College Essay (Melrose High School Student, University of Massachusetts, Amherst, Isenberg School of Business)
BLAAAP! BLAAAP! BLAAAP!
The alarm pierces my ears. I roll over, pressing a pillow over my head. No luck.
“Stop already!” I groan, smacking the clock.
I stretch, my wings unfolding—rested and ready. I pull on my clothes and open my window, scanning the sky and planning my route to school.
“Evan! DJ and I need a ride! We’re late!” my brother yells from downstairs.
They’re always late. Ever since I earned my adult wings, getting my brothers to school has become my responsibility. Just last year, Mom was the designated flier. Back then, all I had to do was roll out of bed; she handled everything else.
“I’m coming!” I call. “And bring me a Pop-Tart!”
I thunder down the stairs and assess the situation. The youngest is still half-asleep, shoelaces undone. The older one’s a little more put together, with small, developing wings—close to flying on his own, but not yet.
I glance outside again. In the distance, a student flier is being pulled over for a sky-rage violation.
“What an idiot,” I mutter. New fliers already get watched like hawks—why give the authorities a reason to swoop in? Sky rage is never worth it.
My brother tosses me a Pop-Tart. Wrong flavor—but he tried.
“Tie your shoes,” I remind the youngest. “And if you’re listening to music, wear headphones. No distractions when I’m flying!”
They groan, but listen. I know I sound strict, but flying with two passengers requires focus. I was thrilled when I got my wings; I didn’t realize how much responsibility came with them.
“Climb on,” I say. “We’re late, and I’m not letting Mom yell at me for it.”
One last check of my phone—no urgent messages. I power it off. It’s the law, of course, but really—texting while flying? Who would be that foolish?
“Seatbelts on,” I call. I double-check their harnesses, clip on my helmet, secure my pack, and launch out the window. Wind rushes past as I rise into the fly zone, exhilarated, free.
BLAAAP! BLAAAP! BLAAAP!
I jolt upright. The alarm is still blaring on my nightstand. I shake my head, laughing. What a dream.
“Evan! We need a ride! We’re gonna be late!” my brother yells from the kitchen.
“I’m coming! Grab me a Pop-Tart!” I shout back. It’ll be the wrong flavor—of course.
I throw on my clothes and race downstairs.
“Tie your shoes,” I tell the youngest. “Get in the car—and no music.”
I turn off my phone, slide into the driver’s seat, and feel the rectangular bulge in my pocket: my wallet, holding the license issued by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
It isn’t a set of wings—but it represents the same thing. Power. Trust. Responsibility. A step toward independence I once imagined as flying.
In my dream, wings made me feel grown. In reality, earning my license taught me that freedom isn’t about escape—it’s about being accountable for the people who come along for the ride. And this small, plastic card is one meaningful step in my journey from boy to young adult.