Page 42 of Picking Daisies on Sundays

Then started our letter exchange.

When my phone began ringing Wednesday night while sitting in the kitchen with Mom and Mandy, I froze up. Flipping the phone over, I saw his name.

“One second,” I said, leaving the kitchen island, taking my phone with me. Exhaling, I clicked answer. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He sounded tired.

A moment of silence passed before I pleaded, “I’m sorry, Levi.

Sosorry.”

He exhaled with what sounded like relief. “Dani, I know, it’s alright.”

“It isn’t though. I am so sorry, I was overreacting. I was—”

“Dani, it’s alright, it’s alright. No more apologizing. I think you wrote ‘I’m sorry’ twelve times in this letter already.”

“Twelve times too few.”

“Twelve times too many. You were right the other day though; I overstepped, and I don’t have the right. I’m sorry too. But I did enjoy the letter. The strawberry parchment paper was cute.”

I shrugged my shoulders in relief. “I don’t use that paper on just anyone.”

I could hear his smile on the other side of the line. “Daniella Maria, are you saying I’m special?”

“The specialest,” I said, making up my own word.

He laughed. “As long as you think so.”

“Friends?” I asked.

“Best friends.”

The happiness that flooded my chest was enough for me to ignore the lingering crack in my heart. But it wasn’t enough for me to ignore how he held onto the pieces that were missing.

19

She lives in between the pinks and yellows of the world, where a

beautiful color is unknown to others

Filling out applications for master’s programs has driven me to excessive peanut butter eating. I haven’t stooped that low since my last bad date a year ago when this guy tried to tell me that the idea of women in positions of power was ridiculous because they were too emotional. That should’ve been my villain origin story but instead I cried on the couch with a tub of peanut butter in my arms like I was cradling a baby, watching Audrey Hepburn’sSabrina. Mandy said I could’ve gotten the words, “I’ll never find a boyfriend,” stitched onto a pillow because of how much I said them.

And to say that today’s meeting with Ethan about my applications didn’t go well was an understatement.

For my essay to Lazaro, I wrote about the first fashion show I went to freshman year and how it inspired by major. After emailing him the paper this afternoon, I came to his office around 7 PM for his feedback.

His office was impressive in size because it was the same as some of the professors here that were on tenure. An oak desk, a few bookcases, and numerous photographs of runway shows, editorial photos from fashion magazines, and him with celebrities dressed in his work, hung on the walls like a gallery. He looked up from his desk as I opened the door, his blonde hair and freckled nose looking up from his laptop.

“Have a seat,” he said, skipping any greetings. It wasn’t the response I was expecting, but I sat down with a smile nonetheless across from him. “I read your paper,” he continued with no emotion. The unimpressed look on his face triggered a familiar emotion of queasiness in my stomach. I didn’t think the paper was perfect by any means, but I also didn’t think it was necessarilybad.

He pushed himself up in his seat, clasping his hands together on his desk. “I read the paper. It wasn’t bad.” A genuine smile grew on my face. “But,” I retracted my smile instantly, feeling like an idiot. “It lacked emotion and sounded immature. Lazaro is going to think that you chose this career on a whim, whereas the rest of these students have been working for this since middle school. You need to sound aspirational and decisive—Lazaro doesn’t want a dream; they want a hard worker.”

Tears began pricking my eyes at the wordimmature. By the time he was done speaking, I was digging my nails into my thigh, trying to keep myself from falling apart in his office. Even just the way he phrased the sentence, making it sound like I wasn’t a hard worker. This was the fourth essay I’ve written for Lazaroalone, and yet it still wasn’t good enough. I submitted the rest of my applications last week—even the Paris program.

I briefly said my thanks, repeated that I’d work on it again (for the fifth time), stood up, and escaped the room.

Nudging my long sleeves down with my thumbs, I brushed