"Seasons"

By Jenna Remley


Fall, 9th Grade

    “Smile!” the photographer exclaims. I do my best, but I keep my mouth shut tight. I hate faking smiles with my teeth – it never looks real. I stretch my lip over my big front teeth and try to look like I’m enjoying this.

    I’m surrounded by my family and I’m wearing an itchy sweater that Mom bought for me last week. We all have to match for the portrait. “Gem tones,” Mom said. “The photographer says we all need to be wearing gem colors.”

    I’m pretty sure that gems come in every color, but I didn’t argue. I’m sweaty and the bodies around me press in, but I can’t complain too much because I know the portrait is expensive and it’s for all our family’s houses, and my grandparents have come all the way from Wisconsin so we can take the picture.

    The photographer arranged us together in different ways, and this time I’m right in the center. I’m the middle child, the middle daughter. “Oh, your poor father,” people always say when they find out there’s three of us, all girls. Poor Dad. As if a house full mostly of women is worse than a family with more men. As if he can’t play basketball with us. As if he doesn’t know how to braid our hair before we go to sleep. Poor, poor Dad who has all daughters, like he’s a king who needs an heir.

    Tori looks just like Mom, with her big hair made of tiny curls and her broad shoulders. Emma is like Dad, with lighter hair and a thin frame - a runner’s frame. I am somewhere in-between. I have Mom’s height but Dad’s leanness. I am a mix, half-and-half, sitting in the middle of my family.



Summer, before 12th grade

    Nicole has a license and her own car, an impressive combination, so she drives us out to the river. Nicole’s car is kind of a wreck – there’s no AC and the engine makes this constant rattling sound – so sometimes I borrow Mom’s car to drive us, but Mom had an appointment today.

    Maddie called shotgun, so I’m stuck in the back seat, but I sit in the middle so I can lean in between them and talk. Mostly we don’t talk on the drive though, we just play music really loud and sing along, our voices lost to the wind coming through the open windows. 

    We find a spot along the bank that’s empty except for two women with a dog. We set up our towels. The river here is slow, peaceful. Right in the middle a giant rock juts out, rising ten feet from the surface of the water.

    Maddie immediately sees it as a challenge. “I’m gonna jump from it,” she announces.

    “You’re gonna break your spine,” Nicole says, frowning.

    “We’ll see,” Maddie replies. She runs right into the water, not going slowly to adjust to the cold. As soon as it’s up to her waist she dives in, and pops back up only a few feet from the base of the rock.

    I glance over at Nicole, who’s putting on suntan lotion. She rolls her eyes, and I smile.

    “It’s really deep here!” Maddie calls from the water. “I can totally jump in!”

    I adjust my towel and sit down on it. Nicole has reclined, her arm thrown over her eyes to block out the sun. She’s always been the pretty one, with smooth hair and soft skin and a white, genuine smile.

    “Come on, Chloe!” Maddie yells. She has climbed to the top of the boulder, hands on her hips. She’s queen of the rock, at the center of attention as usual. She waves me forward.

    I get up and walk to the water, going in step-by-step. Before my stomach is covered, Maddie takes her first jump.

    “Carpe diem!” she exclaims with a laugh as her feet leave the rock, and she flails through the air before splashing into the river.



Spring, 9th Grade

    The gym is hot. I use my paper program to fan myself, but it doesn’t help much. We’re sitting on crowded bleachers and I’m squeezed between Emma and Mom. It’s strange to see the gym where I play badminton every day, except Friday when we run the mile, decorated all fancy and full of adults. My PE teacher is wearing a suit, which is even stranger. Mom and Dad are clasping hands, both of them rapt at the valedictorian’s speech, not even seeming to mind the heat. I search through the sea of green gowns again to find Tori, her curly hair poofing out beneath her cap.

    “Four years of early mornings,” the valedictorian is saying, “of extracurriculars, of fighting for parking spots, of listening to Mr. Klein’s jokes…”

    The graduating class laughs, but I don’t get it. I’ve never had Mr. Klein. 

    I wonder what my graduation will be like. I still have three years to get through, three years of all the things the valedictorian lists. I wonder who my class’s valedictorian will be. Not me, probably, since I got a B- in Biology.

    I try to focus again, since it’s Tori’s day, but I’m hot and bored. Emma taps my arm.

