Dear Rejection

Life in Letters

The year I submitted my first short story, ever, anywhere, was the same year my best friends and I enjoyed spring break in Richmond, Virginia. The trip signaled a rambunctious overdrive into adulthood and ignited a new sense of self-expression within me. My confidence grew in courage as deep as it did in love, and the combination was wonderful and weird. Whenever I saw my friends the feelings heightened, and I had to write. In this way, I wrote the short story.

We stayed in a Tudor, the home of my friend William’s friend Derek who was in Italy squashing grapes. I correct myself; that was his previous story. Derek had almost died of gangrene stomping grapes in Italy, from not removing his wet shoes at night after working in a vineyard.

Derek was in Japan, his sister Beverly said. She’d greeted us affectionately and hugged William for a long time in the driveway before leading us around the side of the house and through an open door into the bright kitchen.

I’ll never forget hanging out in that kitchen. Everything seemed fluid, like we were on the verge of unearthing something grand about ourselves.

The family had dissolved and spread out to other countries. In the converted attic, a nursing student rented out a room. Beverly lived on the second floor. The amount of history I was taking in staggered me. My experience was modest next to this; I loved having my eyes opened. I wanted them stretched as wide and far as they could go.

After bringing our bags inside, William and I set out for a beer at a restaurant down the street. Richmond was a ghost town. Virginia Commonwealth University was on break, and the quiet streets around the campus and neighborhoods echoed with plenty of parking. William and I sat outside on the restaurant patio while we waited for Diane who was meeting up with us after having gone up North to see her father for the first of break.

Like William, Diane was a beautiful. Like William, she had a boarding school toughness and a light sense of bearing. They’d made a good couple, and now that they had separated they were making a go of remaining very close. It went unsaid, but they were crazy for one another. To each of them, I was a sidekick and reassured them in moments of doubt, doing my best to remain faithful. This is a universal story, and the fact of this did not escape even my naive, ever-expanding gaze. Everything felt right.

I wanted to be like them. They treated me like I already was.

Diane arrived in a heroine sort of way, biting her lip not to let out peals of delight. We drank pitchers of beer and tossed peanut hulls at our feet. Diane wanted to see the house, and we decided to have a nice dinner there.

On our way back, we stopped at a liquor store and an A&P. William grilled the steaks, and Diane and I opened up the dining room. While the room aired out, we gave it a good dusting and set the table. With the meal, we sipped red wine, and afterward, drank vodka tonics. We weren’t big drinkers but did so with relish. The night had come on, and the darkness outside felt filled with an unspoken knowledge we were growing towards. We were used to it flirting with us.

Barefoot, we walked across the lawn to a grouping of tall trees. In the middle of the trees was the swimming pool, the water, and patio strewn with leaves. We grabbed cushions from the pool house and arranged the patio furniture just so. We were actors and dancers and knew every little thing about staging and choreography. It was a privilege. It was such a comfort.

As the evening grew late, we went to bed.

The next day, before leaving town, we passed the earliest part of the morning looking for a place to eat and then looking at the houses and buildings. William drove, at his insistence. In one neighborhood, there was a brick apartment building, impeccable, and well-groomed. It was two stories, shaped like a U, and had a courtyard with a fountain and a bench.

At the curb, we idled in Diane’s Mercedes, which was old and smelled damp, in a good way. Diane and I rolled down our windows and leaned out to get a better look at the building. Available for rent was a three-bedroom apartment. We looked at one another. Was it time to toss everything aside?

We went so far as to take a tour of the apartment. When we left Richmond, our heads swam in possibilities, but by the time we were back on campus, we looked at one another and knew we weren’t going anywhere.

That summer I wrote a short story about our time in Richmond. Hearing this, Diane begged to read it, and when she suggested I submit it to The New Yorker, I did. I knew the story didn’t have a chance because it was terrible, and I didn’t think much of it besides how much I’d enjoyed the experience of writing it, and of that, I felt incredible. With great pleasure, I included the self-addressed, stamped envelope.

About halfway through the Fall semester, between rehearsals, exams, and occasional upsets, I heard back from the magazine. There was the envelope and there was the rejection card. It was lovely to touch. The text was out of alignment. I framed the card and hung it on the wall above my desk. I couldn’t wait to tell Diane and William.

We went out to celebrate.

Based on a rejection prompt by editor Ashley Evenson. Thanks, A.E.