Cassie Westbrook stood in front of the empty canvas her mind, for once fresh out of ideas. She shifted her weight from leg to leg and pushed her black framed glasses up onto her head. All she wanted to do right now was paint; all she ever wanted to do was paint. She walked over to her supply cabinet, the concrete floor cold on her feet. She pulled open the door and looked around inside, deep in thought. Paint, charcoals, brushes, canvasses, on and on, every art supply you could imagine. She reached to the back and pulled out some oil paints, a pallet, and a caddy of brushes, putting them on the cardboard boxes next to her easel. She hadn’t wanted to waste her small wallet on a table or desk; every penny went toward art supplies. The boxes were good enough. Cassie squeezed some purple and blue shades of paint onto the pallet and grabbed an old, fat brush. The color had worn off the brush handle where her hand held it so many times before, and the bristles were soft and smooth from its continuous use. She dipped the brush into the paint, tenderly stroking the paper with it. One stroke, then another, again and again, she painted until hours later it was perfect. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she still loved it. A flowing sheet of blue tones, like the sea, but brighter. It had complex textures and bits of other colors dabbed here and there. It was unexpected, unique, perfect. Cassie pushed her glasses back down onto her nose, then carefully picked up the painting and carried it over to the drying rack, slipping it into a slot. She walked back to the easel, grabbing her brushes and palette, and brought them over to the the sink where she left them to soak in warm water. Then she flicked out the light and walked upstairs where her mom was sitting eating lunch.

“Hey, Cas; I made some chicken salad. Come sit.” Her mom patted the seat next to her. Cassie walked over and plopped down in the wooden chair. She picked up her fork and started eating. “So,” her mom said, “make anything good down there?”
Cassie nodded and grinned, the smile just barely reaching her eyes.
“Great! You’ll have to show me later,” her mom coaxed. Cassie shrugged, continuing to eat.
Her mom got up and put her empty dish in the sink, reminding Cassie, “Its one o’clock. We gotta go in half an hour. You almost ready?”
Cassie put down her fork and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She grabbed a pack of pale yellow post-its from her sweatshirt pocket, along with a purple mechanical pencil. She wrote “scared” on it in small, neat letters. She took her plate to the sink, handing her mom the slip of paper. Her mom read it, nodding knowingly, “It’s gonna go great, I promise. Why don’t you go get dressed? While you’re in your room, grab some more post-its and your portfolio. Do you need help bringing it out?”
Cassie shook her head, “no,” ducking out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her small, purple room. She pulled open her closet door, reaching up and grabbing the black skirt and white blouse she had picked out weeks before. She slipped on a pair of black stockings and put on the blouse and skirt, tucking in the top. She pulled back her hair into a neat bun, examining her appearance in the mirror and readjusting her glasses. Once she was satisfied with how she looked, she walked over to her desk, pulled open the top drawer, and snatched up a pack of post-its, light pink, and still in their cellophane wrapper. She peeled off the shiny plastic, tossing it into her trash bin. She knelt down and reached under her bed, grabbing the thick strap of her portfolio and tugged it out. She clutched it in both hands, lifting it into her arms. She left her room and padded back down the stairs. She leaned the bag against the wall of the entry way and walked back into the kitchen where her mom was doing dishes.
She grabbed another post-it from her pocket and wrote “leave early?” on it, handing it to her mom, who was now tidying up the table.
“Sure. You wanna leave now?”
Cassie nodded in response. She strode over to the door and grabbed her new black patent leather flats. She slipped them on, brushing off any bits of dust, and then went over to the coat closet, grabbing her grey winter coat with the furry hood. She pulled it on and then picked up her portfolio, while her mom grabbed her purse and put on her leather riding boots.
“Alright, lets go,” her mom exclaimed.
Cassie twisted the handle and opened the door, breathing in the cold January air, her mom a few steps behind her. She walked over to the car and opened the back door placing the portfolio in the back seat. Then she opened her own door, climbing into the passenger seat. Her mom locked the door, got into the car, and started the engine, turning the heat way up. They were on their way to The Randor Academy of Fine Arts, Cassie’s college of choice.
On the drive thoughts were racing through Cassie’s mind. Randor Academy was the only college she had ever wanted to go to. Their art programs were renowned. She had been there earlier in the year for a tour of the campus and had loved it. Cassie had never liked change, but living at Randor might just work for her. She wanted to go there more than anything. She just had to go there. There was no other option in her mind. She had sent in all of her applications and forms and was confident that she could get in, but she wasn’t quite sure. What college would ever want to accept a mute girl into their school? How was she supposed to walk in there and act normal when she had to step so far out of her comfort zone? How was she supposed to answer a complete stranger’s questions... all on post-its? How was she supposed to hand over her precious creations and let these people look at them and judge them? She had never shown anyone her work except for her mom. How could she trust someone she didn’t know with the things that meant most to her?
