That night, I told Momma Chaney what had happened. I told her that there was no sense in my taking the test, since there was no way I could pass-my thinking was different! (It's funny how, if we're not careful, we'll allow one lil setback to make us throw in the towel.) But Momma Chaney wasn't trying to hear anything I was talking about.

"Cup, you're thinking's been different. Still, you've managed to excel all the way. So what's so different now?"

"But you don't understand!" I pleaded. "Those other tests weren't based on my thinking! This one is, and my thinking is different!"

"Cup, that doesn't even make sense. All tests are based on thinking-and yours is fine!"

Ken also refused to listen to my excuses. Instead, he gave me an extra hour at lunch every day to study. So I kept trying. It paid off a little: my score jumped to 142. It was a slight improvement, but still not good enough. At the snail's pace at which my score was inching up, there was no way I'd get it to a decent number before the date of the actual test-if ever. I could take it and hope for the best or wait until I thought I was good enough to pass.

Fuck it, I thought, and signed up to take the LSAT.

- I studied for the test right up until the moment I walked into the testing room. I said a prayer and picked up my pencil.

By the middle of the exam, it was very apparent that I didn't know what I was doing. So I slammed the testing booklet closed, jumped up, and walked out.

Don't ask me what my score was. I never found out because shortly thereafter, I contacted the LSAT people and told them I didn't want my score. (You see, within a specified time period after the test, you could choose not to receive your test score. Choosing this option, however, meant that not only would you never know your score, but no one else ever would either because it would never be released. It would be as though you didn't take it.) I sank into a depression. I felt stupid and defeated. I began thinking that maybe I'd been right all along-law school was just a pipe dream. I mean, I'd always believed it was unlikely that I'd actually get into law school. But that unlikelihood had turned into a clear-cut certainty of failure.

"Oh, get off the cross!" V shouted when I shared my thoughts with her on the phone. "We need the wood!"

Any other time, I probably would have realized she was telling me, in her oddly comical way, to quit feeling sorry for myself because there were people out there suffering from way worse things. But I was so deep into my pity party, all it did was hurt my feelings. And piss me off.

Oblivious to how her comment had hit below the belt, and refusing to join in my "poor me" indulgence, she spent the next half hour making me remember where I'd started from ("1+1"), reminding me about my vow to go on "no matter what," and declaring that no one who quits can ever be successful at what they've quit.

"Huh?"

"If you quit practicing basketball, you'll never get good at basketball. You may perfect other stuff, but never basketball. To perfect basketball you have to keep at it."

I hated it when V got all positive and philosophical. I hated it even more when she was right. She talked and talked until she wore me down. By the end of the conversation, I agreed to retake the test.

"And I don't care if you have to guess at every question. DON'T YOU MOVE!" She commanded before slamming down the phone.

Again I signed up for the test. Again I studied, giving it my all. Again, I prayed before picking up my pencil. And again, before long, I wanted to run. The only thing stopping me was V's voice screaming DON'T YOU MOVE! So I didn't, although during the last half hour of the exam I did have to guess at every question.

In spite of everything, I left the exam feeling good about myself for at least finishing.

The good feeling didn't last long. My score was a 147. All that kept running through my mind was the fact that a score of less than 142-the unofficial bottom-meant that schools wouldn't even look at you. Shit, I was only five points from the bottom! I was immediately depressed again. "Apply anyway," V said calmly when I told her the bad news.

"Apply anyway," Daddy said when I told him my score. He was trippin'. I figured that he and V were ignorant of the reality of the situation. Hell, I'd flunked the damn test!

Wasn't no law school gon' let me in!

I didn't really think seriously about applying until Daddy, Jr., Ken, and all three moms insisted that I apply.

"Cup," Momma Gail pleaded, "you've come too far to quit. And, God didn't bring you this far to drop you."

Well, somebody dropped the ball! I retorted in my mind. They all couldn't actually believe the crap they were laying on me.

"You'd better apply!" Judge Brown barked when I called to tell him how horribly I'd done. "With all that you've been through, any law school should be kissing YOUR boots to get you to come there!"

