165 Days by Karl Hyppolite
Mike gets into Duke University, but worries about the complications that might prevent him from carrying out his studies.
Mike pulled his favorite hoodie off the hanger. Plain gray, soft at the sleeves, and stitched with the Duke logo. It was barely fifty-five degrees out - a cold snap by Miami standards - but that wasn't why he chose it.
He sat on the bed and reached for his phone. Notifications buzzed across the screen - texts from Mateo, a Snap from Cynthia, an IG tag. But it was the notepad icon in the corner that pulled his eyes.
165 days left.
He stared for a beat too long.
Knock knock knock.
"You're good, Mik?" he called.
Mikayla cracked open the door. Eleven years old, sharp-tongued, and already pushing her way into grown business. She stepped inside, plopped onto her twin bed across the room, and crossed her legs.
"You really going to that party?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "First and last one, maybe."
"I'm surprised Mami and Papi said yes."
"I begged. Plus, they know I've got... stuff going on." He glanced at his phone again, then turned the screen off.
Mikayla cocked her head. "Cyn gonna be there?"
Mike tried not to smile. "Why you asking?"
"I'm just saying. You been actin' nervous all day."
He shrugged, tied his sneakers, and stood. "We'll see."
As he reached for the door, Mikayla said, "You know she might feel the same, right?"
Mike paused. Turned back. "What?"
Mikayla smirked. "I'm eleven. I'm not stupid."
He chuckled under his breath. "Too smart. Smart mouth, too."
She shrugged. "It runs in the family."
Mike laughed and slapped her side. "Facts. I'll see you tomorrow."
Papi's Camry rumbled through North Miami's side streets. Mike sat in the passenger seat, a Publix bag of chips and a two-liter of soda between his feet. He'd insisted on bringing something - James said to, and he didn't want to show up empty-handed.
Papi hadn't said much since they left the apartment. The radio buzzed faintly with a kompa track Mike didn't recognize. A lull in traffic gave him space to speak.
"I got into Duke," Mike said finally.
Papi gave a small nod. "Bon bagay. You hear from the other ones?"
"Not yet," Mike said. "I mean... even if I do, I don't know how I'm gonna pay for it."
Papi kept his eyes on the road. "We figure it out."
Mike shook his head. "It's not just money. I'm not eligible for aid. I'll need waivers. Private loans. And if the law changes..."
His voice trailed off.
Papi turned the wheel sharply, making a left. "You focus on what you can control. You keep your head down, you do your work. Let the rest sort itself out."
Mike looked out the window. "What if it doesn't? What if I can't stay?"
Papi didn't answer right away.
"You here now," he said. "That's what matters."
Mike let the silence stretch. He'd heard versions of that before. But 165 days wasn't a metaphor. It was a deadline.
They pulled up outside the house. The beat from inside thumped through the walls.
Papi put the car in park and turned to him. "I come back for you at 11:30. Don't make me wait."
Mike nodded. "I won't."
He stepped out into the Florida night with snacks in hand and a stomach too knotted to feel hungry.
The door was unlocked, but Mike still knocked twice before pushing it open. Bass pulsed through the walls. The kind of bass that made your ribs flutter if you stood too close to a speaker. The living room had been cleared into a dance floor. A handful of kids were already there - grinding, laughing, recording on their phones.
Mike stepped inside, holding the Publix bag like a peace offering.
Mateo spotted him before he could take a second look around.
"My dawg. You made it," Mateo said, weaving through the crowd to greet him. "What'd you bring?"
Mike held up the bag. "Chips. Two-liter."
Mateo blinked. "That's it?"
Mike frowned. "It's a party."
Mateo looked over Mike's shoulder toward the kitchen. "Yeah. You're about to find out, though. We're not on a just chips and soda vibe tonight."
Mike made his way toward the dining table, past red cups, card games, and a flash of LED lights bouncing off someone's white tee shirt. The snack table was already stacked with hot wings, party trays, candy, and a half-finished cake that read SENIORS 2K25.
He found a corner to slide his bag into, then turned. Just in time to catch Cynthia laughing by the keg.
She was leaning against the counter, James standing in front of her, one arm braced casually on the wall behind her head. They were talking close. Not touching, but close.
Mike froze. Mateo moved beside him, silently.
"I didn't know she was tight with James like that," Mike said.
"She's not," Mateo answered. "Not really."
