it finally opened. I stuck my head out the window and yelled, “People of the world! Animals of the world! Flowers of the world! I got it!”

I kissed the envelope clutched in my hand, and blasted the Spotify station on my phone. Bruno Mars’ “Just the Way You Are,” one of those songs played during the previews of a sappy, romantic comedy, blared.

When you smile
The whole world stops and stares for a while
‘Cause you’re amazing
just the way you are

If only those damn lyrics were true.

I sat in my rocking chair (one of my favorite things that my dad gave me) and stared at the very professional-like envelope. At the top left corner, the little red kite flew above the return address. The envelope had a rough, grainy texture like the cardstock from my mom’s scrapbooks. Wow, this publishing company really goes all the way. This was definitely a “Dear Diary” moment–if I actually had a diary. A simple piece of paper that could change my life. My best friend Bryan said the same thing when we both got accepted to NYU.

I took a deep breath. Thank God I didn’t eat Mom’s half-burnt grilled cheese sandwiches, ‘cause I would’ve been in serious trouble. I slid my finger carefully under the flap. The licky-part of the envelope almost smelled like mint. Ah, how classy.

I smiled as I peeked inside. It was thick. Good sign, right? Like getting into college–if the envelope is fat, it means you’re in. Totally learned that from a “Gilmore Girls” episode.

I took out all the papers and put them against my chest. Everything smelled of New York. Big corporate office. Business suits. Coffee. iPads…

“Ow!” I sucked my pointer finger. “Paper cut!”

The room was suddenly silent. I lifted the stack of papers and peeked but after “Dear Ms. Templeton,” I put the papers back against my chest. This isn’t right. Maybe Bryan or Dad should be here with me. But what if it was bad news? I couldn’t take another cliché like, “There’s other options out there. Don’t worry. One of these days…”

I smacked my forehead. “Wait, what am I thinking? This will be good news.” I took a deep breath and started reading.

Thud.

After reading, “Thank you for submitting your manuscript. However…,” I collapsed to the ground. My mom came in at one point and pulled me up by the elbows to get me to go to my last class, but by the sound of my groan and the constant mutter of “my life is over,” she finally gave up and went to work at her art school.

When another sappy song came on, I adjusted my bent black leopard-printed glasses and reached for my phone on the arm of the rocking chair to see what time it was. Before I shut turned off my phone, I removed the Spotify app when it played yet another sappy song. And it was one of those Michael Buble tunes that 50-year old moms listen to.

1:17. “Screw it.”

That dreaded first sentence still burned in my head. I thought about going downstairs to get the half-drunk bottle of wine we had on top of the fridge. After all, this was an emergency.

Oh, wait. Crap. Physics test.

As much as I wanted to skip it, my GPA was in enough trouble. Yes, Senioritis had definitely kicked in (like, two years ago) but then again, my mom promised me she’d buy me a new laptop if I maintained an A average. So, I grabbed the leg of my rocking chair and literally had to pull myself up.

I should’ve stayed down. When I got to Physics class a half hour late (and my teacher glared at me the entire time), my mind went blank on my last name. And the name-forgetting thing was nothing compared to how the rest of the test went. Halfway through, I noticed a pattern of dots filled in on the scantron, so I finished filling in the rest of them to make an “S.” After that, I was a zombie right out of “The Walking Dead” the rest of the day. Because I am just that pathetic.

So now I’m back in my room, quote book still flung, and I’m up to number 58 in the bumps on my ceiling. I quickly turn away from The Hunger Games calendar above my bed that mocks me with a circle around May 29th. One month away from high school graduation. I wish I was happier about it.

When I try to suffocate myself with a pillow, a Ding comes from my laptop. I’ll lay you ten to one it’s Bryan.

Ding.

“Go away.”

Ding.

“Shut up!”

Ding. Ding.

“Aww Hell!” I run over to my desk and rip the power cord from the wall, almost tripping over it as I bring my laptop over to my bed. I lean on the pillow against the window. Our noisy ten year-old ARod wannabes won’t stop bouncing a softball off their roof. I double click on my iTunes, play some Rihanna, and look at the Facebook chat toolbar.