    “What?” I ask, quietly.

    She holds out her notebook, where she’s drawn blank spaces for hangman. I look back at the stage below the basketball hoop for a minute, then to my parents who are so attentive to their eldest daughter’s achievement. I turn back to Emma. “E,” I whisper.

    I don’t look up again until I hear the principal say, “Victoria Alicia Baker,” and Mom and Dad erupt into tearful cheers.



Fall, 12th grade

    “Tell us about a personal quality, talent, accomplishment, contribution or experience that is important to you. What about this quality or accomplishment makes you proud and how does it relate to the person you are?”

    I stare at the prompt, and then look around me, seeing my classmates study the paper in front of them. The question being asked feels like maybe the most important question of my life so far. How I answer it will determine the trajectory of my future.

    I read the words over again. No answer immediately comes to mind. What am I talented at? What have I accomplished, or contributed? What am I proud of?

    It seems like college admission essays should be written about some life-changing experience, or your passion. I can’t think of anything I feel strongly enough about to call a passion, and my life has never been changed by a single event - besides the glaring exception, and I refuse to write an essay that evokes pity. 

    “Okay,” Mrs. Landon says, breaking the relative silence in the classroom. “Now that you’ve read the prompt, I want you all to spend ten minutes responding to it in any way you can. Just brainstorm things to write about. You can start at any point in the prompt – list your talents or experiences, reflect on who you are and how you got there. Just start thinking about how you could respond to this question. Ten minutes, go!”

    I open my notebook. Nicole, sitting diagonally from me, begins scribbling furiously. The scratching sound of pencil-on-paper fills the room.

    I stare at the blank page, the neat blue lines. I write my name and the date in the right corner. I try to think of anything to write about.

    I end up doodling for ten minutes.



Fall, 10th grade

    It’s a Sunday afternoon when Tori calls for the first time since she left, and Mom picks up the phone. They talk for a while and I go extra slow loading the dishwasher so I can eavesdrop. 

    Since Tori left, things have been off-kilter. At our square dining table, two people always had to squeeze together on one side, but without Tori there’s space for all of us. I get her old room, so Emma and I no longer have to fight about whose fault it is that the bedroom is messy. Tori’s old room isn’t very big but I feel small in it. I don’t have enough posters to cover the walls, and the white blankness makes it feel like it’s missing something. Emma and I have to split up the chores that were Tori’s. With only four people in the house, there’s no tie breaker.

    “Chloe?” Mom says, and I look up from the dishwasher. “Do you want to talk to Toria?”

    I take the phone from her. “Hello?”

    “Hey Clo!” Tori exclaims. I grimace. “How are things back home? Have you and Emma killed each other yet?”

    “No,” I say. “What’s college like?”

    “I don’t know, orientation starts tomorrow.”

    “What’ve you been doing, then?”

    “Moving into the apartment,” she says. “Me and Alexis have been looking for jobs.”

    It all sounds so grown-up that I almost can’t believe Tori is doing it. Just a week ago she was still sneaking up behind me and tickling my sides to make me scream.

    “Are you nervous?” I ask.

    Tori doesn’t say anything for a second. “I guess. I mean it’s kind of scary, but it’s exciting too. I have my own apartment, Chloe, how cool is that? I can stay up as late as I want and I never have to worry about Mom telling me off. Plus I have Alexis with me. So it’s not too bad. More good than bad.”

    It sounds more scary than exciting to me. “That’s good.”

    “Yeah,” she says. “Is Dad or Emma around? I’ll talk to them too.”

    I find Dad and say goodbye to my sister.



Fall, 12th grade

    I manage to write the required 300 words for the first draft of my essay, but I hate every one of them. What I’ve written is true, but seems unoriginal and boring. I know I have to be a diamond in the rough to be accepted to a college, and this essay is very, very rough.

    I hand it in to Mrs. Landon, slipping it beneath Maddie’s essay so she doesn’t have time to read the words while I’m there. Maddie hadn’t shut up about her essay for a week. She had written about her courage and willingness to try new things. She’s right, but I sort of wish she wasn’t so self-aware.

    Mrs. Landon reads them in alphabetical order, and with my cursed B-name, I am called up to talk to her about it after only two other people.