James poured two drinks and handed one to Cynthia. She took it. Smiled again.
"Not really," Mike repeated under his breath.
Mateo patted his shoulder. "C'mon. Let's get you something stronger than Sprite."
They walked to the kitchen island where someone had dumped bottles of rum and plastic cups. Mateo mixed two drinks - heavy on the rum, light on everything else - and handed one to Mike.
Mike took a long sip. Cough suppressed, barely.
"Goddamn," he said.
Mateo grinned. "Get some hair on your chest, big dawg."
The back door was open, so they stepped outside. The backyard had a sagging mango tree, a busted grill, and a circle of metal patio chairs. Mike sat without a word.
Mateo took the seat next to him and leaned back. "Look, she probably just showed up with Liz and got caught talking to him. Don't get in your head."
Mike didn't answer. He looked down at his cup, watched the liquid swirl. "It's not about James," he said finally. "I'm just tired. All of this feels like... a break I didn't even earn yet."
Mateo gave him a look, half sympathy, half push. "You did earn it, bro. Maybe more than anybody here. For real."
Mike wasn't sure he believed that.
The back door creaked open again. Cynthia stepped outside, cup in hand, her curls lit softly by the porch light.
"There you guys are," she said, smiling. "Y'all are hiding out here on purpose, I guess?"
She sat beside Mike without waiting for an answer. Her knee brushed his for a second too long. "You alright?"
"I'm good," Mike said.
She looked at him closer. "You sure?"
He hesitated.
"I've just got a lot on my mind."
Mateo started to rise. "Maybe I should give you guys a minute."
Mike waved him off. "Nah. You're good."
Cynthia took a sip from her cup. "It's not about James, right? You know that boy just likes to hear himself talk."
Mike shook his head. "It's not James. OK."
There was a long pause. Mike could feel her waiting.
He wasn't ready to say it. Not yet.
But soon.
The rum worked fast. Mike didn't drink, not really. But the burn in his throat was easier to handle than the knot in his chest.
Cynthia leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her cup dangled loosely from one hand, half empty. Mateo was still there, silent but present. The bass from the house thumped faintly behind them like a second heartbeat.
"You know you can talk to us, right?" Cynthia said. "Whatever it is."
Mike stared at the grass under his shoes. "It's complicated."
Cynthia gave a soft laugh. "Everything's complicated right now. College. Friend groups. Trying to not drown in APs and scholarships."
Mike finally looked at her. "Yeah, but... my complicated might be different than yours."
Mateo leaned in slightly. "Just say it, man. You don't have to carry it alone."
Mike pulled out his phone. Tapped the screen. The lock screen lit up with the countdown.
165 days left.
He turned it so they could see.
"That's how long I have until I have to renew," he said. "Again."
Cynthia squinted. "Renew what?"
Mateo looked from the screen to Mike, piecing it together. "Wait - bro, is this about DACA?"
Mike nodded slowly.
"I was three when we came here," he said. "Haiti. We flew in and never left. My parents applied for everything they could, but... we've been in this gray zone ever since. DACA's the only reason I can work. The only reason I'm not looking over my shoulder every time I leave the house."
He glanced at Cynthia, then down again. "Every two years I go get my biometrics done. Fingerprints. Photos. Background checks. I pay a fee and wait to see if I still count as... legal enough."
Neither of them spoke.
"This hoodie means something," he added, tugging at the Duke logo. "Duke was a long shot, but I applied anyway. I got in. But I can't get federal aid. No Pell grants. No FAFSA without waivers. No loans unless I find someone to co-sign. And even if I manage that..."
He exhaled sharply. "I'm not guaranteed anything. Not with everything going on. And if it doesn't get renewed, I'm out. Like - out, out. No warning."
Mateo rubbed his hands. "Damn."
Cynthia sat back in her chair a moment, lips pressed. "Wow. You've been dealing with all of this... alone?"
Mike nodded.
"Why didn't you ever tell us?"
Mike shrugged. "How do you even start that conversation? It's not something people talk about. And half the time, folks think 'undocumented' means a stereotype, or they get weird. Or political."
"I'm not people," Cynthia said softly. "I'm me."
Mike glanced at her. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple," she said. "You're Mike. You're smart. With a capital A and F. You're annoying sometimes. You got Mikayla's back like a third parent. You're my best friend."
Mateo held up his cup. "Nah. I'm his best friend."
