By Stefanie Lee
There is a lump in my throat and I cannot swallow it. Something has died, and in its absence, growth takes the shape of a gaping wound. Since heartbreak sat on my chest like an undomesticated beast, smoking as indignantly as a snuffed candle, I vowed I would learn how to build a cage. Steel bars, welding, trigonometry: I would design armor instead of spectating idly to my ribcage’s cracking. Far removed from love, disconnected from love, heartbreak was a means to an end. End of summer in the aftermath, I seize my life, my intelligence, with firm hands, exert pressure until it is bereft of breath, devoid of outward influence, and then—only then—do I make it my own. My own. Mine, alone.
“A penny for your thoughts?” A voice slices through the stillness, but I dismiss it as the wayward synapses of my brain. Neuronal connections gone haywire, a slight hallucination.
Outside the solemn office of the dean, I sit in a hallway that seems to breathe with the weight of years gone by. Important documents crinkle over my lap, pages covered in tiny ridges and valleys—college application, a letter, my own name written in blue ink at the top. Massachusetts Institute of Technology, awesome and serious. Pending moving day. A future, unknown. Yellow paint adheres in shedding clusters to the walls, flaky like pastry. First: interview.
The musty air tugs my chin up like a tender finger, and I imagine all the women who have sat in this position before me, this chair that I morph into—doubtful, thoughts bubbling over as hot water that boils like brains, yet equally confident. Woolf, claiming a room as her possession, or Dickinson in her fiery-heart rage against structure, or Stein saying that you attract what you need, like a lover. But here, I am not the lover. Scrutinized, judged, I could not yet speak for myself. The invisible breeze, drafty from particles that we could not directly criticize, has a mind of its own.
Screech of a chair sliding against the floor tears me from my disjointed thoughts. A man in a navy suit takes a seat beside me. His socks are embroidered with tiny, sparkly stars. Reflecting the hallway’s dim light is a plain face, devoid of emotion, but his eyes are captivating. Emerald green.
“A penny for your thoughts?” he asks, his voice holding a hint of playfulness, but also a peculiar gentlemanly depth. Tousled chestnut hair forms a bird’s nest atop his head. He looks down at my hand—the coin is firmly pressed under my palm, out of sight.
Taken aback by the question, I shift in my seat. His eyes mirror the room around us, yet there is a hollow quality that sends a chill down my spine. His proximity is disconcerting—looming like a deadline. I instinctively lean my body away.
Evidently unfazed, he continues to study the penny in my hand.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” he observes, empty stare piercing through me. A short, abrupt laugh bubbles from his lips. “The unknown can be a frightening thing. But it’s also where great opportunities lie.”
The huntress within me rises, silent and cold. Watchful. Ready. Without courage, you are powerless, she tells me.
“A penny for your thoughts?” he repeats, this time with more emphasis on each word.
The princess within me questions: How many trials are to be put before me? I have a tender heart, you know, and that is the most important thing, after all.
“A penny for your thoughts?”
The warrior within me does not answer. She is sharpening her sword. She has already won, within her mind, knowing she has no other choice. Intellect is worth more than emeralds, she insists.
“A penny for your thoughts?”
I had attained a state of inward distance in which it became difficult to remember yesterday—or to believe that the self who lives in me, day after day, truly belongs to me. What else can I give, besides my body, my desires, my willpower, everything? Spare change in the form of intellect, that is the answer. Asking the uncomfortable question at the wrong time, in the wrong classroom, when I realize that I am not wanted, and I assert myself anyway. Well, I give all of me. I peel back the paint, strip the floorboards. I speak up louder than a thunderclap.
There is a lump in my throat and I spit it out.
Before, my usual emotions, my regularly irregular habits, my conversations with others, my adaptations to the world’s social order—before, they appeared as if read somewhere, akin to lifeless pages of biography or details from a novel, in a paragraph mid-chapter, overlooked as wandering thoughts took the helm. The narrative slackened until it slithered on the ground like a snapped tightrope. Now, I am offering myself up to this hungry world, because I know that I am worthy.
Feeling a jolt of confidence, I hold the penny up in front of the man between two fingers.
And then it happens—the coin drops from my hand into his palm, closed tightly around it. As he sits back in his chair, a deep sigh escapes him and it almost seems like he is absorbing all of the emotions that had been attached to the penny through its journey—anxiety, fear, doubt, warmth, and toil. All at once, it is. I will defend my peace, my life, my future.
“Thank you for your thoughts,” the man says with a smile, his cheeks seeming to glisten in the dim light. His eyes are no longer empty, but filled with a radiating kindness.
I had never quite understood the kinesthetics of my heart, how it triggers bullets at the tips of my fingers and curls them into fists. I learn to watch myself from a distance and swallow the guilt. Here is a hand that writes mathematical proofs, knowing nothing about kneading bread. Here is due north, the child I am not yet having, polar star being the diploma that will eventually adorn the walls of my home like a family portrait. And when I dive into the space between my doubt, I build myself a throne, sitting alight with the sun crowning my hair.
“But wait,” I protest, bewildered. “Isn’t the expression supposed to be the other way around? You give me a penny in exchange for my thoughts?”
“Sometimes, letting go of something physical can help ease the burden of what we carry inside,” the mysterious man murmurs. “Untether us from the darkness of our own mind. Of our thoughts, if you will.” He winks. And in a flash, he is gone.
Realizing that I am now inside the dean’s office, sitting before an imposing mahogany desk, a wave of confusion washes over me. The dean stands before me, adjusting his glasses.
“I’m sorry, miss…?” he trails off.
“Dorothy,” I reply automatically, sticking out my hand for him to shake.
“We ask that you make a deposit for administrative fees prior to your Master’s interview,” the dean explains patiently.
Feeling even more perplexed, I turn to look out into the hallway—but it is empty. There is no sign of the man with stars on his socks or echoing voice. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my mind.
“I could have sworn there was someone familiar waiting with me earlier,” I say hesitantly.
The dean shakes his head. “I didn’t see anyone. You know, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” he quips with a small smile.
Taking a deep breath, I force a smile as I reach into my pocket to pull out a coin. Without hesitation, I place it on the dean’s desk, watching as it glints under the harsh fluorescent lights. The dean arches an eyebrow at the unexpected gesture, but says nothing as he takes the coin and slides it into a drawer. I pay the fee with a few crumpled bills.
The last month of my girlhood will be warm. The air will be thick and the sun will turn my body freckled and darkened. This body that is no longer a child’s. This heart deflated but not broken. This mind that couldn’t possibly be kept from the stars and sky by any screen or window, so I will leave it all open, front door ajar. Cicadas pitch and wail in unison, though exceedingly far away from my current urban location, and the trees whisper in a language I have been hearing all my life but still strain to draw meaning from. All around me, there are countless quiet messages that I had been missing. That is the true shame.
As the interview begins, I find myself surprisingly at ease. The questions flow smoothly, my responses coming naturally. After what feels like both an eternity and a mere moment, the interview concludes. I exit, and the hallway is still dimly lit, but now it holds a sense of possibility rather than trepidation. A coin glimmers knowingly on the linoleum beneath my feet.
* * *
Stefanie Lee is an ambitious young writer from Montréal, Canada. Living with a rare physical disability called Nemaline Myopathy, she is a motivated student who will be studying Software Engineering as of Fall 2024. When she is not writing or studying, she can be found editing her photography or solving crossword puzzles.