I roll my eyes at what Bryan has written. First line: “hey”; Next line: “are u awake?”; Third line: “stop ignoring me”; Last line: “THIS IS IMPORTANT!”

I shake my head and cross my legs as I rest my laptop on my navy-stripped pajama pants. And then I realize I wore these pants to school all day. Whatever. When you’re in your last semester of school, you just don’t give a damn of what you wear to class anymore. I reach down to take a Dr. Pepper out of the mini-fridge I hide under my bed that contains all kinds of junk food and drinks that aren’t good for me. I put the can on my nightstand next to me.

Peaches Templeton: “u rang?”

I see he’s changed his profile pic again since yesterday. It’s that lame pic of him pursing his lips at Brad Pitt’s wax figure when he visited Madame Tussauds in L.A.

Bryan Tolley: “Thank God. I was bout to send a search party”

Peaches Templeton: “u could’ve texted”

Bryan Tolley: “off again. u should be arrested for that”

My backpack still holds my cell in the front pocket. I glance back at my laptop and notice the clock at the top right corner. 36 past 4. He knows better than that. He knows I have it off at this time on Thursdays. He hates it, but hey, I refuse to be woken up by an annoying “Yellow Rose of Texas” ringtone. Everytime I delete that ringtone, he manages to put it back on there when I’m not looking.

Peaches Templeton: “Look at the time moron”

Bryan Tolley: “I know I’m interrupting your precious nap time. But this is an emergency”

Peaches Templeton: “What is it? I was in the middle of a serious REM cycle,” I lie.

Bryan Tolley: “Have no idea what to wear to Sr. Awards. Need u to come over NOW”

This is his emergency? For real?

Peaches Templeton: “No! This is the one weekday I don’t have to work and I’m not going to waste that time on u.”

Bryan Tolley: “Geez Louise, Peach. What crawled up your butt?”

A strand of frizzy brown hair comes loose from my ponytail. I twirl it around my finger as I attempt to type with my left hand.

Peaches Templeton: “u ever feel lost?”

Bryan Tolley: “I’m a gay guy from Texas. Good enough?”

Peaches Templeton: “I’ve been thinking about things.”

Bryan Tolley: “there’s your problem right there”

Peaches Templeton: “What if NYU is a big mistake?”

Bryan Tolley: “Peaches Templeton!”

I cringe. God, I hate my name. I sound like Strawberry Shortcake’s freakin’ BFF.

Bryan Tolley: “Turn your phone on. We need to have a convo”

I ignore his last request because every time I get Bryan on the phone, I have this nagging feeling to put a gun to my head. He hasn’t quite grasped the concept of “I gotta go. Bye.”

Peaches Templeton: “I don’t know what I want to do anymore.”

Bryan Tolley: “Peach. Since 4th grade, u wanted to get out of Texas, make it big in NY with moi, and write the next great American novel.”

Peaches Templeton: “But do I want to do that for the rest of my life? There’s no money in it.”

Bryan Tolley: “There is if you’re the next JK Rowling, Stephanie Meyer or Stephen King. Don’t forget about the movie thing, too.”

Peaches Templeton: “Yeah right. It’s just that too many people have reminded me that I’m a terrible writer.”

Bryan Tolley: “Grumpy the Dwarf must’ve given you a bad grade on that short story.”

Our creative writing teacher is known around school as Grumpy the Dwarf because he has a big nose, eyebrows that meet in the middle, and has a scary white beard. He probably has never given any of his students a compliment in his life. People say it’s his angle–just to get us to actually learn something. Or it could be that he’s just an ass.

Peaches Templeton: “It’s not that. I got a B+.”

Bryan Tolley: “What?! He gave me a freakin B- and I’ve no idea why. My story about the autistic transvestite was epic. Grumpy is such a homophobe.”

Peaches Templeton: “I told u that story was too much like Rocky Horror.”

Bryan Tolley: “And u didn’t put in a couple of LOST references in yours?”

