Dream Big
By: Donald Lee
A pep rally was scheduled for Saturday ahead of Collegiate Prep’s boys’ basketball championship game but for now the students straggling into Ms. Burke’s AP Calculus class for first period were still half asleep.
Students were free to sit wherever they pleased, and Thomas Cortez usually chose the back of the room, as far from the teacher as possible. But today he had arrived early and taken the first seat in the first row, beside the classroom’s large window. A late-season storm had come through the night before, and Thomas wanted to let his anxious mind wander across the soothing blanket of snow that covered the city streets and stoops of the grand row of brownstones opposite the school.
Ella Winslow slid into the seat behind Thomas. She rummaged through her purse for a hair tie and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Hands fumbling, she placed her computer on the desk and opened it.
At the end of each class, Ms. Burke wrote a calculus problem on the whiteboard. At the beginning of the next class, she randomly selected a student to solve it.
Ella’s eyes darted back and forth between the calculus problem Ms. Burke had written on the whiteboard and the answer to the problem she had worked out on her computer. She felt sure her answer was wildly wrong. Ms. Burke had taught math at Collegiate Prep for almost fifty years. She had an old-school style that demanded students come to her class prepared. Like most students in the class, Ella dreaded having Ms. Burke call on her.
She tapped Thomas on the shoulder. He was still lost in the snowy landscape beyond the window. Ella wondered whether he was ignoring her.
“Thomas,” she whispered, “Thomas Cortez.”
Thomas ran his fingers through his thick brown hair, surprised to realize Ella Winslow was sitting behind him—and that she actually knew his name.
She asked, “Did you solve the whiteboard problem?”
“Yes.”
“What did you get for x?”
“X equals twenty-one.”
“You never raise your hand in class, but you always know the answer when Ms. Burke calls on you. You must really like calculus.”
“Not really. It’s just another subject to learn.”
Ella smiled and sighed with relief. “You’re too modest, Thomas, and thanks so much.”
The class grew silent. Ms. Burke shuffled her lecture notes at her desk. She raised her head and gently nudged her eyeglasses onto the bridge of her nose. After a long pause, she said, “Raise your hand if you’d like to volunteer to answer the whiteboard problem.”
No one raised their hand.
“Mr. Reilly, do you have an answer for us?”
“No, Ms. Burke. I had to finish reading David Copperfield in preparation for a test today. It’s a crazy long book.”
There was quiet laughter around the room, but Ms. Burke, her lips tightening, was not amused.
“What about you, Ms. Winslow? Did you solve the problem? Or, like Mr. Reilly, were you too busy to do your math homework?”
Drawing a deep breath, Ella said, “X equals twenty-one.”
“Excellent. But you should be more confident when giving your answer.”
Ella hesitated for an awkward moment. “Honestly, Ms. Burke, I spent almost two hours trying to solve the problem. It had me completely flustered. Thomas Cortez deserves the credit. He could see I was nervous that you might call on me, and he was kind enough to share his answer with me.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Ms. Winslow.”
Speaking to the class, Ms. Burke said, “Mr. Cortez is full of surprises today. Not only has he decided to join us in the front of the classroom, but he has also engaged in a quiet act of chivalry.”
Thomas Cortez sat frozen in his chair, blushing.
Turning to Thomas, Ms. Burke said, “Please stop at my desk at the end of class.”
To understand why Ms. Burke’s summons unsettled Thomas Cortez so deeply, one had to know where he came from. His parents had immigrated to America from Ecuador and become naturalized citizens the year before their only child, Thomas, was born. The only American home the family ever knew was a rented basement apartment in a shingled row house in East Elmhurst, Queens, where Thomas still lived with his father. His mother did seamstress work out of the apartment. His father had begun as a dishwasher at a diner on Astoria Boulevard, working six days a week, and made a strenuous effort to improve his English. After several years, he was promoted to waiter, and more recently to Saturday day manager.
Mrs. Cortez doted on Thomas, treating him as a special gift from God after many years of being unable to conceive a child. By the time Thomas was ready to start first grade, she had become convinced that he had a remarkable ability to learn. As a faithful parishioner at St. Gabriel’s Church, she prevailed upon the parish priest to help Thomas secure a scholarship to St. Gabriel’s Elementary School. There Thomas excelled academically and skipped fifth grade, making him the youngest and smallest boy in his sixth-grade class and leaving him permanently challenged to fit in with more socially mature classmates.
