A cold sweat slicked Amelia’s palms. The glossy pages of the university’s admissions brochure felt suddenly clammy between her fingers. Her own words, staring back at her in crisp, perfect font, felt alien, a betrayal. The essay, detailing her disastrous attempt at building a birdhouse, was supposed to be a private confession, a clumsy attempt at self-deprecation. Now, anyone flipping through this pamphlet could read about her ineptitude with a hammer and nails. Her breath hitched. She slammed the brochure closed, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the silent library.
She felt her face flush, heat creeping up her neck. A librarian, a woman she vaguely recognized from English class, glanced over. Amelia hastily pretended to be absorbed in a textbook, her heart hammering against her ribs. The birdhouse. The awful, wonky birdhouse. Every carefully constructed sentence, every slightly embarrassing anecdote about her clumsy fingers, was on display for prospective students to scrutinize.
Amelia’s stomach lurched. She wanted to disappear, to melt into the ancient wooden table she was sitting at. She imagined the admissions committee, chuckling as they read it. They’d think she was a joke, a fraud. She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. The birdhouse, which had been a symbol of her attempt to prove herself, was now a public humiliation.