I didn't take his comment to heart. I knew he was just being polite. He was way too nice a judge to say what we all knew: I was an idiot.

Larry Burns also jumped on the bandwagon. "Look what you did in my class! You started out three weeks behind and came out first-all the while working full-time and taking a full class load! Put in those damn applications!"

I figured I'd put in a few applications to get everyone off my back.

So with three letters of recommendation-from Ken, Larry, and Frank-I completed five applications, sent them off, and waited. While I waited, I calmed my fears by reminding myself of one of my many rules: you do the foot work, and leave the results up to God.

The first four replies came within the same week. Every one of the schools had denied my application. It seemed that, because of my low LSAT score, they didn't believe I was law-school material. A week later, I received the fifth and final envelope. It was from the University of San Francisco School of Law.

"Lord, I just can't take one more no," I whispered as I stared at the white envelope with the school's name printed in pretty green letters in the upper left-hand corner.

Open it, the Voice urged.

I did. The first word I saw was, "Congratulations!"

I'd been accepted! And not only did USF accept me, they gave me money to come. I was ecstatic. Tears were flowing down my cheeks as I danced around singing and thanking God.

Yeah, but you got into only one school!

Over eight years sober and I was still fighting negative, self-depreciating thinking. Almost immediately my joy was gone.

"How many schools can you go to at once?" V asked when I shared this thought.

As I contemplated her question, I realized she was right. So what if I got into only one law school? I could attend only one! I'd gotten into one, and dammit, I was going to one.

Pack yo' shit, girl, I sassily told myself as I resumed celebrating by jumping and dancing around. We's goin' to law school!

53.

SEVERAL WEEKS BEFORE I was to start law school, I had a panic attack. I'd begun to convince myself that San Francisco was too far away from my family and friends; that if something, anything, went wrong, I wouldn't have anyone around to help me; and that I couldn't hack law school. Hoping to get some solace, I decided to call Carol Wilson, the person whose signature was on my acceptance letter.

When Carol answered the phone, I began talking extremely fast-as I often did when I was nervous. In less than five minutes, she'd learned my name and the story behind it, my life history, and all the reasons why I could flunk out of law school. I spoke so fast, periodically interjecting slang, that she probably didn't understand most of what I said. When I finally stopped to take a breath, she began speaking very slowly as if trying to talk someone out of committing suicide. She comforted me as best she could and assured me that everything would be fine. I hung up feeling a little better. (I later learned that she was instantly convinced I was some nut and probably wouldn't make it through the first year of law school.) Several weeks later, I got to meet Carol face-to-face. She was a tall, slender white woman with long sandy-brown hair. Although she never wore a stitch of makeup, she had a natural beauty enhanced by her cheery personality and welcoming smile. Carol ran USF law school's Academic Support Program (ASP), a sort of "alternative" admittance program, since it didn't use "traditional" screening methods to determine a student's eligibility. If a student's LSAT score or grades didn't "meet the cut," his or her file was forwarded to professors and other school administrators who volunteered to sit on the ASP panel. The panel considered the LSAT score and grades, but focused on other conditions that could have affected the student's school or LSAT performance-like age, learning disabilities, difficult or challenging childhoods, financial challenges, or personal troubles. Most of the minority students in my class, including me, were admitted through ASP.

As administrator of ASP, Carol's job was to mentor, tutor, and guide students through the hell called law school, from help with classes, to help with housing and finances, to armchair psychiatric assistance. Carol had also attended USF, so she had firsthand knowledge of the challenges and pressures of law school. As a result, she often went above and beyond the call of duty.

I wasted no time in utilizing Carol's services, knowledge, and experience. Thanks to years of recovery, which required humility and emphasized the necessity of asking for assistance, I had no problem saying "HELP!" And I needed a lot of help.

I had a hard time learning to think and analyze in the way that law school required. I'd be given an issue. I was then supposed to research the law relevant to that issue, apply the law to the facts (called "analyzing"), and then, based on my analysis, draw a conclusion. It sounds easy. It wasn't-at least not for me. So I was constantly in Carol's office, doing practice exams, asking questions, going over my notes and outlines, crying. I spent so much time with Carol that it wasn't long before we developed quite a bond. I appreciated the time and effort she spent on me. She appreciated and admired my persistence and determination.