In the fall of his eighth-grade year, St. Gabriel’s principal recommended that Thomas sit for the Collegiate Prep scholarship exam. His parents were elated when he scored well enough to earn a scholarship to Collegiate Prep. Then, at the start of Thomas’s junior year, Mrs. Cortez died suddenly of a heart attack. She had always been his North Star, and her loss left him heartbroken. After his wife’s death, Mr. Cortez had little social interaction beyond a few longtime co-workers at the diner and his deep devotion to Thomas.
Mr. Cortez’s one splurge was also one of his few pleasures: a seven-day-a-week subscription to The New York Times, which he read religiously, cover to cover.
Thomas approached Ms. Burke’s desk.
“Why have you missed our college advisory meetings?”
“I’ve been working at the diner after school three days a week and on Saturdays. I’m swamped.”
“That’s no excuse. Your college applications should be your priority.”
Thomas stood silent.
“Have you even applied to any of the colleges we discussed?” Ms. Burke said with a trace of tender concern.
“No.”
“Thomas, you’re a terrific student. One of only a handful of academic scholarship boys at Collegiate Prep.”
“I’m incredibly grateful. But my father doesn’t see college as my best option.”
“May I ask why?”
“He wants me to learn a trade, maybe plumbing or air conditioning repair. My father has no meaningful formal education. But he keeps up with current events. He believes AI is turning the white-collar job market upside down and feels a trade will give me a more secure career.”
Ms. Burke gathered the papers off her desk and slid them into her leather satchel.
After a long moment, she said, “I’m not saying your father is wrong, Thomas. But somehow I think a person with your intellectual gifts should attend college.”
“I don’t know what to say, Ms. Burke.”
“Just tell me you’ll reconsider sending out your college applications.”
“I’ll talk to my father about it.”
Collegiate Prep’s dining hall had an elegance befitting the school’s ultra-exclusive reputation. Under soft gallery lighting, large custom matted black-and-white prints lined the walls—images of past students, championship teams, and the surrounding Upper East Side streets. Between them were framed literary quotes from classical philosophers, poets, or famous alumni, along with classic art prints by Renoir, Vincent van Gogh, Claude Monet, and Johannes Vermeer.
The room’s layout resembled a trendy Manhattan café: long, high-top communal tables paired with sleek barstools, small round bistro tables for two to four; and a few alcoves where students could gather in relative privacy.
Even now, after nearly four years at Prep, Thomas was still struck by the dining hall’s understated opulence—and by the sight of students swiping their parents’ credit cards with casual indifference to pay for their chef-made lunches. He sat alone at the end of a communal table, reading Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States while eating the cold Spanish omelet his father had packed for him.
That’s when he heard a voice calling his name.
He spotted Ella Winslow sitting with a group of her theater friends at a table across the dining hall, a warm smile on her face as she waved him over. He gathered his backpack and Zinn history book and tossed his lunch wrappings in a trash receptacle. As he approached, Thomas noticed a tall boy sitting beside Ella—whose WASP-y good looks reminded Thomas of the actor Robert Redford. The boy leaned in, gently clasped Ella’s hand, and whispered something in her ear. A moment later he stood, nodded to the table, and walked past Thomas toward the dining hall exit as if Thomas were invisible.
Thomas took a seat at the end of the table.
Ella said, “I’d like you to meet my new friend Thomas Cortez. This morning, he came to my rescue in Ms. Burke’s AP Calculus class.”
A girl said, “My older brother had Ms. Burke’s calculus class, and he told me she’s an assassin.”
“I disagree,” Ella said. “Ms. Burke’s a treasure at our school, and she’ll be greatly missed in a few years when she retires.”
“Boo-hiss,” the girl said, sticking out her tongue humorously.
Thomas surveyed the students around the table as Ella introduced each of them by name. Their creative energy was palpable, and he understood instantly why they excelled at Theater.
“Mind if I see what you’re reading?” a boy asked, reaching across the table to pick up Thomas’s book. “You’re reading Zinn for a history class?”
“No,” Thomas said, a bit self-consciously. “I saw it referenced in a New Yorker essay. It seemed interesting … so I checked it out of the public library.”
Giving Thomas a fist-bump, the boy said, “Respect.”
Handing Thomas a playbill, another girl said, “Thomas, here’s your invitation to attend Collegiate Prep’s Spring Production of Romeo and Juliet.”
