From rising star Tracy Badua comes a poignant, propulsive standalone YA novel about a teen who, after getting rejected from her dream college, forges her own acceptance and commits to living a lie—perfect for fans of Mary H.K. Choi and Gloria Chao.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Tracy Badua’s This Is Not A Personal Statement, which is out January 17th 2023.
An incisive, relatable tale of acceptance, self-discovery, and the infinite possibilities that await when we embrace our imperfections.
As the youngest graduating senior at her hypercompetitive high school, Perla Perez is certain all the late nights, social isolation, and crushing stress will be worth it when she gets into the college of her (and her parents’) dreams: Delmont University.
Then Perla doesn’t get in, and her meticulously planned future shatters. In a panic, she forges her own acceptance letter, and next thing she knows, she’s heading to Delmont for real, acceptance or not. Perla’s plan? Gather on-the-ground intel to beef up her application and reapply spring semester before she’s caught.
But as her guilty conscience grows and campus security looms large, Perla starts to wonder if her plan will really succeed, and if this dream she’s worked for her entire life is something she even wants.
Dad’s still on his call when we pull into the garage. He heads inside to continue his negotiations, away from the noise of lawn mowers and children and cars whizzing by way above the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit. I beeline for the mailbox.
I know I got in, but anxiety swirls in my stomach as I pad across our immaculate lawn anyway. I wipe my clammy hands off on my jeans and tug the metal mailbox door open with a creak. I pull out a handful of envelopes. Bill, bill, credit card offer, Delmont. My heart stumbles over its next beat.
The envelope is thin.
I blink to make sure I’d read that right. Yes, it’s there in neat, printed text, and yes, that’s the blue-and-green Delmont seal printed in the upper left. I bite my lip.
Why is the envelope so thin?
I don’t have any frame of reference for paper acceptances. Maybe Delmont’s envelope is supposed to look like this. Delmont might have decided to save some trees by referring accepted students to materials online.
That must be it.
How very eco-friendly of them.
My hands shaking, I reassemble the stack of mail and head inside. Dad nods his head, cell phone held up flush against his ear, when I plop the rest of the mail down on the already-mail-cluttered kitchen table. I poise to sprint up to my room when he lays his hand on my arm. We’re the same shade of not-enough-time-in-the-sun brown, thanks to us spending all day indoors. Even our limited free time together is movie theaters and restaurants rather than beaches and hiking trails.
His dark brown eyes fix on the Delmont envelope in my hand.
He squeezes my arm, flashes me a grin, then refocuses on his phone call.
My heartbeat erratic, I take the stairs two at a time up to my room. I nearly trip on the top step I’d crossed thousands of times before.
Backpack down, door shut, envelope in my hands. I launch myself onto the bed, ruffling the light pink pillowcases, sheets, comforter, and two stuffed bears—Bip and Bop—perched on top. Other than the laptop on my desk, my room hasn’t changed in years. It’s the room of a bright-eyed eleven-year-old who picked out a daisy rug because it looked like something she’d seen on TV.
I tuck my legs underneath me and grip the envelope. I turn it over and slide my finger under the seam, earning myself a paper cut as I rip the paper open.
I ignore the smart of the fresh cut and unfold the paper. There it is, the Delmont seal in all its glory at the top, then Dear Ms. Perez, we regret to inform you that . . .
No.
No. No. No.
. . . we are unable to offer a place in our first-year class at this time.
The oxygen disappears from the room. I feel like I’ve been flung into space: breathless, unanchored.
The words on the page blur as the tears start to burn in my eyes. Unable to offer me a place? That can’t be what it says.
Because I’m supposed to get accepted into Delmont. I get in. That’s what’s written in blotchy blue ink in Perlie’s Academic Plan in the bookcase downstairs, what’s tattooed on my soul. Delmont is the next big stepping-stone in my heavily mapped-out future. I get in.
This damn letter is telling me otherwise.
