Waiting for the Mail

Rated ASR for some language|


Written for The Writer's Cramp contest 7/29/08. The prompt is to write a story or poem in less than 24 hours about waiting for news that could change your life.
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My heart pounded in my chest as I ran towards the front door, flung it open, and bounded down the three concrete steps and the path leading towards the street. I didn’t even bother to slip on my sandals and I knew I’d have to make sure my feet were clean when I went back into the house or face the wrath of my mom. But I didn’t have time to bother with footwear. I had to get to the mailbox before my dad did, and he was heading towards it! I hastily opened the little flap and snatched all the mail into my arms just as he arrived.

“Expecting something, George?” asked my Dad with mock sincerity. He knew I was expecting something, and in fact he was waiting for the same letter I was.

“You can have it in a second,” was my quick reply as I leafed through the mail, glancing at the return address on each envelope just long enough to see if it was what I was looking for. Nothing. I handed the pile to my dad and started walking back to the house.



Before I tell you what I was expecting in the mail that day—and what I am still waiting for, I need to give you a little background on myself, my parents, and why one letter is so significant for me. So here I go. I am seventeen years old and I am a senior in high school. I’m in advanced classes and I consistently make first honors at my school. But I’m not in the top five in my class, and that’s what my parents expect of me. Me? I don’t really give a damn if I’m even on the honors list or not, but my mom and dad do, so I have to spend hours a day at school work. I think it’s really harsh of them to expect that of me, but I can’t get that through their thick skulls.

My dad graduated from Princeton and works as a lawyer in a very reputable firm. I’m not bragging when I say that, but I wish I was. He wants me to follow in his footsteps. I’m an only child, so I guess my dad figures I’m his only chance. He wants me to be the “perfect” son that he always dreamed of. He’s always giving me long sermons about how I have to uphold the family name and all that nonsense. So anyway, he’s basically forcing me to go to Princeton. The only problem is there’s a significant chance that I won’t get accepted. And if that happens, well, I don’t know. I’ll probably be punished extra-severely. If you think no leaving the house for two weeks is harsh, think again. He’ll probably make me come work as an intern at his stupid law firm, and then try to teach me the ins and outs of the business himself. Then he’ll throw me in some law school somehow. That’s the last thing I want to do, I’d rather be a garbage man than a lawyer. Who the hell wouldn’t be crushed under so much pressure, and besides that it’s BORING! If I ever told that to him, he’d smash my head against the wall until it cracked into two pieces.

If I get into Princeton, which I pray to God I will, I won’t study law, I won’t go on to law school. No way. I’ll be independent then and no matter how much they beg, my parents—specifically my dad—can’t force me to do it. I’ll study to be what’s always been my life’s dream, to become a forensics detective. I love CSI, Law & Order, all those shows. Anyway I’m getting off topic. But if I don’t get in, I’ll be forced to obey their every command, whim, do whatever they want me to forever. You don’t know how overbearing they are.

My mom isn’t nearly as bad as my dad. She’s a nurse. If she had her way I’d be a doctor, but she’s not pushy like my dad. She won’t force me through medical school, and even if she did, a doctor doesn’t sound too bad. I guess there’s not much to say about her. Most of the tension is between me and my father.

I saw a movie a year or so ago called Accepted where these kids who don’t get into college make their own, and keep it a secret from their parents, who all think their kids have gotten into a real college. For a brief period, the idea that I could forge a Princeton acceptance letter planted itself in my brain. I’ve decided against that now, but that’s how desperate I am.



Right now, I’m sitting at my desk in my bedroom. On it is a jar full of pens and pencils, a one-volume encyclopedia, a dictionary, loose leaf paper, a laptop with its Internet access firewalled—I can only get to educational sites—and all this other stuff that’s supposed to make me smarter and help me focus. No iPod, no magazines, no TV, none of that stuff’s in my bedroom. Anyway, I’m finding it hard to concentrate on writing this because I’m so anxious. The mail will be here soon. Then it’ll be time for my daily ritual of trying to beat my dad to the mailbox. He beat me a couple of times, and I’ll tell you, my heart nearly stopped. My whole body is tensing up. My hand is shaaking, I’m starting to tupe my words erong. There it is! The maill truck! Sorry, I’ve got to go.



Just got to finish this up. I just came back. I’ve got the letter in my hand. It came. IT CAME! I’m so worried. I want to open it up, but I don’t. I’m afraid of what’s inside. There’s my dad knocking. I gotta go. I’ve gotta open it.