Thomas quickly read an excerpt from the playbill.
COLLEGIATE PREP’S THEATER DEPARTMENT
Spring Production—Romeo and Juliet
Juliet—Ella Winslow ‘26
Selected credits: Our Town (Emily), The Crucible (Abigail), The Glass Menagerie (Laura Wingfield).
Training: Summer Conservatory at Lincoln Center; private coaching with MJE Acting Studio.
Next Year: Accepted to The Juilliard School, Drama Division.
Acknowledgments: Thanks to her parents, the CP Theater faculty, and her classmates for their support.
Ella said, “I can’t believe our four years together are ending. I’ll miss you all so much next year.”
The boy who fist-bumped Thomas, rubbing imaginary tears from his eyes, said, “Oh, my dear friends, parting will be such sweet sorrow. We should meet at Collegiate Prep at Christmas break to share bawdy tales of our first semester of college.”
Ella said, “Thomas, you’re invited to our meet-up—that is, if you can tear yourself away from your new life at whatever fancy college you’re attending.”
“Thomas,” another girl said, “You have a quiet intensity about you. I’m guessing you’re on your way to an Ivy League school.”
“Not exactly,” Thomas said.
“No?” the girl said with genuine curiosity.
Suddenly, Thomas could feel the students straighten in their chairs waiting for his answer.
“I’m going to take time off from school after graduation.”
Ella said, “Oh, you’re taking a gap year. Not a bad idea. You’ll have time to figure out your future.”
Before Thomas could answer, another boy said, “I planned a gap year to travel around Europe. My dad said no way. He’d let me gap year only if I interned at his hedge fund. College sounded like a way better deal.”
“For starters, I’ll probably work with my dad at the restaurant.”
Another boy said, “Cool. Your dad owns a restaurant. Entrepreneurialism. I love it.”
Ella said, “Thomas, after the pep rally tomorrow, a bunch of us are going to La Tavola. You should come. It’s on 3rd Avenue between 78th and 79th Street.”
“Yeah,” another girl said, “The vibe there is sick.”
Thomas knew he would miss the Saturday pep rally because his father would make him work at the diner. Still, if he finished work on time, he might catch a train into the city in time to attend the after-rally event at La Tavola.
“I’ll do my best,” Thomas said.
As an only child, Thomas had learned to entertain himself during the long hours he spent alone. He read constantly and watched movies, especially those that captured New York City’s gritty, aspirational energy in the 1970s.
That Friday night, he fell asleep in bed with Saturday Night Fever playing on his laptop. In the film’s Verrazano-Narrows Bridge scene, Tony Manero, and the girl he’s drawn to, Stephanie Mangano, sit on a park bench beneath the bridge’s massive span. Manhattan’s iconic skyline is visible in the distance as Tony talks about the bridge’s construction and how he comes there to think, to dream. Stephanie listens, touches his shoulder, and kisses him lightly on the cheek—a small, tender acknowledgment of their shared hope for a life beyond their working-class neighborhood.
In the way dreams work, the movie’s imagery blended with Thomas’s own longing. Suddenly he was on a bench in Astoria Park with Ella Winslow, the dark, swift water of the East River flowing before them and Manhattan ablaze with light.
His eyes filled with tears. “I want to honor my mother’s memory and obey my father,” he said. “But I don’t want to be a tradesman. I want to follow my own path. I’m willing to risk everything for a bigger life.”
Ella pressed her body against him, and he felt dizzy from her nearness.
“I understand, Thomas,” she said softly. “I’m here for you. We’ll take our journeys together.”
Thomas woke abruptly to find his father standing over him.
“You overslept,” his father said. “Get up. We need to be at work in less than an hour.”
Saturdays were the diner’s busiest day, and Thomas had to work his eight-hour shift without stopping for lunch. He didn’t have a job description except to fill in wherever needed. He bused and cleaned tables, swept floors, served customers water and bread bowls as they read the menu, and organized boxes and cans of food items for the cooks. But today, with one of the deli countermen out sick, Thomas spent most of his time handling telephone take-out orders.
After work Thomas usually joined his father, and the head cook, Danny, the waiter, Miguel, and the dishwasher, Bernardo, at the staff table for dinner. This evening Thomas planned to skip dinner to attend the pep rally afterparty. He approached his father to tell him—but before he could get a word out—his father, swelling with pride, said, “You did a wonderful job with the take-out orders, Thomas. Eat whatever you want. You earned it.”