    “You’re a good writer, Chloe,” she tells me, and I wait for the ‘but.’ “But it doesn’t really seem like you put your heart into this.”

    I don’t know where my heart is or where it’s supposed to go.

    “It seems like it’s more about other people’s qualities than about your own,” she adds.

    I shrug. “I don’t know how to write about myself.”

    “That’s okay,” she assures me. “That’s why we’re working through the essays like this. Many students struggle with writing these because they’re not used to writing about themselves, or when they do, they don’t know how to write about their strengths. In your essay you seem to attribute your strength as an individual to other people. And it’s fine to acknowledge others’ influence over who you are, but a university isn’t looking to admit the Baker family. They’re looking to admit Chloe Baker, the individual.”

    “Okay,” I say, but I can’t see how this will help me fix my essay.

    “You can’t be afraid to be confident in yourself,” she tells me. “This essay isn’t a place to be humble. So tell me, what are your strengths?”

    I can feel my face heating. I don’t want to talk about this here, where any one of my classmates might overhear the conversation. I don’t want to talk about it at all – I wish Mrs. Landon would just give me a grade and let me work on the essay alone, in my room with the door shut.

    What are my strengths?

    “I mean, I’m pretty smart,” I manage to say.

    “You’re very smart,” Mrs. Landon says. “And you’re observant, good at reading between the lines. Your thoughts on what we read for this class are often very insightful, much more than a surface-level reading.”

    My face and neck are very warm. I push my hair away from my forehead. “Um, thank you.”

    “What about talents or accomplishments that you’re proud of?”

    I shrug. “I don’t really know.”

    Mrs. Landon looks at me for a second. “Have you spoken to your parents about this essay, Chloe?”

    “A little bit.”

    “Ask them about things to write about. You may not be able to think of any accomplishments or contributions, but I guarantee your parents will. Can you report back to me tomorrow on any new ideas you have for the essay?”

    “Sure,” I tell her.

    “Great.” She smiles at me. “You can go back to your seat. I think you’re going to end up with a fantastic admissions essay, Chloe.”



Summer, before 10th grade

For my birthday party, Dad agrees to take me, Tori, Emma, and one friend to a theme park. I’ve always been a little scared of rollercoasters, but I want to be the kind of person who likes them. Emma’s only twelve and she already loves rollercoasters, so today, as a newly-fifteen-year-old girl, I figure I need to get over it.

I choose to bring Nicole, who’s been my best friend since seventh grade. I met some new friends this last year at high school, but nobody beats Nicole. She sleeps over the night before, and Dad wakes us all up early in the morning to get started on the drive. Six Flags is two hours away, and we’re determined to be there when the gates open. We drive through McDonald’s for breakfast, and Dad lets me (being the birthday girl, and being fifteen now) have a mocha with my breakfast sandwich.

We begin with the smaller rides, ones that aren’t too fast and don’t go upside-down, and work our way up. By the end of the day we’re all a little sunburnt and exhausted, but I got on every ride in the park and survived just fine. Having a birthday in June usually bothers me, because I’m not in school and it’s harder to have parties, but this one was perfect. Dad hugs me in the parking lot and whispers in my ear how brave I am, and how proud he is, and it’s so nice that I nearly forget to be embarrassed.



Summer, before 12th grade

    Mom and Dad sit us down in the living room and they seem serious, but gentle. At first I think Emma and I are in trouble, but then it occurs to me that maybe they have bad news to give. Maybe someone has died. When did we last hear from Grandma and Grandpa?

    They sit next to each other on the couch, Dad’s hands enclosing one of Mom’s as it rests on her thigh.

    “I got some tests back recently,” Mom tells us, “and I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer.”

    My breath is gone, and I place my hand over my mouth trying to find it. Emma cries out immediately, leaping forward to put her arms around Mom. I am still in the armchair, feeling like I weigh a thousand pounds.

    Dad comes over and helps me up so I can join the embrace. We clutch Mom to us as if we can protect her from her own body. I wonder if Toria knows. I wonder what this means for us. I’m too scared to ask how bad it is. I’m crying. Mom and Dad are speaking, reassuring. Emma’s makeup is ruined, tear tracks down her face. I don’t know what to do.



Spring, 12th grade

    Emma and I walk back from the bus stop together, and we pause at the mailboxes at the end of our street. Emma pulls out the mail and flips through it, pausing on a large white envelope.

