You Can't Do It

I sat at the heavy oak dining table, upright in its matching chair with a straw seat.

I had a proposition and everything was planned out in my mind. The sense of adventure has plagued and poisoned me ever since I left the Bay. I guess they call it the travel bug.

My hands were clammy and my stomach started knotting. My feet were swaying beneath the chair and I was dragging my toes along the Persian rug. I think I was nervous.
So I told them my plan.

They knew it was coming. They were hurt. And I understood.

But then came the unexpected, “you won’t get in.” My father said.

I was instantaneously enraged. I had never been challenged like that before. The words cut, unclean like a blunt blade. “They won’t accept you.” He said rubbing salt in the wound.

I looked down in shame, bruised, hurt and confused.

I raised my head; Undefeated.  
“Watch me.” I said.

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