Page 36 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Twenty-Four

T he first time I take my camera out it hurts a little. I haven’t taken a single photo since my rejection from the photography program. And after Diego’s passing, I didn’t really see the point.

But Isa has made a castle out of a set of blocks I found under her bed and demands that it be recorded. She’s been a good sport over the last three weeks. Not asking too many questions. Even giving me a hug when I started crying during Harry Potter one night.

Isa stands next to her castle, like a game show hostess displaying the grand prize.

She changes poses and facial expressions, each one more dramatic than the last. I turn on the camera, screw on the lens and adjust the settings.

Then I start snapping. The first one turns out great, and I smile. I’d forgotten this feeling.

“When you’re a famous photographer, I’ll be your model,” Isa says.

“That’s a very generous offer,” I say. “But actually, I’m not going to be a photographer.”

“What are you going to be?”

“I don’t really know,” I say. I know I should be looking into other majors, but I just can’t muster the energy. Switching from photography to teaching or nursing feels like going from a delicious lasagna to a limp stick of celery.

“Well, I think you should be a photographer,” Isa says.

“That’s what I thought too, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

I don’t want to talk about it. I told Maggie and my parents about Diego, but Jake’s the only one who knows about getting rejected from the photography program. At the time, it seemed unimportant compared to Diego. Now it feels too depressing to talk about.

But Isa’s face says she doesn’t care about my feelings. She wants answers.

“I didn’t get into the photography program,” I say, not meeting her eyes.

“What? After all our hard work? Porca Miseria ! Why not?” Her hands go to her hips.

“I don’t know,” I reply with a shoulder shrug.

“Ask them.”

“I can’t just ask them,” I say.

“Why not?” Her eyes are narrowed and focused on me like laser beams.

The only thing more pathetic than getting rejected is asking why you were rejected.

“It just doesn’t work like that,” I say. “They already made their decision.”

“But why did they decide that?”

“I don’t know!” I say, irritated.

“Then ask!” Isa says, with even more irritation.

Her eyes are full of fire, and her shoulders are back in the posture of a person who demands things and gets them.

“When I forgot my butterfly project, you talked to Signora Zonta and asked her if I could turn it in the next day. And she said yes!”

I don’t know how to tell her that college isn’t like first grade. She can tell I’m not convinced because she says, “It can’t make it worse. They already didn’t let you in.”

She’s right. Maybe I just don’t want to hear how bad I was. Maybe nothing seems to matter that much after Diego’s passing. Which I know would piss him off. He’s not here to live his dream, so I’m giving up on mine?

I tried! I tell Diego and Isa and every other critic in my head.

“Fine,” I tell Isa. “Maybe I’ll give them a call.”

Isa looks at me expectantly.

“What, right now? I can’t call them right now. It’s 7:00 p.m. our time, which means it’s…” I do the math. “10:00 a.m. in San Diego.”

“And is your college open at 10 a.m.?” Isa asks, eyebrows raised.

Dang. I guess I’m making this call right now.

I grab my computer and pull up the number.

I’m hoping Isa will give me a little bit of privacy, but when I see her expression, I know there is zero chance of that happening.

I dial the number and listen as it rings.

It’s only when someone answers that I realize I have no plan.

No idea what to say. I should have thought this out beforehand.

Dang Isa and her peer pressure!

“UC San Diego College of Visual Arts, this is Lottie.” The voice on the other end of the phone reminds me of sweet tea.

“Hi, Lottie, this is Juliet Evans.” I’m so nervous it’s coming out Scottish. I take a deep breath before continuing. “I recently applied to the photography program, and I wasn’t accepted. And I was wondering if you could tell me…um…or give me any information about…why not?”

I can almost but not quite hear a sigh.

“I’m sorry, I’m not the one who makes those decisions.”

Yeah, Lottie, I was under no illusions that the lady answering the phones was the one making those decisions.

I channel the most professional version of myself I can find.

“Of course, I understand. I was just wondering if there was any information you could give me. Any notes anyone left on my application.”

“Well, it is a very competitive program to get into,” she says. But she asks for my name again and says she’ll look through the stack. “Are you sure you made the deadline? Because we only look at the applications and photo samples that made the deadline.”

“I made the deadline,” I say.

By the time Lottie comes back, my shirt is soaked through with sweat.

“Okay, your application did make the deadline,” she says, in her honey-sweet voice. “But it did not have any photo samples.”

