We’re playing this new game where we source short story prompts from the surprising search terms that bring unsuspecting internet users to our blog. Today’s prompt is “rutgers themed mailbox.”
I pulled the screen door open, jimmied our sticky front lock, and shoved my way into the house. Boxes full of my belongings were scattered on the living room floor waiting to be closed and labeled with phrases like sweaters or desk supplies. Taking stock of everything I owned felt good like I had enough possessions to be proud of.
“Darling!” He shouted, “Come see the package we got today!”
My father herded me into the kitchen where the rest of my family was standing, bored. He shook his hands near his head to clear his mind, picked up a pair of scissors, and began hacking through the box. He cut from all different angles and began pulling at the cardboard flaps until the box was ripped completely open. After all the plastic packing peanuts had been thrown about the room, he pulled out a bulky red plastic rectangle with a huge white R stamped on both ends. Laughing, he held the plastic sheet up high over his head while the rest of the family politely clapped.
My father, the plumber, and a Rutgers themed mailbox cover. “I’m so proud of you girl! Now everyone will know that we got a college student in our family!” He leaned down and kissed the top of my head then patted me on the shoulder a bunch of times. My brothers and my Ma went back to their own activities.
“I love you too Dad,” I said.
And I did. But not enough to stick around. This year I was the only one getting out of this neighborhood. Eight kids on our block to graduate, fifteen still in high school, and many more resigned to living with their parents forever; to wake up looking at the same highway pass for the rest of their lives.
I blended in real well in high school. Did my homework but smoked before class, went out after curfew and made out with drop-out Tommy. I was a proper street kid. Seductive gum popping and everything. I was cool. This claim of higher education, this flag on our front lawn declaring to the street that I was leaving, would wreck any bad-girl image I built.
But my father, the eighth grade graduate, was bursting with pride. So I walked outside and helped him strap this tacky ugly gaudy stupid Rutgers themed cover onto our mailbox. Tomorrow, all guarantees, it will be covered in broken eggs and feelings of betrayal. But right now, my father, whom I love, is happy.
Sarah Beth Kaye is a contributor for the Rutgers Review.