“Dad wants you,” Joey said from the other side of the door. A rope quickly turned its heavy fibers and pulled a tight cord from her throat to her toes. Her arms swung uselessly in the thin air beside her. She walked to the hollow door like a paper doll, joined with small gold brads pushed tightly though her shoulders, hips, and knees. Her heart’s wings beat frantically, but the shadow of the beating was a slow pulse, a blinking streetlight. Hillary walked down the hallway like a clothes basket of doll parts. Plastic legs and arms dimpled at the knees and elbows, hollow torsos with swollen bellies, and heads with glass eyes and straight, silken hair sewn into the crown of the scalp. The hallway was cool. The big ceiling fan at the top of the stairs spun in strong circles behind slats that dropped open like a Chinese fan when her mom flicked the switch. The fan was loud and brought out goosebumps on Hillary. The air pulled closed the bedroom doors with sharp bangs, and the sound echoed across the wooden floors.
I’m worried and anxious and disappointed. I feel like this MFA dream is just that. Apparently the programs, especially the one I want, are very, very difficult to get into. What makes me think this is anything more than a hobby, a big pipe dream and nothing more…
I hope things look better in the morning. They look shitty at the moment.