Mike gave a half-smile. "It's just hard to think about prom and grad night and college when I don't know if I'll still be here."
"You'll be there," Cynthia said.
"You don't know that."
She reached out and clasped his hand. "Then we'll figure it out together."
Mike looked down at their fingers. Her nails were painted gold. Her grip was warm and steady.
Mateo stood, stretching his arms. "I'm gonna grab more Coke," he said, stepping toward the door. "Y'all good out here?"
"We're good," Cynthia said.
Mike watched him go, then turned back to her. "You really mean that?"
She nodded. "You're not alone in this. Not anymore."
He exhaled. For the first time that night, the weight shifted. Not gone, but shared.
Cynthia gave a sly smile. "So... you were really just gonna keep this hoodie story to yourself?"
"I didn't think I'd be at the party long enough to explain it."
"Well," she said, leaning closer. "Good thing I found you. No more hiding."
The apartment was dark when Mike got home. The hallway light was off, but the soft hum of the fridge let him know the world hadn't stopped just because it felt like it had shifted.
He eased the front door closed and slipped off his sneakers.
Mikayla's bedroom door was shut. His parents' too. It was nearly 12:30.
He padded softly toward the kitchenette and sat down at the table, still wearing the hoodie. The laptop he and Mikayla shared was plugged in beside the salt shaker. Mike opened it and waited for the screen to warm up.
No new emails. No new updates.
He opened his files and scrolled until he found it.
College Essay - Draft 1 (Unsent)
It was the version he never turned in. Mami and Papi told him it was too honest. Too risky. So he rewrote the ending. Polished it. Made it safe.
But he couldn't forget what he meant.
He scrolled to the final paragraphs.
We read some of Langston Hughes' seminal works in our English class last year. In his most famous poem, Harlem, he penned the words, "What happens to a dream deferred?" And I'd never come across a more powerful introduction. There had never been one I had connected with as deeply. My life is a dream deferred. A dried raisin in the sun replenished in two-year increments.
My deferred dream is an American dream. One of education, prosperity, and discovery. Friendship and love. Peaks of success and valleys of failure. Love lost and a nuclear family. And I would love nothing more than my dream to include four years at your institution. But if I must, I'll take it in two-year increments.
Mike leaned back in the chair, the kitchen clock ticking behind him.
He clicked out of the browser. Stood up, took his sweatshirt off, and placed it back on the hanger.
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He sat on the bed and reached for his phone. Notifications buzzed across the screen - texts from Mateo, a Snap from Cynthia, an IG tag. But it was the notepad icon in the corner that pulled his eyes.
165 days left.
He stared for a beat too long.
Knock knock knock.
"You're good, Mik?" he called.
Mikayla cracked open the door. Eleven years old, sharp-tongued, and already pushing her way into grown business. She stepped inside, plopped onto her twin bed across the room, and crossed her legs.
"You really going to that party?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "First and last one, maybe."
"I'm surprised Mami and Papi said yes."
"I begged. Plus, they know I've got... stuff going on." He glanced at his phone again, then turned the screen off.
Mikayla cocked her head. "Cyn gonna be there?"
Mike tried not to smile. "Why you asking?"
"I'm just saying. You been actin' nervous all day."
He shrugged, tied his sneakers, and stood. "We'll see."
As he reached for the door, Mikayla said, "You know she might feel the same, right?"
Mike paused. Turned back. "What?"
Mikayla smirked. "I'm eleven. I'm not stupid."
He chuckled under his breath. "Too smart. Smart mouth, too."
She shrugged. "It runs in the family."
Mike laughed and slapped her side. "Facts. I'll see you tomorrow."
Papi's Camry rumbled through North Miami's side streets. Mike sat in the passenger seat, a Publix bag of chips and a two-liter of soda between his feet. He'd insisted on bringing something - James said to, and he didn't want to show up empty-handed.
Papi hadn't said much since they left the apartment. The radio buzzed faintly with a kompa track Mike didn't recognize. A lull in traffic gave him space to speak.
"I got into Duke," Mike said finally.
Papi gave a small nod. "Bon bagay. You hear from the other ones?"
"Not yet," Mike said. "I mean... even if I do, I don't know how I'm gonna pay for it."
Papi kept his eyes on the road. "We figure it out."
Mike shook his head. "It's not just money. I'm not eligible for aid. I'll need waivers. Private loans. And if the law changes..."
His voice trailed off.
