It was the first day since first grade that Mom didn’t call to ask if I had gotten home on time. My school, Alacris Grove High, was only half a mile from my house, so I had always walked home. Mom got anxiety dealing with all the stress from work, so she liked to make sure my little brother and I were safe and in line. I brushed off my concern, supposing she was busy because of an important meeting around this busy time of year. My brother, Franklin, gets home from the middle school a half hour earlier, and I had to keep an eye on him after school.

As I climbed onto my bed to relax for the next few hours, I picked up my grey ThinkPad and pulled up the bookmarked web page of John Cabot University in Rome, my number one school for college. I stared at the familiar, commercial students’ faces on the brightly colored homepage, and wished mine was among them. I couldn’t wait to leave this place and start a new phase of my life on my own. Our family’s house chef had even started teaching me a little Italian, after my charming persuasion.

The little boy dressed as “Oliver” pictured on the drama page of the Web site reminded me to check up on Franklin, who was usually in his room by now. As I turned the corner into his chaotic, disordered room, I recalled Mom telling me, this morning, that he would be at an orthodontist appointment later on. Franklin had groaned, knowing he’d be scolded for eating too much candy that sticks to his braces.

The sound of our melodic doorbell ricocheted up the pastel-wallpapered walls up to the hallway where I could hear it. I traipsed down the hardwood stairs, almost slipping in my favorite fuzzy socks, to the front door.

I heaved open the heavy door as a huge gust of bitter, blustery wind flew inside the meticulously climate-controlled house, and I saw a middle-aged but wrinkly cop standing on our dark, stone steps, seeming uneasy. I invited him in after he introduced himself as Officer David, and he went on to tell me, in agonizing caution, that Mom and Franklin had been in a car accident as a result of the severe storm and ice on the roads. Our blue SUV had slid on the highway on their way home, and flipped over numerous times. The EMT’s had checked on them, but they could never find a pulse.
According to Mom’s will, I would go to live with her oldest sister, Gwendolyn, in Providence. And, most decisively, all her money, including the money she had been saving for my university dreams, would go to her favorite charity group, which was also where she had worked, and the reason our family was never together.

Throughout this conversation, during which he told me things, studied my reactions and my absentminded nodding, I could feel my heart sinking lower and lower into my chest. My entire being, including my thoughts, were paralyzed. I wouldn’t even let my mind progress to of what the future might consist now.

I arrived in Gwendolyn’s driveway as she was outside putting up her first Christmas decorations in her yard. Something about the way she was arranging them made me think she was just trying to seem busy for when I showed up.

“Shelby! How are you doing?” she exclaimed, “I just finished getting your room ready. Do you have all your stuff? Let’s go inside.” The way she spoke sounded like a thousand nervous firecrackers all trying to burst in a split second. The last time I remembered seeing her was before Mom went back to working, when we used to go to the beach and hang out with her sisters.

She showed me the room she put together for me, which looked like an island of misfit toys for things someone at a department store would think teens would like. The only thing I would have from my past life would be my old computer, which I had mainly used for obsessing over John Cabot University, and the intrigue, appeal, and significance of Rome. She let me hang out and settle for a while, but the next Monday I had to go to school.

This one was not nearly as synthetically cheerful as Alacris Grove seemed to me now. Somehow, its dreariness made me feel superior in attitude, thus I walked with my head a little higher. The vaguely bloodthirsty, passive-aggressive competitiveness so evident at Alacris was replaced with an air of breezy nonchalance, which I immediately liked. But then I remembered that all this really wasn’t for anything, and I wouldn’t even be going anywhere after graduation, especially not Rome. My former dreams seemed so silly; why did I think I’d get to go all the way to Europe? Only the people who have enough money to do what they want get to be happy. I would probably just end up as a waitress like Gwendolyn or go to a community college and work in an office.

Because I would be leaving so soon and was here with no real objective, I just tried to get by unnoticed. I ignored all encouragements from the faculty and my peers to get involved with the school. I tried to evaporate along with my potential, not contributing in class nor doing any particularly expert work.
My master plan of flying under the radar was threatened when a boy from my small history class, which was my favorite because it was going to be my major, asked me where I was from.
“Uh, Wellesley. In Massachusetts,” I replied, apprehensive.
“Really? I went to a summer camp there when I was little. The library is prodigiously nice, isn’t it?” Edwin pointed out, his brown eyes full of reminiscence.
“Have you seen the town hall? It’s a castle,” I laughed. He seemed to be pleasantly surprised that I was pretty normal, having probably thought I was another weird outsider, which, of course, is not entirely untrue. I am just an outsider who happens to get along with the inside.
After determining that Edwin and his friends were okay, I continued to talk with them at school. My strategy of laying low was not entirely in effect, but it was helpful to have someone to with whom to talk to pass the time. After school, I got a job in a movie theater, which was absolutely dismal. I had to work the overpriced, toxic concessions, where peculiar customers liked to get into arguments with the employees. The shifts were five hours long, which didn’t give me much leisure time at all.
Edwin and I would talk during history class, where we were all very interested in the Civil Rights Movement as well as the Cold War. Edwin would make fun of our teachers, and I would joke about my aunt and her endeavors to relate to me.
Despite this, Gwen and I became closer, sharing stories about Mom and talking about our families. We slept a lot on the weekends, creating a sluggish, leaden atmosphere in spite of Gwendolyn’s plastic, charitable cheerfulness. She started planning for me to stay for a while longer, past graduation and for when I would get a real job. I started to come up with ideas for what I would do to make money, realizing movie theaters really weren’t paying much for all the work. Horrible jobs weren’t worth it if I wasn’t getting enough money.
On one of the last few weeks before graduation, the school was advertising a huge end-of-the-year informal dance. As usual, I thought it was lame and just an excuse for insecure kids to feel adequate and friendly. But Edwin knew I was dreading the end of high school, because I didn’t want to have to work, so he kept bringing up the dance.
“Shelby, don’t you want to commemorate your senior year? Don’t you want to finally be happy just for one night?” Edwin pleaded the Wednesday before the dance, after ten minutes of earlier begging.
That was when I realized that my life would never be unflawed. I would never have a perfect, European college experience, or be rich and buy all the happiness I had been waiting so long for. Even when I had what I now considered a completely fulfilled life, it didn’t make me happy. I would have to decide that I was happy in order to be, regardless of the state of my life.
So I went to the dance that Friday and decided to be happy. But it didn’t feel like joy, for they are two different things. Happiness is having friends, and joy is laughing with them. Happiness is so subtle; most unknowingly pass right by it.