Page 25 of Just Like the Brontë Sisters

Part I

Chapter 15: Skylar

Cornell rejected me.

I wasn’t prepared for that moment of finding out, of opening that thin envelope, of telling myself that maybe there’s still a chance, that perhaps their acceptance letter comes first and the thick packet of information will come the next day. Thank you for your application. Unfortunately, space is limited and we cannot grant you admittance at this time… the words blurred together and my heart fell, like a thick ball of ice through a fresh powder of snow.

All my years of hard work, my dreams of escaping this homogenous ski town, of being more than a girl with sticks attached to her feet, evaporated as quickly as the tears began to pour. I dropped the letter onto the table, raced to my room, and shut the door behind me. Then I buried my head beneath my pillow and sobbed.

Mom was at the bakery but Dad was home, working in his studio. He must have come in for a snack, saw the abandoned rejection letter, and heard me crying. Because after a while there was a soft knock on my bedroom door.

“Sky, I’m coming in,” he announced in his easygoing voice. I didn’t respond. He entered, sat down next to me on my bed, and enfolded me into his arms. I could smell the turpentine scent that he always carried. “I’m sorry, Honey.”

I pressed my face against his shoulder and his soft flannel shirt absorbed my tears. “I really wanted to go there,” I murmured. “But they don’t want me.”

He hugged me harder. “Rejection sucks,” he said. Then, with a sigh, he loosened his arms and pulled away, so he could look me in the eye. “But, unfortunately, it’s a life lesson few of us escape. And honestly, I feel bad for the people who do escape it. They don’t ever learn how to create their own opportunities.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my palm. “What do you mean?”

He contemplated for a moment, letting his eyes scan the ceiling. “If I’d been accepted into a prestigious art program and found an agent, I’d have lived a different sort of life. But instead I’ve worked hard to create something that’s my own and I like the life I have.” He kissed my forehead right at the hairline. “Meanwhile, your sister has had everything come easy and now she’s at a loss.”

The tears just wouldn’t stop flowing. “I’d still rather go to Cornell.”

“I know. But you’ll study literature somewhere else. Or you’ll figure out new goals.” He gave me a soft, “atta girl” punch in the shoulder. “And you won’t give up, which is why I know that, ultimately, you’re going to be okay.”

“So, you’re saying I should stay here, ski for Vista College, and figure out a new plan?”

He shrugged. “Would it be so bad, living at your sister’s condo and starring on the ski team? I mean, you love to ski.”

“Yeah, but it’s not what I want to do with my life, Dad. I’m not Jo Beth.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Dad got up, but before he left my room, he looked down at me and smiled. “There are plenty of ways to leave Black Diamond, Sky. You don’t need Cornell to get out of here. Just make sure that when you do go, you’re not leaving yourself behind.”

What does that even mean? I thought, as Dad exited my room.

Unfortunately, I would have plenty of time to figure it out. In the weeks that followed, I received another rejection letter from Brown and an acceptance letter from Penn, but without an offer of financial aid. Of course, I thought about asking Jo Beth for tuition money; I could sell the condo or get an advance on funds she’d already promised me. But I didn’t feel entitled to any of it and the very idea of her bequeathing me her fortune made my skin crawl. I wanted Jo Beth, not her money, so I settled on a ski scholarship with Vista College. They were giving me a free ride and I’d take every single literature class they offered—all six of them—and work on transferring to a better literature program by my junior year.

But for now, the only way that I’d be leaving Black Diamond was on my spring break trip, which was also my graduation gift, to South America.

It wasn’t the first time I’d ever left Colorado, or the U.S. for that matter. One-time Mom and Dad had taken us to Mexico for a beach vacation, and there’d been camping road trips to Wyoming. And of course, we’d gone to cheer for Jo Beth when she’d competed in the Olympics. Yet when my Santiago-bound plane took off, I sat there, strapped in and awestruck as I looked out the window; the sky stretched and the ground became nothing but shadow.

Maybe my life was full of possibility. Maybe I just needed to adopt the right attitude. After all, this was the twenty-first century and unlike all the literary heroines whom l admired, the main thing holding me back was my mindset. In fiction, there were halo-wearing submissive gals and there were the self-assured live-wires, but either way, they all had very limited options. Either find a man and become a good wife, or commit suicide after being naughty and exhausting all other possibilities. But times had changed since Madame Bovary had found the rat poison or since Edna from The Awakening had wandered into the Gulf of Mexico, and I wondered what I might discover if I refused to limit myself.

I slept during the flight so I wouldn’t be jet-lagged. It kind of worked. When Jo Beth picked me up at the airport she was all hugs and enthusiasm, talking a mile a minute, showing off her Spanish, and walking so fast I could barely keep up. But I did keep up; I kept up that night when she insisted we hit Santiago’s night clubs, I kept up the next day when we explored historic Valparaiso, and I kept up the day after that, when we went hiking in the Andes.

She kept me busy and Jo Beth was the consummate tour guide. There was never a dull moment, which meant there was never a time to relax and talk. Besides, Magda was always along. On the fourth day, Mitch showed up, and we all took a bike tour through the Santa Rita vineyards. We pedaled down wide dirt paths atop sturdy green bicycles, which were heavy enough that they became difficult to steer. Every so often we’d stop, park our bikes, walk through a vineyard, and taste different wines. By lunchtime I was exhausted, dehydrated, and a little light-headed.

We had a picnic of goat cheese, grapes, and pan amasado, which was the best bread I’d ever eaten. More importantly, I chugged water, bottle after bottle, and Jo Beth insisted that I shouldn’t stop. “I packed plenty,” she told me.

“She thinks of everything,” Magda said. She was stretched out on the blanket, rubbing her left ankle. “I don’t know how we’d even be in business without your sister.”

“Don’t say that.” Mitch’s sun-lit voice contradicted his bossy command. “As soon as the ski season resumes in June, I get her back with me, at Portillo.”

“So she can teach ski school? Please.” Magda smirked and turned toward my sister. “Tell Mitch you’re staying down in the city.”

Jo Beth shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

“Yes, you do, Jo Beth. You know.” He spoke like they shared a secret language, or like she was dyslexic and he was her special, backwards newspaper, written in their own private code. And I could see his effect on my sister.