Papi turned the wheel sharply, making a left. "You focus on what you can control. You keep your head down, you do your work. Let the rest sort itself out."
Mike looked out the window. "What if it doesn't? What if I can't stay?"
Papi didn't answer right away.
"You here now," he said. "That's what matters."
Mike let the silence stretch. He'd heard versions of that before. But 165 days wasn't a metaphor. It was a deadline.
They pulled up outside the house. The beat from inside thumped through the walls.
Papi put the car in park and turned to him. "I come back for you at 11:30. Don't make me wait."
Mike nodded. "I won't."
He stepped out into the Florida night with snacks in hand and a stomach too knotted to feel hungry.
The door was unlocked, but Mike still knocked twice before pushing it open. Bass pulsed through the walls. The kind of bass that made your ribs flutter if you stood too close to a speaker. The living room had been cleared into a dance floor. A handful of kids were already there - grinding, laughing, recording on their phones.
Mike stepped inside, holding the Publix bag like a peace offering.
Mateo spotted him before he could take a second look around.
"My dawg. You made it," Mateo said, weaving through the crowd to greet him. "What'd you bring?"
Mike held up the bag. "Chips. Two-liter."
Mateo blinked. "That's it?"
Mike frowned. "It's a party."
Mateo looked over Mike's shoulder toward the kitchen. "Yeah. You're about to find out, though. We're not on a just chips and soda vibe tonight."
Mike made his way toward the dining table, past red cups, card games, and a flash of LED lights bouncing off someone's white tee shirt. The snack table was already stacked with hot wings, party trays, candy, and a half-finished cake that read SENIORS 2K25.
He found a corner to slide his bag into, then turned. Just in time to catch Cynthia laughing by the keg.
She was leaning against the counter, James standing in front of her, one arm braced casually on the wall behind her head. They were talking close. Not touching, but close.
Mike froze. Mateo moved beside him, silently.
"I didn't know she was tight with James like that," Mike said.
"She's not," Mateo answered. "Not really."
James poured two drinks and handed one to Cynthia. She took it. Smiled again.
"Not really," Mike repeated under his breath.
Mateo patted his shoulder. "C'mon. Let's get you something stronger than Sprite."
They walked to the kitchen island where someone had dumped bottles of rum and plastic cups. Mateo mixed two drinks - heavy on the rum, light on everything else - and handed one to Mike.
Mike took a long sip. Cough suppressed, barely.
"Goddamn," he said.
Mateo grinned. "Get some hair on your chest, big dawg."
The back door was open, so they stepped outside. The backyard had a sagging mango tree, a busted grill, and a circle of metal patio chairs. Mike sat without a word.
Mateo took the seat next to him and leaned back. "Look, she probably just showed up with Liz and got caught talking to him. Don't get in your head."
Mike didn't answer. He looked down at his cup, watched the liquid swirl. "It's not about James," he said finally. "I'm just tired. All of this feels like... a break I didn't even earn yet."
Mateo gave him a look, half sympathy, half push. "You did earn it, bro. Maybe more than anybody here. For real."
Mike wasn't sure he believed that.
The back door creaked open again. Cynthia stepped outside, cup in hand, her curls lit softly by the porch light.
"There you guys are," she said, smiling. "Y'all are hiding out here on purpose, I guess?"
She sat beside Mike without waiting for an answer. Her knee brushed his for a second too long. "You alright?"
"I'm good," Mike said.
She looked at him closer. "You sure?"
He hesitated.
"I've just got a lot on my mind."
Mateo started to rise. "Maybe I should give you guys a minute."
Mike waved him off. "Nah. You're good."
Cynthia took a sip from her cup. "It's not about James, right? You know that boy just likes to hear himself talk."
Mike shook his head. "It's not James. OK."
There was a long pause. Mike could feel her waiting.
He wasn't ready to say it. Not yet.
But soon.
The rum worked fast. Mike didn't drink, not really. But the burn in his throat was easier to handle than the knot in his chest.
Cynthia leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her cup dangled loosely from one hand, half empty. Mateo was still there, silent but present. The bass from the house thumped faintly behind them like a second heartbeat.
"You know you can talk to us, right?" Cynthia said. "Whatever it is."
Mike stared at the grass under his shoes. "It's complicated."
Cynthia gave a soft laugh. "Everything's complicated right now. College. Friend groups. Trying to not drown in APs and scholarships."