At last they pulled into the vast parking lot. Once the car was parked, Cassie pushed her door open, hopped out, and opened the back door. She tenderly lifted out the big black portfolio and started toward the administration building. Her mom locked the car and hurried over to her. They climbed the old steps and pushed through a set of hefty wooden doors, stepping into the lobby.
A woman who looked about thirty sat behind a long maple reception desk, biting at her nails while reading an art theory book. At the sound of the doors swinging shut, she put down the book and said in a cheery voice, “Hi, there! What can I help you with?”
Cassie and her mom walked up to the desk. “This is my daughter, Cassie Westbrook, she’s here for a two thirty interview with...” She pulled out a crumpled form from her slouchy brown bag, and scanned it for the name of the man who was supposed to be interviewing Cassie, “Mr. Robson.”
The lady at the desk typed rapidly at her keyboard, her eyes scanning the computer screen in front of her. “Ah!” She exclaimed, “Here we are: Cassandra Westbrook. If you would just follow me, dear. Mrs. Westbrook, you can stay here if you like, or you can walk around campus while your daughter’s in her interview. Oh, and I’m Sheri, by the way, if you have any questions.” She stood up clumsily and walked around the desk, starting off towards a hallway and motioning for Cassie to follow.
Cassie walked toward the hall, turning to glance back at her mother. She would be all alone for this one. Her mom gave her a thumbs up. Cassie smiled, turning towards the hall and continuing forward. As they walked down the hall, Cassie pushed up her glasses to admire the many pictures hanging on the walls: portraits, abstract, modern, every kind of art, in matching frames.
Sheri knocked on a door at the very end of the hall and paused, waiting for a response. After a second, a deep, rough voice called, “Come in.” Sheri opened up the door to a large, brown room. At the far end was a desk, and behind it a clean-cut, balding, older man.
Sheri explained to him, “Mr. Robson, this is Cassie Westbrook, here for your two thirty.”
Cassie cautiously walked into the room. The man, Mr. Robson, got up from his leather chair and maneuvered his way around the desk, which was covered in piles of manila folders -- the resumes of all the other applicants, the people who could steal Cassie's dream from her. He held out his hand, and Cassie slowly shook it. “Hello, Cassie was it? I am Scott Robson, head of admissions. Take a seat, please.” He motioned to two rigid wooden chairs across the desk from his seat.
She took off her coat and draped it over the back of her chair, grabbing her post-its and pencil. As she sat, he sauntered over to his desk, leaning back into his chair with a sigh. He shuffled through one of the piles until he found the folder he was looking for. As he pulled the thick cream colored papers out, she caught a glimpse of her name typed in black on a white sticker pressed neatly onto the tab of the folder. Westbrook, Cassandra Anne, in tidy little letters. He flipped the file open and shuffled through the papers inside. On top of the stack of sheets was a little yellow sticky note that read “mute” in pencil. “Mute.” Cassie closed her eyes, thinking, Mute! I will never be anything but mute. I am not an artist, I am not a person, I am just mute. She opened her eyes to see Mr. Robson staring at her.
“So, you don’t talk?” He asked, not sure what to say. Cassie nodded. “So how are we going to go about this?” He questioned Cassie and himself about how this could work.
Cassie placed her post-its on the desk, picking up her pencil, and wrote “I will write.” She handed him the post-it and he read it, slowly nodding, “Alright then, may we begin?” Cassie nodded.
Mr. Robson looked down at the papers. “It says here you are home- schooled by your mother. Have you ever been in a public or private school before?”
Cassie nodded and wrote, “until 2nd grade.”
He nodded. “Why did you switch to home-schooling?”
Cassie wrote, “Mom convinced I would talk. In 2nd grade, Dr. said I never would.”
As Mr. Robson read it, he thought to himself, If this girl couldn’t deal with elementary school, how is she ever going to survive college. This is silly. I should just hurry up with the questions, and she can get out out of here. There is no way this will work. Mr. Robson continued with his questioning, “So how long have you been serious about art?” he asked her, dismissively.
It was clear to Cassie that Mr. Robson was far from optimistic about a mute, homeschooled kid like herself. She picked up her pencil, clicking the eraser for more graphite, and jotted down, “From before I can remember, all I ever wanted to do was art” It was true. Cassie’s life consisted of nothing but art -- sketching, drawing, and painting. There was not a single day she could recall in years that she hadn’t made something. It meant everything to her.
