An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“I don’t know, Rose, it’s probably a mistake,” Rey said, waving the letter around a little wildly. It had come in the mail, tucked in among the electric and water bills, the latest issue of People which she would swear on her deathbed she’d never ordered, and a catalog of adult onesies that Rose must have signed her up for as a joke. Though the rainbow unicorn one in the girls XL would probably fit and looked cozy as hell. The letter, which had been clutched in Rey’s hand for the past thirty minutes, must have gotten too close to Rose, who grabbed it neatly, managing not to tear it.
“It says Dear Rey Jakoby, that’s you, so strong start,” Rose said, her voice a cocktail of wry and practical, just a little more wry and a little more practical than when they’d first met at college at the First Gen student mixer. “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the New Twynwald Writing Retreat to be held this December.”
“I mean, it’s not Bread Loaf or Yaddo, but they can’t mean me—I’m nobody,” Rey said, fidgeting with the hair that was loose over her shoulder since her hands were now free. This was the reason she usually had it secured in braids or buns at work. Also, because her hair attracted every piece of play-doh, every last drop of homemade slime or organic oatmeal flying around the daycare; before she’d figured that out, she’d been spending a fortune on shampoo, even more on conditioner, a fortune she most certainly didn’t have which was why she had three part-time jobs cobbled together—the daycare, the church thrift store and waitressing at the diner. She sometimes thought it was a miracle she had time or wrist-strength left to write anything at all.