Peaches Templeton: “Can we drop the pop culture stuff?” I doubt Grumpy the Dwarf even owns a TV anyway. “I’m trying to tell u that I got another rejection letter. And from Red Kite.”

Bryan Tolley: “No wonder you’re pissed. But every writer gets rejection letters. Besides, u can’t not go with me to NYU. Where would Double T’s be without the Double?”

God. Really? That nickname is so 4th grade. When we met, we sat next to each other since they arranged us alphabetically by last name. After we found our love for Eric Carle books and My Little Pony stationary, we were inseparable. By the end of the school year, everyone was nicknaming us”Double T’s.”

Peaches Templeton: “Don’t u wish u could do something that has more of a future?”

Bryan Tolley: “Like what?”

Peaches Templeton: “Like Dawn Steinbrunner. She’s gonna be a surgeon.”

Bryan Tolley: “She got an A in Biology because she flirted with Mr. McGregor to get a better grade.”

Peaches Templeton: “What about Josh and Harvard Business School?”

Bryan Tolley: “Parent connections. Seriously. Where is this coming from?”

I twirl my ruby-stoned class ring around my finger.

Peaches Templeton: “It just hit me.”

And it did. In more ways than one. After the physics test from Hell, I picked up my class ring in the cafeteria and as I was signing the confirmation slip, I couldn’t remember what the date was. The creepy old man whose eyes were fixated on my chest said, “April 29th.” And the pen slipped from my hand until my signature read, “Peaches Templnnn.”

Bryan Tolley: “Don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be OK.”

 I’m so sick of him always being so damn positive.

Bryan Tolley: “Wanna come over for dinner? Parents will be out tonight. We can order pizza and pig out on chocolate—that is until we hate ourselves the next day.”

OK, so he’s not always the most helpful, but the guy does know how to cheer me up.

Peaches Templeton: “Can’t. Having dinner with mom. Chili.”

I just now realized. Why is she making chili this time of year? April is still a hot month for Texas–in between all the tornadoes.

Bryan Tolley: “I hope you’re willing to buy me a new desktop; I just spit out my Chick-fil-A iced tea. You’ve actually volunteered to stay and eat with her? The two of u together?”

Peaches Templeton: “U know my mom and her obsession with her tomato garden.”

I am kind of dreading it. We don’t exactly have the best Gilmore Girl-esque type of relationship. But since she’s found yet another hobby and has her own little organic garden in the backyard, her cooking is almost edible.

Bryan Tolley: “Just promise you’ll eat a Kit-Kat to calm down and not throw a fist through a wall like last time.”

Peaches Templeton: “Totally.”

And he wasn’t kidding. The dent on my bedroom door isn’t the only one. And I have a sore knuckle to prove it.

Bryan Tolley: “Now onto more important things like the awards ceremony…”

Suddenly, another Ding comes up. I smile at the profile pic—the one with him and me at the State Fair chomping down on fried Oreos.

Dave Templeton: “Howdy.”

Peaches Templeton: “Hey Pops. Aren’t u supposed to be working on your song?”

Dave Templeton: “Multi tasking. I would’ve texted but can’t remember how.”

Dad. What a character.

Peaches Templeton: “I’ve showed u a million times.”

Dave Templeton: “Hey. Peach Pie. (The only one who can get away with calling me that.) You’re lucky I got a cell phone at all.”

After the divorce, my Dad used to called me at home. But Mom usually got ahold of the phone first and by the time I made it downstairs, World War 3 commenced.

Even worse. I have these weird old school parents who hate cell phones. Seriously. They hate them with a passion. “Cellphones. A modern addiction that will strike us dead,” as Dad used to say.

I told my parents that they were probably the only two people left in the U.S. without a cell phone. “Even homeless people have them,” I said. A few months later when I spent the night at Bryan’s for an Alfred Hitchcock marathon, we both fell asleep around the same time the electricity freakingly (yet appropriately) went out. My parents thought I had died after not hearing from me all night, so they finally gave in and bought me a cell to use only for “emergencies.” Which, by the way, they also did so they can talk to me without the other one knowing.

