Beige dreams | Teen Ink

Beige dreams

November 27, 2021
By neta2411 BRONZE, Newton, Massachusetts
neta2411 BRONZE, Newton, Massachusetts
1 article 0 photos 0 comments


I was shaking when I held the metallic phone, the beige case my mother bought me because it "was elegant" but I thought it was boring. I stared at my messy beige bed, trying to calm myself, breathing heavily. I slowly searched for my mother's number. I took a deep breath and dialed. The waiting seemed to be taking forever. I held my favorite necklace, beige, because my mom bought it for me; I counted every beep. She finally answered,

"Hello? Maya? Are you here?" I could hear her sharp voice on the phone. 

I sat on my bed, "Mom, Hi, I'm here." I finally said. I took another breath and decided to tell her the big news.

 "I got accepted!", waiting for her reaction, shaking. I could imagine her smile, and I immediately smiled the biggest smile I could. 

"To where?" 

"Penn state law," I said so proudly, 

"You called me for this?". I could feel my heart skip a beat, "You know your sister got accepted into Yale law and was in the top 3% in her class," she was so proud of her perfect older child. I could feel myself getting smaller, the same feeling I knew so well. I felt tears going through my cheeks; my throat was so dry I almost didn't breathe. I hung up the phone without saying goodbye; I couldn't say a word. My brain seemed to be full of cotton candy because I couldn't think at all. I ran to my bed, started my playlist as high as I could, and slammed my pillow against the wall, and threw the beige phone case on the floor.

           Why can't she just be proud? Why am I not enough? I will never be enough. No matter how hard I try, I can't be like my perfectly almost annoying sister. Thoughts ran in my mind, so many voices in my head. So I stopped the music, washed my face, and wiped the water with a red cotton towel. I sat on the floor, opened my favorite red notebook, and started writing. Every thought I had, every feeling, was written on the blank paper. I could feel my shoulders getting a bit looser, my heart beating slower, and my face looking less red than before. 

            Suddenly, I heard a ring, I wasn't sure if it was real or I had dreamed, but I stood up and went to the door. The postwoman was standing in the front, she handed me a big fancy envelope. I thought: it might be…. No way…. I thanked her and slammed the door. I ran to my bed and started reading, "Dear Maya Cohen, we are happy to inform you…."  "The New York Times," I screamed and threw the envelope on the floor, trying to process what just happened. Suddenly, I froze, I couldn't go, my mom would be so disappointed, I couldn't do it. I need air. I need an answer. So, I opened my closet door, took a suitcase. Packed all the clothes I could find, I left, started running, almost tripping over my notebook that was open on the floor. I took the notebook and ran to my car. Breathing clearly and sharply through the freezing air.

I drove in the messy tiny red car I bought myself two years ago. I sat on the soft red seat. Placing my hands carefully on the steering wheel, I leaned my head against the window, closed my eyes for a few seconds, and started driving.
I found myself standing under the big metallic gate, hidden in a beautiful tangled forest. The trees collapsed with the red-orange shade of the twilight sky. I took a few steps and rang the bell, "Cohen Family" was written in beige letters. I took another deep breath and started walking on the sparkling bricks.
I walked into the living room, trying to wipe all the sweat I felt from my hands. I looked at the dusty beige wall covered with pictures: I leaned my head against the wall, looking at one dusty picture, a sweet girl, maybe five years old, wearing a 'Harvard law school' shirt with 'future lawyer' in the front. Being at this house again, I felt smaller than ever, smaller than I was in that picture. Why can't I fight for my principles?. I pushed my legs because they resisted walking. As far as I could from my mother, who read the giant book, probably full of boring laws, I stood in the living room.
"Oh, Maya! What are you doing here, sweetie?"
"I wanted to talk with you, mom. I received an email today… from the New York Times. I've been accepted for their internship". Silence, neither my mom nor I wanted to respond. I straightened my back and said in the most stable voice I could,
"And I'm going." One single look at her face, and my voice wasn't even close to being regular.
"Maya, you are going to be a lawyer, and if you work hard, you will get accepted next year to the best law school."
I lifted my chin, "I don't want to be a lawyer! I don't want to be like you or my sister. I know I can be a good journalist!"
But she already decided, "Maya, honey, you know how important it is to have stability, to have economical options."
"But mom, I aspire to change, to write for the ones who can't speak or need the 'attorney' to speak for them."
"Maya, this is an unpaid internship. Journalism is such a hard profession to succeed in."
"Mom, can you listen?"
"That's it, go to your room. You are tired; you don't want to act like a 5-year-old."