Mr. Robson read over her words. “So what do you want to do after you graduate?”
Cassie wrote, keep painting,/drawing. create business. sell online, custom art. After that, Mr. Robson asked, “Why are you interested in Randor Academy?”
Cassie wrote, “Art’s my dream. Randor’s best. Randor is my dream.”
Mr. Robson and Cassie continued with questions and answers, Mr. Robson growing tired of Cassie’s abbreviated responses.
Then came the moment Cassie feared most. He said, “Alright. I guess I will take a look at some of your pieces.” He stood up, walking over to a large, empty table.
Cassie rose and lifted her portfolio, hauling it up onto the table for Mr. Robson to see. As he began to unzip the case, Cassie bit her lip while her brain swarmed with nervous thoughts. This is it. This is what he bases my acceptance on. What on earth am I doing here? My art isn’t good. I’m not good enough for an amazing school like this. I’m mute, for heaven’s sake! I shouldn’t be going to a school. I should be in home instruction. I don’t have a life, I don’t have a future. I don’t even have a voice. I am a worthless load of silence. I am showing him my precious art for nothing -- just to be judged and then to have my dream crushed. What was I thinking?
She looked up at Mr. Robson. What was that look on his face? What was going through his mind? He stood there with his jaw hanging open, eyes glued to the table, glued to Cassie’s work -- A look of amazement! On Cassie’s was a look of relief. Maybe she was good enough. Maybe her art could make up for the lack of sound. Maybe, just maybe, Cassie could do this. She looked at the table, at her creations. Mr. Robson gently, slowly flipped through her works, his face looking more and more amazed with each piece. He observed each careful work of pencil, charcoal, pastel, oil, acrylic, water color, all of her best work. He seemed more than satisfied. He said to himself, Now this; this is not what I expected -- expression through art, instead of through words. I think she shows great potential. To Cassie he said, “Well, Ms. Westbrook, I am pleased with what you have here.” He closed the portfolio, zippering it shut. “Expect to be reached by the school in mid-late april. Thank you for coming in.”
Cassie nodded, trying to hold in her excitement. She picked up her portfolio, holding it carefully in her arms, glad to have her work to herself again She walked to the desk and snatched up her post-its and pencil. Mr. Robson opened the door for her and shook her hand, bidding her farewell. She walked out the door, and it closed behind her. As Cassie walked back down the hall, Mr. Robson sat back down at his desk. Sitting right in front of him was a small, pink post-it note. It read, “Thank you. I hope I was good enough.” Mr. Robson smiled. “We’ll see,” he said to no one; “We’ll see.”
Cassie went back to the receptionist’s desk where her mom was speaking with Sherri about the school. She heard Cassie walk over and turned to her with a look of pure hope. Cassie stood there with an thoughtful grin.
“How’d it go?” Her mom and Sherri asked at the exact same time. She scribbled on the post-its she was still holding, “We’ll see.”

Three months later...
Cassie stood in front of her easel with charcoals making something new. It resembled the room where she had talked with Mr. Robson. It was April 28th, and still no letter. She wondered when it would finally come. She was so excited about the letter, yet she dreaded its arrival. If she didn’t make it, all hope would be gone. She heard the door open and close upstairs and again a moment later. “Casssssiiiiieeeee!” her mom yelled excitedly. Cassie put down her things, and grabbed her glasses off her cardboard boxes, sliding them on. She bounded up the stairs. As she entered the kitchen, her mom stood there waiting with a fat envelope in her hands. She handed it to Cassie, who held it with both hands. She fingered the edges of the paper. Addressed to “Ms. Cassandra Anne Westbrook” in perfect typed letters. The name of the return address: “Randor Academy, 385 Caplum Way.” This was it. This was the letter that could crush Cassie’s dreams or make them all come true. This letter would determine her future. She couldn’t just open it right then. It wouldn’t have been right to treat her future as a regular piece of mail. She walked to the back door, envelope in hand, and slipped on her patent flats, now worn out and faded. She opened the door and stepped outside. With slow steps, she walked over to the little red bench in the back of her yard. It sat on the shore of a small lake. All her life, she would come out here to sit at this very spot and look over the water and think. She took a deep breath. It was time. She took off her glasses and placed them in her lap. Cassie slipped her finger under the tab on the envelope and carefully tore it open. She pulled out the many papers inside, neatly tri-folded to fit in the confines of the envelope. She unfolded them and her eyes scanned over the front page. Cassie took a deep breath and started to read. It started with Dear Cassandra. She read through the rest of the page and scanned through the other pages attached in the packet. She stared at those simple, life changing words and exhaled. So...she put on her glasses--- looked out over the lake, and her life was never the same again.