    “Chloe,” she says, barely above a whisper. “It’s from Davis.”

    UC Davis. Dad’s alma mater. Close to home so I could visit. So I could be close to Mom.

    Emma and I are frozen on the sidewalk.

    “Do you want it?” she asks, holding out the envelope.

    I take it from her and lick my lips. My mouth is dry. I stare at the return address, the school logo.

    “Are you gonna open it?” Emma asks.

    “I don’t know,” I say. “Should I wait for Mom and Dad?”

    “Nah,” she tells me. “If you open it in front of them and it’s a rejection you’ll feel terrible. Either way you wanna know and have time to think before you tell them.”

    Emma is exactly the voice of reason I need. Usually she uses her cleverness to get away with things and break Mom and Dad’s rules, but every once in a while she uses it for noble causes too.

    I turn the envelope over and start tearing it open. There is more than one piece of paper inside. I pull out the first sheet and read it.

    “It’s a yes,” I say. “I got in, I got into Davis!”

    “Yay!” Emma exclaims, jumping forward to hug me. She nearly knocks me off balance and the acceptance letter is crumpled between us.

    On the walk up the street I continue reading the letter, and I think. I could go to Davis. I could be only a couple hours’ drive from home. I think about how Dad would smile to see me in a Davis sweatshirt, matching his old and worn ones.

    But there’s still other schools to hear from. Other programs, in places that are further away. Santa Cruz, San Diego, Long Beach. Schools in exciting places, away from the small town I’ve spent my whole life in.



Winter, 12th grade

    Mom cuts her hair, in preparation for chemo. The long hair that radiated around her shoulders is now gone, her curls bouncing up in a short halo around her head. It makes her look much younger, which seems paradoxical to me. It also makes her look even more like Tori, whose hair has always been on the short side.

    She has her first chemo appointment on a Tuesday afternoon. Dad offers to take her, but she shakes him off. “You go to work,” she says. “Chloe can drive me.” I’ve been able to use the car more lately, but I’ve also had to take on other responsibilities, like bringing Mom to appointments.

    Mom has quit her job, also in preparation. She worked at a tiny craft store in town. She’d never made much money, but she’d loved it. Her boss told her she could come back to her job as soon as she was ready.

    I leave school early, skipping Government, to make sure she gets to her appointment on time. We drive to the hospital where they set her up in a big chair and stick an IV in her arm. Chemo takes three hours, so I bring my laptop with DVDs, and we watch Tom Hanks movies, because Mom loves him. She seems to do okay, sitting in the big chair and letting the chemicals infect her. I stare at her haircut.

    When it’s time to leave I go to the bathroom for a minute to splash my face with water. Hospitals should have private rooms just for crying, I think.



Summer, after 12th grade

    I wake up early the day before I leave. I tiptoe out of the room so not to wake Tori up. All the posters I had collected over my high school years have been taken down, and the walls are just as white as Tori left them three years ago. Now that she’s back, I wonder if she’ll decorate at all. How long will she feel it’s necessary to stay?

    Dad is in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the birdfeeder out the window. I come up and stand next to him, watching hummingbirds pause for a drink. Dad puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes.

    We’re the only ones awake – Emma is a full-blown teenager now, and Mom is often tired. Sleep is healing, she says. The only sound is the windchime in the slight breeze outside.

    Dad pours me a cup of coffee and we talk in hushed tones until the rest of the house awakens. I watch Mom as she makes her tea. I note how she looks, as I often do – her cheeks fuller than they were, a sign of healthy weight gain, and her hair making slow progress in returning, just a fuzzy cap on her head. I wonder if she’ll ever grow it out all the way again, or if she’ll keep it short, just in case.

    Dad makes pancakes for everyone, using his patented recipe with cinnamon and nutmeg in the batter. “A send-off breakfast for Chloe,” he says. “You won’t get pancakes this good in Santa Cruz.”

    “She’ll be here for breakfast tomorrow,” Emma says, not looking up from her phone.

    Tori elbows her. “Don’t complain about free pancakes.”

    “So you just came back for the free food?” Dad teases Tori, and she elbows him, too.

    We squeeze around the table, Tori and Dad sharing one side. On my last day at home, sitting in the middle of my family, I smile around my pancakes.


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