Not wanting to disappoint his father, Thomas took a seat at the table, thinking that if he ate quickly he still might have time to attend the afterparty.
“Danny, you’re not eating this evening?” Mr. Cortez said, cutting into his steak. “A sixty-year-old man needs to eat well to maintain his health.”
Danny shrugged. “Nah. This and a couple more like it is all I need,” he said, lifting his Modelo.
“No wonder your wife divorced you,” Miguel said, poking Danny in his ribs good-naturedly.
Danny laughed. “You’re probably right. Three marriages, and I still don’t know how to make a woman happy.”
“You want to make a woman happy,” Bernardo said quietly. “Cut back on your drinking.”
Danny pointed at him. “Bernardo, I thought you were going to night school to become a bookkeeper, not a marriage counselor.”
Thomas was barely listening to the conversation as he devoured a cheeseburger and French fries.
“Slow down, kid,” Miquel said. “The cheeseburger’s not going anywhere.”
Thomas looked up from his food.
“Thomas, you’re a handsome boy,” Danny said. “You have a girlfriend?”
Mr. Cortez said, “He’s a serious boy. No time for girls. Thinks he might want to learn a trade. Isn’t that right, Thomas?”
“I don’t know, pop. Maybe.”
“I wish I had learned a trade,” Miquel said. “Then I wouldn’t have to slave away at this diner.”
“How you doing in school?” Bernardo asked.
“Pretty well,” Thomas said.
Mr. Cortez said, “Thomas has a full scholarship to Collegiate Prep, one of the best private high schools in New York City, and he’s a straight-A student.”
Miquel and Danny nodded, clearly impressed.
“The meal was great,” Thomas said. “And you guys are great too. But, pop, I’d like to attend a school event for our basketball team. Would you mind if I head out now?”
“No. Be careful. And call me if you have any trouble.”
Thomas washed up in the bathroom and was walking out the front door of the diner when Bernardo reached from behind the deli counter and grabbed him by the arm.
“Thomas, I respect your dad. He’s a good man. But true happiness only comes from making your own way in the world.”
Thomas looked at Bernardo expectantly, not sure if he had finished speaking.
“You’re a smart cookie, Thomas. Will you do one thing for yourself?”
“Sure, I guess so,” Thomas said.
“Dream big.”
It was dark by the time Thomas left the diner. He knew he’d never make it to the afterparty on time by train. He’d have to take an Uber. It would cost him half a day’s pay, but he had no other choice if he wanted to see Ella.
He called an Uber on his flip phone and waited on the corner of 87th Street and Astoria Boulevard. The wind had picked up, and the temperature had turned sharply colder. He was wearing a flannel shirt but wished he had a jacket.
The driver told him that Google Maps showed an accident and heavy traffic near the Midtown Tunnel, so they took the 59th Street Bridge into the city.
Thomas stood on the sidewalk outside La Tavola. Cupping his hand over his eyes, he peered into the restaurant’s large plate-glass window. The place looked empty except for a few couples sitting in booths along the wall.
A boy Thomas knew from Collegiate Prep’s chess club, Walt Ashwell—a year behind Thomas in school—walked out the restaurant’s front door.
“Is the pep rally afterparty over?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah, it ended about thirty minutes ago,” Walt said. “Most everybody has gone home, but a few kids are still eating dinner.”
Thomas looked through the window again. That’s when he saw Ella Winslow sitting in a booth with the handsome boy who reminded Thomas of the actor Robert Redford. They were leaning across the table holding hands.
Thomas was shaken. He felt like he might hyperventilate.
“Thomas, you don’t look well. Are you feeling all right?” Walt asked.
Thomas took a deep breath. “I’m good. It’s all good.”
“I’m glad we ran into each other because there’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Walt said.
“Oh? What’s that?” Thomas asked.
“I am worried about applying to college next year,” Walt said. “I’d like to stay in the city and apply to Columbia. But the acceptance rate is less than four percent, and I’d feel terrible—super embarrassed—if I got rejected.”
Thomas looked through the window again at Ella for a long moment, then turned back to Walt.
“You’re a smart cookie, Walt. Will you do one thing for yourself?”
“Yes,” Walt said.
“Dream big.”
