Free My Year with Eleanor by Noelle Hancock Page A

Although I was proud of my successful shark dive the day before, I hadn’t achieved the same sense of accomplishment I’d had with the last big challenge. During the apex of my last swing on the trapeze, I’d experienced a joyousness that I never would’ve felt had I not gone up there. My shark encounters, on the other hand, had been full of terror and panic that hadn’t stopped until they were over. Not all fears are worth chasing, I realized. What had I really gotten out of this? Sure, I’d lived and I’d have a good story to tell, but shouldn’t life be about more than just survival and bragging rights? Shouldn’t it be about growth? Being afraid of sharks was like being afraid of fire. There was no psychological upside to overcoming one’s fear of sharks. We’re supposed to be afraid of them—they’re monsters! From now on I’d choose my challenges more carefully. As I stepped off the boat onto the dock, I calculated how many days I had left on the experiment: more than three hundred days. That’s a lot of tomorrows.

Chapter Four
    Do the things that interest you and do them with all your heart. Don’t be concerned about whether people are watching you or criticizing you. The chances are that they aren’t paying any attention to you.
    â€”ELEANOR ROOSEVELT
    â€œI just came away from the weekend wishing I was more like my friend Bill,” I said wistfully.
    â€œAnd what qualities does Bill have that you admire?” Dr. Bob asked.
    â€œWell, the man has almost no fear. And he’s just . . . goofy.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you did something truly goofy?” I opened my mouth to reply and he added, “While not under the influence of alcohol.”
    I closed my mouth and reconsidered the question. “Probably right before college. Yes, definitely, the Yale video.”
    â€œVideo?” he repeated, confused.
    Of all the colleges I applied to, Yale was the last to respond. I’d already been rejected from Duke and Georgetown, which sent terse letters regretting to inform me of my subpar credentials but wishing me luck at a school with lower standards. So I was bowled over when Yale wait-listed me. Immediately I unleashed an aggressive letter-writing campaign upon the admissions office. Every other day for three weeks, I mailed a letter detailing why Yale would be making a terrible mistake if I wasn’t admitted. Then I got creative. I’d always loved the Dr. Seuss book Oh, the Places You’ll Go! So I wrote my own version called Oh, the Places I’ll Go!, rewriting the words so that the poem was about me getting into Yale. An example of one stanza:
    There are other schools I’ve looked over with care,
    but I’ve made my decision: I don’t wanna go there.
    My university? It must be the best.
    Positively, absolutely, it must top all the rest!
    A place like Yale where my thoughts can be grown,
    guided and nurtured, but still be my own.
    I won’t lag behind,
    No, I’ve got the speed.
    Give me the chance
    and I’ll take the lead!
    Then I acted out the poem on video. The film was shot with the help of a few friends and the special effects amounted to my mother holding a sprinkler over my head to emulate a storm system, but the trampoline sequence more than made up for it. A week after I sent in the video, I received a call from an admissions officer.
    â€œAnyone who puts forth that kind of effort to get what she wants is clearly going places,” he said. “Welcome to Yale University.”
    While I recounted this Dr. Bob was leaning back in his chair, laughing. “What a fan- tas -tic story!” he said with obvious delight. “That took balls, girl!”
    I felt a twinge of jealousy for my former self, which I hadn’t even realized was possible. “Yeah, I had more nerve back then.”
    These days I only thought about doing goofy things. Sometimes during