Pressed. The word defines my life exactly. My daily schedule is pressed without a moment to spare, fitting neatly into individual squares on the fridge calendar. My hours at the tutoring center and my track and field meets mingle with my parent’s overabundance of commitments until the calendar looks like an advertisement for overachievers.

My shirt is pressed for class today, this very last day of the eleventh grade. Even my hair was pressed by the flatiron and hangs in sheets of golden brown. It’s all about your looks and your beautiful lifestyle to match. I admit my lifestyle looks incredible from afar, but up close there are many flaws in the veneer, but I won’t admit that to anyone. My friends wouldn’t understand.

I hurry down the stairs to breakfast. Anyone can see that my parents have set the tone for my condition. I’m pressed by my environment. The original artwork on the walls, acquired through dealers naturally; the mahogany wood banister polished weekly by someone who doesn’t reside here; and the precision of each chosen piece of furniture strategically placed exactly where it should be. Everything is pressed into its rightful place with care – even my siblings and I. We’re exactly two years apart, to the week. Elizabeth, myself, and Scott, we’re all planned and crease-free. And yet, I want so badly to wrinkle up my life. I just don’t know how.

“Bye,” I holler from the front door.

“Bye, Bettina. Don’t forget to…”

I leave before hearing the rest of Mom’s sentence. I know it’s rude, but I’m dodging further instructions on how I should live my life. Inga always has some piece of advice, whether I want it or not. She means well, but her advice usually involves my image and her expectations of how I should present myself. As if my strained efforts to be as perfect as possible aren’t good enough. At least I have running. I can metaphorically run away each day as fast as my legs will carry me. Run away from the overpowering pressure. Someday, I’ll keep on running and never look back.

Skirting around the front of my BMW, a generous castoff, I can’t help thinking of my sister, Elizabeth. She’s the antithesis of a slacker and is finishing up her second year at Harvard and will soon be home for the summer. How can I compete with Harvard? What if I’m not accepted into an Ivy League school? Things have been quiet at home without her and my mom has piled unwanted attention on me. Considering my latest plan, there is now some relief in sight. I’ll be leaving Buffalo for an entire month this summer.

Parking in the expansive lot of East Seneca High, I say hello to a couple of friends as I enter the front door to start the last day of the school year. It’s always bittersweet to finish up another semester and know I’m closer to ending my time here. If only high school could last a little longer. I’m not ready to be a small fish in a big pond at college. I’m afraid to be just another face in the crowd. The pressure to excel in my undergrad and get into law school is intense too. What if I fail? At least at East Seneca I know my realm. The only consolation of leaving is getting my own place, my own freedom, my own life away from my mom and her constant anxiety. I have my sights set on Columbia, close yet still far enough. That’s how I’m feeling about most things these days – close, yet still far enough. I’m out of reach on purpose.

Making my way down the hall of trophies, I see the side doors to the school patio. The girls will definitely be there. I spotted their cars in the lot. If I have to contain my exciting news any longer, I think I’m going to burst.