Sept. 3 6:34 PM
    Zara peered into the oblong mirror of her vanity and the “Chosen One” stared back. Olive eyes burned with the knowledge of postulates, polyatomic ions, and parabolas. Plump lips were covered with a bold shade of Crimson Cleverness 102. Curly raven locks redolent of liquid determination were tied back with a polished ribbon. Slender fingers bore a writer’s bump of a 2345 SAT, and a dainty hand held an epistle from the object of her life-long effort, announcing, “Congratulations, Zara! On behalf of the faculty and staff of Smith University, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your acceptance as a member of the class of 2020.”
    Thus was the surface image of Zara Murata, bred for the Ivy, oozing with sense of self, and on track for greatness.
Zara broke her focus on the mirror and gazed down at her checkered dress, coyly smoothing the wrinkles out from the diaphanous fabric. She looked up, taking in the image of herself once more, and continued practicing the convincing persona of a self-assured soon-to-be Ivy Leaguer. 

  Once content, Zara bounded down the stairs to greet the hoi polloi awaiting her arrival to celebrate her oh-so prestigious achievement. It was to be her last dinner at home, her last dinner that she held the infinite potential of a high school grad.
   On the ornate table sat plates of Japanese-Italian fusion Murata-Abate family recipes, which were created soon after her a young, c***tail dress-clad Ayaka Murata first glimpsed at a dreamy-eyed waiter one starry night on the rooftop of the Terrazza Amoruccio.
   Zara loaded her plate with udon minestrone, the dish she had adored ever since she first tasted it as a child. She momentarily lifted her eyes to the wall decorated by a framed photo of a half Japanese, half Italian three-year-old with sauce coating her insatiable lips. Her lips forming into a sweet smile, Zara began shoveling in the soup with the same eagerness she had exhibited 15 years ago.
   “In honor of my beautiful wonder, Zara,” toasted Ayaka as she rose her wine glass with the proud flourish of a mother whose own child had achieved the dream she had once fallen short of.

Sept. 4 5:30 AM

   Zara’s rental car rattled over the foggy pass on her way to the airport. She drove alone, per request of herself. After a week of visits from a seemingly endless stream of friends and family, she wished for a moment to reflect.
   Everything she had done up to this point was to get where she was traveling now. It was always the plan: Overachieve in high school, then receive acceptance to Smith University. Zara had followed her objective to the t, taking first in science fairs and debate competitions, leading a plethora of clubs, and acing the most rigorous courses with flying colors. The rest had never been more than a muddled “I’ll figure it out later.”
   Later had come, and Zara was puzzled more than ever. She knew how to identify complex ions, but she was perplexed by her own identity. She could find the antiderivative of a function, but she knew not how to discover her purpose, her passion, her place on earth. Zara’s assured face had appeared in her senior yearbook aside the title of “Jane of all Trades”; her peers had known she could pick any field or practice and climb to success. Thus was the ability that won her her greatest goal, and thus was her greatest handicap.
   So, Zara watched the streaks of color of cars and the lanthine lines of the highway and wondered.
   “Who will I be?” she muttered aloud as she momentarily glanced to the view of pine trees outside her car window.
   From the corner of her eye, a streak of red-orange sharpened into a Ford Ranger. Zara whipped her head around, her face growing rigid with terror, and met fender to fender with her answer.

Sept. 20 12:20 PM
   “It’s time for you to wake, Zara-chan.”
   Zara’s heavy eyes flitted open and, in her post-doze daze, tried to push a lock of hair off her cheek, only to be once again faced with the foreign sensation of having zilch control of the body she inhabited. Again, the scene played in her mind. The fire-colored truck hurdling towards her. Her body stiffening in fear. Whiteness.
   She suffered no memory loss and no major injuries besides the trauma to her brain which placed her in a state of paralysis. The rest of her brain functioning, the golden child was caged inside her great mind.
   The sad smile of her mother entered her view of the hospital ceiling. Zara noticed the rare messiness of Ayaka’s bun at the nape of her neck and the coat of burgundy lipstick applied to distract from her rheumy eyes.
   Pushing her daughter into sitting position, Ayaka pulled the lid off of a steaming tupperware. The inviting aroma of udon minestrone wafted into Ayaka’s enticed nostrils.
   “I figured you’d appreciate a break from those disgusting hospital meals.”
    Ayaka dipped the spoon into the dish and brought it to Zara awaiting lips. The taste exploded into her mouth, better than she had ever remembered. Broth began to trickle from her mouth and onto her chin, and she cursed her unresponsive extremities while her mother took a rag to her lips.
    Ayaka held the spoon up and Zara momentarily examined her upside-down visage in the silver. Olive eyes rimmed with faint purple bruises. Tangled raven locks rested on the shoulders of a hospital gown. Dry, scarlet lips crooked across ashen skin.
    “Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” Ayaka started, reaching into her bag and pulling out a newly opened letter. “I thought you’d want a look at this.”
   She held the ivory page front and center for Zara to read.
   “On behalf of the faculty and staff of Smith University...”
    For the first time in her lengthy 18 years of life, a wave of apathy washed over Zara’s mind, and a sly smile began to blossom upon her lips.