Carol wasn't the only one I bugged. All my professors came to know me very well. I took advantage of each's office hours and regularly hemmed them up after class with questions.

Still, I was plagued with fear and self-doubt. It was during these times that I'd call on my support group (Daddy, Jr., Ken, Frank, Larry, or my moms Chaney or Gail), always in tears; sometimes I'd be hysterical. They never hurried me off the phone, but instead took as much time as required to calm me down and convince me that I had what it took to make it.

On one such occasion, I'd called Frank, crying and babbling about how the other students seemed so much younger than me; how they seemed to be catching on much faster than me; and how terribly tough law school was.

"Oh, forget them!" he interrupted. "They couldn't take a fifth of the shit you've been through!"

His reaction startled me. He'd gotten harsh with me before, but never to this degree and with such intensity.

I continued with my babbling, crying about how tough law school was.

"Law school ain't tough. You want to know what's tough? Girl, you're tough! Now you wipe your snotty nose and get back to studying!"

It was the kick in the butt I needed. He'd awakened the fight in me. I wiped my nose, grabbed my pen, picked up my books, and returned to studying.

Still, I knew that I couldn't just count on Carol, my professors, and my family for help. I had to help myself. I had to do like I'd been doing all my life, whether engaging in negative or positive conduct: I had to give it everything I had, go the extra mile, do whatever it took-which, by the way, was always a necessity for studying. The law text books were filled with words I didn't know. Of course, it would have been easier, and faster, to just say "big word" and keep going. But I knew that "pretending" to comprehend meant I was only cheating myself. So when I came across a word I didn't know, I did what V taught me to do years ago when I'd first started school: I'd underline the word and look up the definition. Once I found a meaning I could grasp, I wrote that new meaning above the word. Then, I'd reread the entire sentence (or paragraph) substituting my newly ascertained meaning. Of course, this meant it took twice as long to study. I didn't care. I'd come too far to start shortchanging myself.

Determined that lack of trying wouldn't be the reason I flunked out, I gave law school everything I had, studying day and night. My hard work and persistence paid off. At the end of the first semester, I was in the top 10 percent of the class.

- I remained in the 10 percent the entire first year of law school. Although I'd started law school wanting to be a prosecutor, I couldn't seem to land a position in a district attorney's office. My grades were so good that Carol suggested I participate in on-campus interviewing with law firms who send representatives to campus to interview students for summer associate positions. These were highly sought-after positions because not only was the pay enough to live on throughout the year, but you also got a glimpse of what it was like to be a lawyer, and you spent the summer being "wined and dined" at San Francisco's best restaurants. The best part about getting a position as a summer associate is that it almost guarantees the student a position with the firm upon graduation.

I was hesitant to interview because I'd never done one clean or sober.

I applied to ten firms but got only two interviews, both with prestigious firms. On the day of the first interview, I was having lunch with Candace, one of my tutors who was one year ahead of me in law school.

"I thought you had an interview this afternoon," she said as we sat in a Japanese restaurant, enjoying the only kind of meal starving students could-cheap.

"I do," I replied.

"Well, where's your suit?"

Since I didn't like being questioned, this question pissed me off.

"I got my suit on!" I snapped, sincerely insulted. And I did. I had on a yellow-and-off-white knit pants suit. The pants were a bright yellow, while the matching long sleeved top had off-white trim around the waist, cuffs, and neck. I had on large bright yellow earrings and off-white high heels. I thought I was cute in my suit.

Candace explained "proper" interview attire. She said that you were supposed to wear a plain suit of black, dark blue, or gray. And, just in case the interviewer was an "old-fashioned chauvinist," women should wear suits with skirts, not pants. She said that any jewelry and shoes should be conservative.

I sat speechless. I'd never heard of these rules. I'd never worn a suit before when interviewing for a word-processor or legal-secretary position. In fact, I usually had on something like a miniskirt or short top. No one had ever complained before-at least not to my face. It never occurred to me that interviewing for a lawyer position would be any different.