Peaches Templeton: “What’s up?”

Why is he Facebooking me now? He usually messages me before I go to sleep.

Dave Templeton: “Just wanted to say I love you.”

Peaches Templeton: “Love u too. U could’ve told me that tonight.”

Dave Templeton: “I just thought I’d do it earlier.”

Peaches Templeton: “Why?”

Dave Templeton: “Your mom just called me.”

I suddenly have this image of two cars colliding together on an empty highway at night.

Peaches Templeton: “What did she say?”

I stand up on my bed to turn on the fan. It’s getting hotter by the second in here.

Dave Templeton: “think she wants to tell you herself.”

Peaches Templeton: “What did I do?”

Dave Templeton: “Nothing. Just don’t tell her I said anything or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Peaches Templeton: “But u didn’t tell me anything”

Dave Templeton: “I heard you’re having chili tonight.”

Wait a minute. Mom calls Dad and they end up having a conversation about a flavorful soup with a kick?

Peaches Templeton: “She’s made chili before. It’s not that special.”

Dave Templeton: “Just be nice to her today.”

What’s his damage? Why should I suddenly be extra nice to her all of a sudden?

Unless…Oh, God.

Peaches Templeton: “Is Mom dying?”

Dave Templeton: “Of course not.”

Peaches Templeton: “Then what?”

I wait a couple of minutes for him to respond but he doesn’t. Either he’s trying to think up a decent lie (which is not possible because he’s a terrible liar) or he’s really trying hard not to tell the truth.

Peaches Templeton: “Fine.” Whatever. Now I’m dreading this dinner even more. “Subject changed now.”

Dave Templeton: “Anything bothering you Peach Pie?”

I stare at my depressing walls that are plastered with posters of my favorite people: Shakespeare, Emily Dickenson, DaVinci, Mozart, the cast of “The Vampire Diaries” (guilty pleasure, but still). I poise my fingers over the keys, almost not wanting to ask this question because I know what his answer will be.

Peaches Templeton: “Do u think I have what it takes to be a writer?”

Dave Templeton: “Of course! Why?”

Peaches Templeton: “I’m graduating in a month and I’m freaking out. I told myself when I started high school that before college, I would have something published.”

Dave Templeton: “What about those articles you wrote in the school paper?”

Please. The school mascot storyline in the “Bailey High Review” wasn’t exactly well-read.

Peaches Templeton: “I’m talking about being a real author—where u can find my YA book at a Barnes & Noble.”

Dave Templeton: “Sweetie you’re only eighteen. Stop putting so much pressure on yourself.”

This from the man who tried to get me to hold a mini-ukulele before I could hold a sippie cup. “This kid was born a musician!” my dad used to say. But he stopped that real quickly when I finally got to hold a guitar; as soon as I put that pick to the strings, I dropped it.

Peaches Templeton: “But what if I get to NYU and decide I don’t want to be a writing major? What if I want to go into medicine or law?” God, my head is spinning right now. So many choices, so little time.

Dave Templeton: “Just remember this. You were raised in an artistic family, so don’t be a doctor or lawyer just for the stability and to make a lot of money. As long as you love what you do, you know I’ll support you.”

That sounds like something Mom would say.

Peaches Templeton: “Thanks” is all I write. I make a homework excuse to end this depressing e-conversation because my head hurts and I don’t know what else to say to dad. I sign off and close my laptop (forgetting that Bryan was probably still chatting with himself).

I squiggle down until my head rests on the pillow. Just as I finally start to close my eyes I hear, “Peaches, chili’s ready!”

I quickly sit up and look at my alarm clock on my nightstand. I put it up to my ear. Yep. Still ticking. “Now?!” I yell back. It’s not even 5:00 yet; is she serious?

“It’s been stewing in the crockpot all day. Come down and get some with me!”

Dun. Dun. DUN.

“I’m not hungry now, Mom!”

She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, so I lay back down. Then I hear the phone ring downstairs and she answers it. “Phone’s for you!” she yells at an unhealthy decibel.

I groan and slowly get up. She couldn’t have led with that?