Mike finally looked at her. "Yeah, but... my complicated might be different than yours."
Mateo leaned in slightly. "Just say it, man. You don't have to carry it alone."
Mike pulled out his phone. Tapped the screen. The lock screen lit up with the countdown.
165 days left.
He turned it so they could see.
"That's how long I have until I have to renew," he said. "Again."
Cynthia squinted. "Renew what?"
Mateo looked from the screen to Mike, piecing it together. "Wait - bro, is this about DACA?"
Mike nodded slowly.
"I was three when we came here," he said. "Haiti. We flew in and never left. My parents applied for everything they could, but... we've been in this gray zone ever since. DACA's the only reason I can work. The only reason I'm not looking over my shoulder every time I leave the house."
He glanced at Cynthia, then down again. "Every two years I go get my biometrics done. Fingerprints. Photos. Background checks. I pay a fee and wait to see if I still count as... legal enough."
Neither of them spoke.
"This hoodie means something," he added, tugging at the Duke logo. "Duke was a long shot, but I applied anyway. I got in. But I can't get federal aid. No Pell grants. No FAFSA without waivers. No loans unless I find someone to co-sign. And even if I manage that..."
He exhaled sharply. "I'm not guaranteed anything. Not with everything going on. And if it doesn't get renewed, I'm out. Like - out, out. No warning."
Mateo rubbed his hands. "Damn."
Cynthia sat back in her chair a moment, lips pressed. "Wow. You've been dealing with all of this... alone?"
Mike nodded.
"Why didn't you ever tell us?"
Mike shrugged. "How do you even start that conversation? It's not something people talk about. And half the time, folks think 'undocumented' means a stereotype, or they get weird. Or political."
"I'm not people," Cynthia said softly. "I'm me."
Mike glanced at her. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple," she said. "You're Mike. You're smart. With a capital A and F. You're annoying sometimes. You got Mikayla's back like a third parent. You're my best friend."
Mateo held up his cup. "Nah. I'm his best friend."
Mike gave a half-smile. "It's just hard to think about prom and grad night and college when I don't know if I'll still be here."
"You'll be there," Cynthia said.
"You don't know that."
She reached out and clasped his hand. "Then we'll figure it out together."
Mike looked down at their fingers. Her nails were painted gold. Her grip was warm and steady.
Mateo stood, stretching his arms. "I'm gonna grab more Coke," he said, stepping toward the door. "Y'all good out here?"
"We're good," Cynthia said.
Mike watched him go, then turned back to her. "You really mean that?"
She nodded. "You're not alone in this. Not anymore."
He exhaled. For the first time that night, the weight shifted. Not gone, but shared.
Cynthia gave a sly smile. "So... you were really just gonna keep this hoodie story to yourself?"
"I didn't think I'd be at the party long enough to explain it."
"Well," she said, leaning closer. "Good thing I found you. No more hiding."
The apartment was dark when Mike got home. The hallway light was off, but the soft hum of the fridge let him know the world hadn't stopped just because it felt like it had shifted.
He eased the front door closed and slipped off his sneakers.
Mikayla's bedroom door was shut. His parents' too. It was nearly 12:30.
He padded softly toward the kitchenette and sat down at the table, still wearing the hoodie. The laptop he and Mikayla shared was plugged in beside the salt shaker. Mike opened it and waited for the screen to warm up.
No new emails. No new updates.
He opened his files and scrolled until he found it.
College Essay - Draft 1 (Unsent)
It was the version he never turned in. Mami and Papi told him it was too honest. Too risky. So he rewrote the ending. Polished it. Made it safe.
But he couldn't forget what he meant.
He scrolled to the final paragraphs.
We read some of Langston Hughes' seminal works in our English class last year. In his most famous poem, Harlem, he penned the words, "What happens to a dream deferred?" And I'd never come across a more powerful introduction. There had never been one I had connected with as deeply. My life is a dream deferred. A dried raisin in the sun replenished in two-year increments.
My deferred dream is an American dream. One of education, prosperity, and discovery. Friendship and love. Peaks of success and valleys of failure. Love lost and a nuclear family. And I would love nothing more than my dream to include four years at your institution. But if I must, I'll take it in two-year increments.
Mike leaned back in the chair, the kitchen clock ticking behind him.
He clicked out of the browser. Stood up, took his sweatshirt off, and placed it back on the hanger.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/GHML5xh
via IFTTT
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