Immediately I panicked. "What am I going to do?" I asked Candace. My interview was in a little more than an hour, but my apartment was at least an hour and a half away. Besides, going home wouldn't have made any difference, since there were no suits there. I didn't own any.

"Don't panic," she said as she hurriedly paid the check. "I'll think of something."

Luckily, Candace lived one block from school. We scurried to her house where she tried to create a "suit" for me. She was at least four inches shorter and two sizes smaller than I was. Still, she whizzed through her closet, trying to find something that would fit. We found a pair of black slacks that were too big for her. I made myself squeeze into them. They were skintight and too short. I looked like Urkel-the nerd from Family Matters whose pants were always "floodin'." We couldn't find a shirt to fit me, so I was stuck with my bright yellow sweater. She threw on a black jacket that, like the pants, was too tight. Since her shoes were three sizes smaller than mine, I'd have to wear the ones I had on.

"Now, you're ready," she said as we looked at my makeshift "suit" in the mirror.

Picture this: I had on black pants that were too tight and too short, making my off-white high heels really noticeable. A bright yellow sweater bulged from under a black jacket that was too short and so tight it looked like it would bust at the seams at any minute. There was no denying it. I looked like a clown. But at least the outfit was black and it was a "suit."

The interview was a disaster. I was already nervous, but my odd attire made me even more uncomfortable. I left knowing I didn't get the job and aware of the fact that, if I didn't get a suit soon, I wouldn't get the next one. And the next one was the one I really wanted. It was with McCutchen, Doyle, a large, well-known, and much-sought-after law firm. The rumor was that it was a "good ol' boy" firm with few minorities. The rumor mill also said that most of my classmates were shocked I'd even gotten an interview with such a prestigious firm; and none of them believed I'd actually get an offer. One thing was for sure, I wouldn't get one if I didn't get a better suit-a real one. The problem was, I was a starving law student. I barely had money to live on, let alone to buy a suit.

The next day, still panic-stricken over the interview, I went to Carol's office. Distraught, I told her about my recent discovery of "interview" attire, the insane suit Candace had pieced together for me, and the catastrophe of the first interview. Frantic and distressed, I told Carol that I had no clue about what to do for my interview with McCutchen, which was scheduled for the following week. Carol calmed me down and said she had an old suit that was too big for her, but might fit me. She said she'd bring it in the next day and if I could fit into it, I could borrow it for the McCutchen interview. We agreed I would come to her office and try it on the next evening before I went to class.

The next night, when I arrived at Carol's office to try on her suit, she was beaming from ear to ear.

"You're not going to believe what happened today," she chirped as she pulled me into her office, sat me down, and handed me an envelope.

"What's this?" I asked, puzzled.

"Open it," she said, almost jumping out of her seat.

I did, and gasped at what I saw. Inside the envelope were bills of crisp, green money. As I stared at the money, Carol explained what had happened that day.

As promised, she'd brought the suit in. During the day, however, she got a little chilly and put the jacket on. Another professor passing by her office couldn't help but notice her unusual outfit: faded jeans, t-shirt, and a fancy jacket. He stopped and asked her why she was wearing such a nice jacket. She told him the story of my disastrous interview and my lack of proper interview clothes. He listened intently as she explained that the jacket was part of a suit she was going to let me borrow for an important upcoming interview with McCutchen.

When she was done telling the story, the professor stood silently in her doorway for a few moments, looking down at his feet. Finally, he spoke.

"No, that won't do," he said softly as he reached into his wallet, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Carol.

"I'll be back," he said as he disappeared down the hall.

Several hours later, he returned and handed Carol more money. He explained that he'd gone around to other professors, told them the story, and collected more donations for me. The envelope that Carol handed me held a total of $560-contributions from several professors to help me buy a new suit. Before she could finish the story, I was crying in shock, and gratitude.

"But who?" I asked through tears. "Who did this for me?"

Carol responded that she couldn't tell me; the professors had asked to remain anonymous, even the one who initiated the donation campaign. That floored me even more, because to me it meant they didn't want any recognition or acknowledgment for what they had done. They'd simply heard of a person in need and acted from the goodness of their hearts.