My face was so red I thought I would explode. I stepped as loud as I could so my mom could hear. After everything I accomplished, I still feel like my height is 3'5, and I still wear bows in my head. I felt like a child whose mummy still picks everything for him. I went to my old room, still covered with pink tape on the wall; I opened the heavy door of my closet, full of blankets, and saw my pink, full of barbies on the cover, a diary from when I was 8:’Today mom took me to Yale law school, my dream school, I can't wait to study law and become a lawyer! I really want her to be proud of me'. I exhaled. What am I supposed to do? I sat on the soft mattress. I slowly opened my suitcase and stared at the big letter, maybe I stared for 20 minutes, maybe for an hour but I could feel my hand shaking and sweating. 

"Maya?" I suddenly heard. I opened my eyes, trying to get up unsuccessfully. I saw our maid-Marina, who used to babysit me until I was 8. 

"Your mom told me to come to your…. What is that? The New York Times?" 

"Amm yes" I tried to hide most of the letter so she couldn't read the rest. My heartbeat was so fast that I thought it might pop out of my chest. I planned on hiding the letter and forgetting about it, but Marina seemed ready for a serious talk... 

"But I'm not going."    

"Let me guess, you spoke with your mom?"

"Marina, please forget it. I said I'm not going, I'm not good enough" My voice broke when I said the last words... 

She didn't respond; she reached for her pocket and handed me one folded, old, yellow paper.

 "What is it?"

"Just read," so I opened the folded paper, smiling at the drawing of cake and balloons. I started reading; A tear dropped over my cheek and fell on the card, leaving a mark on the card. I read it slowly, focusing on the pink letters. 

 "Who wrote it?"

"You, when you were 7 years old, and I kept it until today," she stood up, stared at me, and said voicelessly only with her look: 'You're more than enough,' and walked, leaving me with the paper in my hands, my mouth half-open...

I flipped the paper,' follow your dreams' was written on the back.

Usually, I would hate this sentence, so ironically and cheesy. So easy to say but so hard to follow. When I wrote this letter, I truly believed that if you want something, you can accomplish anything. I loved this perspective, so optimistic. How did I know anything at 12 but nothing at 21? 

 A warm, confident feeling went through my body: what stops me from following my dreams? This feeling made me sure that I wanted to be a journalist, making my voice clear and sure.

"Marina, wait!" I stood up and walked to the door. "I am going to talk with her. Hopefully, she will visit me in New York next year," A smile spread across my face.

She turned over. "Aren't you nervous? Don't you know how your mother will respond?"

"Not really," I said, walking to the living room holding the card.


The author's comments:

My name is Neta, and I'm currently living in Newton, Ma. I grew up and lived in Israel until two months ago. Growing up in the middle of conflict, questioning what side am I on? I felt like having divorced parents; when I was younger, I asked my family, are we the bad guys or the good ones? My mom smiled, hugged me, and said, "you know there's never one side who is right? there's never one person who is evil and the others are saints." and she always encouraged me to think critically and deeply test the things I hear or read. I went to a lot of protests with my family. My parents taught my brother and me to use our voice, shout when we need to, and politely disagree, but growing up in an environment where kids are always restless and have to fight to have a particular toy. It teaches you to be assertive- getting your way without yelling and not giving up on your values. My parents always told my brother and me, "don't act like uneducated Israeli kids" I would always respond, "but I am an Israeli kid."I got offended that this is how people and even the citizens view us, view me. So I tried to be the best I could, polite, educated, the kind that adults like, but as soon as I grew a bit taller, I started to use my voice, and most importantly, my pen.
Whenever I felt that my parents prioritized my brother, prouder of him doing the minimum when I did the maximum, I ran to my notebook. I started writing, crying, screaming from madness. It hurt my self-value. It made me an overachiever, and all I sought was success, validation. But when you focus on one spectrum in your life and dedicate yourself to it- one lousy grade can ruin your mental health. Don't get me wrong- my parents are amazing and loving. Still, I always wanted to be the best at everything. Being competitive, I decided to devote all these feelings to the story. I wanted to show a peek into the sibling's world, show the constant pressure that siblings deal with, and make their parents proud.


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