Shea

After Kelowna wins the tournament, everyone's on lockdown for final exams and switching to our next set of classes for the rest of the school year. Brenna and I ace our French project. None of my grades slip below at ninety per cent, and the transition to a new schedule is flawless. Brenna and I only have one class together—Foods and Nutrition—but our spares line up, which means we're able to leave school early or not come in until after lunch. Aside from small dates like snowshoeing and skating and spending time with our friends, nothing much happens. And by "nothing much" I mean nothing out of the ordinary. Much like the remaining winter season does, time blends into an endless vortex of shitty, cold weather, heavy homework, work, and hockey. Lots and lots of hockey.

Soon enough, January fades into February, and then March is upon us with the promise of an early spring in the Okanagan. Which also means playoffs are starting after Spring Break is over. Although Spring Break has been busy, not having school work has been nice. The stress hasn't minimized, though. Connor's been too quiet, and I have a bad feeling he's planning something. Chelsea's birthday is in four days, and party planning isn't my strong suit. Mom and Dad's fighting has gotten worse.

But you know what the worst is?

I'm supposed to receive a letter from Boston University soon. I applied back in December, not wanting to tell anyone in case I jinxed it. The university's website said letters will arrive around the end of March. An e-mail will also be sent out, but I've been too scared to check the email dedicated to anything academic.

Mud squishes beneath my feet as I walk. A cool spring breeze bites at my cheeks with the lingering aftermath of winter. Everything is wet, and the air is damp from the excessive rain we've had over the past three days. I tighten my jacket around my body, wishing this weather would pass. March and the start of April are horrible. Last year, we got snow on April first. Two years ago, March felt like summer. These months can never make up their minds.

Jingling the keys in my hand, I step around dog shit someone failed to clean up. I wrinkle my nose.

Another reason I'm not a dog person.

That topic passes quickly. Instead, it loops right back to the mailbox ahead and what could sit inside it. The view ahead makes my palms clammy. With every step and every jingle of the keys, it gets closer.

Having the letter (if it's arrived) in my hands will be the death of me.

At the mailbox, I stop, staring at the keys. The breeze picks up again, making me shiver. However, my mind is too focused to care. If I remove each piece of mail individually, I might chicken out and shove everything back inside. If I grab everything, then lock the mailbox, I'll have to look at the mail.

I suppress a sigh.

Obsessing over mail makes me feel like a fool. But it's not like I'm awaiting a very late Christmas gift from my grandparents or something. This... An acceptance letter would change my future because it means I'll have a big decision to make. If I'll stay in Kelowna with Chelsea. Or if I'll leave and hope extended family members will look out for my sister while I'm gone. And then there's my relationship with Brenna. As much as I enjoy spending time with her, I can't let a high school romance mess things up.

After expelling a deep breath, I open the mailbox. There's a thick stack of envelopes, including a larger white one. My breath catches. Bills don't come in large envelopes, and when I flip the larger envelope over, I see my name. Then I see the Boston University emblem.

My blood runs cold and anxiety saturates my gut. Waiting to open the letter sounds pliable. Having someone here would benefit me. Brenna or KJ may need to revive me, otherwise I'm as good as gone.

Damn it, Smith. Grow a vagina.

Affirmatively, I nod to myself. That's what I need to grow. 'Cause my balls are too fucking weak to handle this. Seriously. It's like someone has kicked me in the balls; I feel sick with anxiety, as if I'll puke at any moment. I'll never understand why "grow a pair" is even a thing. Men are so fucking weak in that respect.

Tucking the rest of the mail beneath my arm, I flip over the envelope addressed to me, picking at the seam. My hands shake, making the process more difficult than need be. My nerves are so bad, it feels like I'm moving in slow motion.

By the time I've opened the envelope and removed the slip of paper, it's drizzling again. Fat raindrops plop against the asphalt and surrounding structures. I duck beneath a coniferous tree. The owners have pruned it into a cylindric shape, providing some relief from the rain.

With another deep breath, I glance down at the letter and read.

Several words catch my attention as I force myself to read.

Congratulations, scholarship, accepted, hockey.

By the end, hot tears are trickling down my cheeks. I don't bother wiping them away. If anyone sees me, they'll think it's just rain. There's nothing wrong with crying, though. I wouldn't care if someone saw me crying now that I think about it. Being a victim of toxic masculinity isn't something I'm fond of. Crying is what happens when we cannot piece together words that represent our emotions. Which I can't seem to do. I'm beyond happy, to where I fist-pump the air. But holding this letter also brings me back to reality. Important decisions need to be made.

I run a hand through my hair, wishing I could make decisions that would be beneficial to everyone.

But I know that's not true.

Clutching the letter close to my chest, I watch as raindrops dance along the surface of a large puddle. Whatever decision I make will not be easy. As real as this opportunity is, it may end up being a pipe dream.