Even if I couldn't know who they were, I had to at least thank them. So I asked Carol if she could at least tell me how many there were so I could write the appropriate number of thank-you cards. She agreed. The next day I returned with seven thank-you cards, each one simply addressed to "God's Angel."

Oh, the miracle wasn't over yet. The next day, I got two hundred dollars from Ken. The day of the botched interview, I'd called Ken at work, distressed and depressed. However, during the conversation, I never asked for money to buy a suit. Actually, the thought never occurred to me. Since getting sober, I'd never asked anyone for money. Help? Yes. Guidance? Yes. Advice? Yes. But money? Rarely. Once, I'd borrowed money from Daddy and Jr. to pay for books. When I tried to pay them back, they refused to take it. Still, I didn't ask for money because I believed I had a responsibility to make it on my own. Besides, no one owes anyone-especially me-anything. So when I called Ken all upset, I was just seeking some advice on how to handle the next interview. Feeling my pain, wanting me to land that job at McCutchen, and being the generous person he was, Ken had sent the money on his own.

Boy, let me tell you. When I walked into that interview with McCutchen, I was sharp! I'd taken the money and bought two new designer suits, as well as four blouses to mix and match with them, two pairs of shoes, and matching jewelry. I even had enough money to put some gas in my car to get to the interview. It's true that dress gives confidence. Now that I knew I looked good and was dressed appropriately, my self-esteem and self-assurance soared. I felt I was the right person for the job; I acted as though I were the right person. They agreed. I was offered, and accepted, a two-thousand-dollar-a-week summer associate position with McCutchen.

"Ain't God good?" my mom Gail asked when I told her the good news.

"No, Mom. He's not good. He's great!"

- The next miracle also came from an unexpected source. I was nearing the end of my first year of law school and had run out of money. Of course, once I started my summer job at McCutchen I'd have more than enough to pay the six hundred dollars for my rent. But the job started almost a month after my rent was due. I wasn't worried about the gas and light or phone bills, since I knew I could double up on those the following month without their being shut off. I couldn't do that with the rent.

Unfortunately, it was also finals time, so I didn't have the time (or energy) to stress over rent or money. I had to focus on studying and passing those exams. I'd emotionally burdened my family so much during the year, I didn't want to burden them with the rent problem too. I decided to go to one source and one source only: I had a talk with God.

"Okay, you know I'm trying. You've got to see me down here giving this thing everything I've got. Now, I need some rent money and I need it fast. I'm not gonna worry about where it's gon' come from. I'm going to leave that up to you. But I'm trusting you to come through for me."

I told absolutely no one of this conversation. Usually when I prayed, there was a small amount of doubt. But for some unexplained reason, this time I knew God would come through for me. I had no idea about where the money would come from; I didn't know how or when He'd do it. I just knew He would.

Three weeks later, Ken called to tell me he was sending me "something." When I asked what, he told me this story. He was in San Diego having a meeting with Bill Logue, a long-time client of his who'd created and developed an energy bar. I loved these bars because they were the perfect balance of protein, carbs, and sugar and helped me stabilize my hypoglycemia. When I had worked for Ken, I was always friendly with Bill, often talking with him for a while before putting Ken on the phone. In fact, after I'd left San Diego, Ken called to tell me that several clients had called and become alarmed when I hadn't answered the phone.

When Ken would tell them I'd quit, they were saddened, but then he'd quickly add that I'd done it to attend law school. Most told him to be sure to tell me that they would miss me and were rooting for me. Bill Logue was one of those clients. So when he asked about me during his meeting, Ken thought nothing of it.

Ken told him that I was doing well in school, but was still a starving student. He talked about how expensive law school and the Bay Area were. When I had worked for Ken, Bill often gave me several boxes of his nutrition bars because he knew I liked them. Ken said he'd figured Bill had asked about me because he wanted to send me some more free bars.

But as Ken continued talking, Bill had reached into his pocket and pulled out his checkbook. Ken, still talking about my struggles as a starving student, had taken no notice of Bill's actions-that is, until he'd handed Ken a check, made payable to me, for five hundred dollars. Then, he had reached into his bag and given Ken ten boxes of his bars to send me, along with the check.