My heart plummets.

“There’s a Post-It note on it saying that there are no photo samples to go with this application,” Lottie continues. “You were supposed to submit six different photo samples. Did you know about the photo samples?”

“I know about the photo samples, Lottie!” I bark. I take a deep breath. “I submitted the photo samples.”

“Well, they’re not here.”

“Well, maybe whoever was supposed to print them, forgot to print them,” I say.

“ I am the one who prints out the photo samples. And I didn’t forget. We didn’t have any to print this year. All our applicants dropped them off in person.”

“Well, at least one of your applicants is living in Italy at the moment and couldn’t make it to your office to drop off her samples.”

Isa looks delighted by my rude tone, and I take a long, deep breath.

“I emailed my photos to the address listed on the application page,” I tell Lottie.

I pull up my email and look through my sent messages. Panic courses through me. Did I somehow forget to attach them? But no, there it is. The email with six photos attached.

“I have it right here,” I say. “I emailed the photos to [email protected].”

“That’s not the right email address,” Lottie says immediately. “It’s college of visual arts . With an “s” after art.”

My heart folds in on itself like a dying flower. How could I have made that mistake?

I pull up the application page. I stare at the email instructions. Please submit all photo samples via email to [email protected].

I gasp. “You have it wrong on your application page.”

Lottie doesn’t respond, but I can hear fast typing on the other end. “Oh!” she says in a surprised voice.

I want to yell “Aha! It’s your fault, not mine!” But I don’t. I just wait.

“It looks like Kyle the intern put the wrong email address on the application page,” she says, nearly under her breath.

“Yeah.” I say. And then wait some more.

“Well, that was clearly our fault,” she says. “I am sorry about that.”

“So what can we do?”

“I’m afraid at this point, there’s not much to be done. The deadline has passed, and all the spots have been filled.”

Are you kidding me? This is how this ends?

“I followed the instructions and submitted my application by the deadline,” I say. I keep my voice calm, but rage is building in my chest and racing toward my mouth. “This is not fair.”

There’s a sympathetic noise from the other end of the phone then Lottie says, “Well, you can apply next year. And I’ll make sure we update the application page with the correct email.”

Oh, would you? How helpful .

I bite back a sarcastic reply and say, “Thank you, Lottie. I appreciate the additional information.”

I hang up. Then I walk into the kitchen, close the door, and yell every Italian swear word I know.

A whole string of beautiful profanity gives voice to my fury.

I see Isa’s head peek around the door. Her eyes are wide and I take a deep breath.

I’d feel worse about swearing in front of a child, but I learned most of those words from her.

I slump onto the kitchen floor and fill Isa in on what I learned. Tears of frustration leak out of my eyes, and I brush them away, annoyed.

“But that’s not fair!” she says. “It was their mistake not yours.”

“I know. But Lottie says they already filled all the spots in the program.”

“Who’s Lottie?” Isa asks, and I realize I never told her the receptionist’s name.

Then I think, Who’s Lottie? I sit up straighter. Is she the one calling the shots in that place? Probably not. Is she the person that’s going to keep me from something I have dreamed about for years? Definitely not.

“You’re right, Isa,” I say. “We need to talk to the person in charge. And that is not Lottie.”

I get off the floor and march over to my laptop on the couch.

I pull up my rejection email and look at the signature.

Walter O’Brien, Department Chair. With Isa hovering over my shoulder I pull up the photography department faculty page and find him at the top.

I copy his email address, paste it into a new email and start typing.

I explain everything. I tell him that I have dreamed of studying photography for years.

I tell him I will accept not getting into their program if my application does not merit it, but I will not accept rejection because of an administrative error.

I ask him, kindly but firmly, to please look at my photos and consider my application.

I attach all six of my photos and a link to my saved application. I read through it twice, translate it for Isa, and reject all of Isa’s suggestions of clever insults to include. Finally, I hit send.

I call Jake that night and tell him everything.

“I can’t believe it,” he says. As I’m retelling it, it does seem unbelievable.

“I guess they didn’t notice because all the other applicants dropped off their photos in person.”

“I’m really proud of you for fighting for this,” he says. His words feel like a hug.

“Thanks,” I say. “It was only because I was bullied into it by a six-year-old.”

“She is a wise and fierce six-year-old,” he says.

“Agreed.”

“So now you just have to wait for a response from the chair,” he says.

“And hope that he responds at all,” I add.