“Now that is bogus. I talk to everyone.”
“Okay.”
“What’s going on?” he asks, leaning in. “Come on. Open up.”
“I just . . .” I sigh.
I could say a million things right now. But I already have a therapist.
“I kind of hate school,” I tell him.
“Hate’s a strong word.”
“Yeah. I feel strongly.”
“What are you thinking in terms of college?”
“You’ve seen my grades. Kinda blew my chances at a four-year.”
“Do you want to go to college?”
“I’ve thought about city college next year. Or maybe just working, saving up money and traveling.”
“I look at you and I see a wonderful candidate for higher learning.”
I laugh, because I think this must be a joke. But his lips don’t twitch.
“I’ve actually thought about dropping out,” I tell him.
Mainly just today. Just today that popped into my head, walking around—what’s the point of even graduating? I have a terrible GPA and no hope of university life. And I don’t ever want to see Jonah again.
“Come on, Journey,” he says. “You know dropping out’s not an option.”
“I don’t want to be here,” I say, the words hurting my throat on the way out.
“Where do you want to be?”
“Nowhere.”
“You’re bored,” he says, putting the hacky sack down with a thwunk. “What they offer here”—he gestures to his open window that looks onto the school’s front lawn—“it’s just not doing it for you.”
I can’t disagree, but hearing this coming from a guidance counselor’s mouth is so unexpected that I’m not sure how to respond.
He leans in. “You and I have met a lot over the last year. And you know what I think? I think you’re struggling because you’re too smart for this place.”
Now I know he’s messing with me. Me? Smart? When people like Marisol with 1500 SATs and straight As wander these halls? When kids in my classes are applying to Harvard and other fancy-pants places? Come the hell on.
“Ever heard of middle college?” he asks.
“Is that college for screwups like me?”
“Not at all,” he says. “It’s a program that allows juniors and seniors to attend city college to get both high school and college credit. You’d go to city college early, get your diploma at the end of the year—win-win. I actually think you’d be perfect for it.”
“If I can’t even handle high school, how do you expect me to pass college classes?”
“Because you’ll be engaged and interested in the material you’re learning. You can take poetry classes, anthropology, improv.”
“Huh,” I say. “And I’d get credit for that . . . here?”
He nods. “Getting you on the path to middle college right now would mean we’d be able to transfer you to an interim program for the rest of the semester, get you into some makeup work you could do at home and salvage your grades. Because at this point, at least in government and English and precalculus, passing is starting to look . . . iffy.”
I didn’t realize how far behind I’d fallen. Also, is he really offering me an out right now? Like I’d never have to go back to high school again? Because that’s looking pretty good from where I’m at . . . although what about Marisol? Could I really leave my best friend and go to school with a bunch of grown-up strangers?
Hooker pushes a city college catalog and a flier that explains the program toward me. “Think about it.”
“Okay.”
“And then come back and talk to me about it. I’m serious. I don’t recommend this program to many people, especially nearly a quarter into their senior year. But I think you would really thrive in city college.”
“Thanks,” I say.
I take the catalog and flier and put them in my purse, tuck them in a half-read memoir about a celebrity with bipolar disorder. Hooker gives me a high five when I leave. And I hate to admit it—but his four-Red-Bulls-deep attitude is sort of infectious. I find myself enjoying the flutter of excitement in my belly as I walk away from his office. This glimmer of hope is shiny and it makes me nervous all at once.
Marisol’s got some essay contest thing after school so I ride the bus home today. Probably for the best, because I imagine that she’d shoot down the middle college idea and beg me not to ditch her during senior year anyway.
Not that that’s fair, I think, having an imaginary argument with her. She’s going to be ditching me next year, isn’t she? I’m probably the only senior on the bus and, golly, earplugs and a nose plug would be nice. I grab a seat toward the back and flip through the spring city college catalog. Human sexuality. Astronomy. Yoga. Improv. I imagine myself going to college, with adults. Why’s that even weird anyway? I’m eighteen since August. Technically an adult.
It’s strange, this lighter-than-air feeling I have when walking home, passing the lake, which, right now, twinkles like glass, surrounded by blond grasses, like some fancy painting on a wall. I can’t see the oak tree from here. I just see the lake I spent my childhood riding bikes around and exploring.
For the first time since I did that stupid thing, I can imagine something ahead of me.
I can imagine a future.
“Absolutely not,” Mom says.
It’s Saturday. We’re in a booth at the café where she works, waiting for Levi to come pick her up after her shift is over. She’s still got her pink polo on with her name stitched on it. The ceiling fans reflect off silver spoons and vinyl seats.
“You haven’t even read the flier,” I say, trying not to raise my voice even though I want to scream. “You haven’t even heard me out.”
I knew this was going to be a tough sell on her, but she’s not even letting one toe in the door here. Dad already knows about the program and thinks it’d be a good idea. Anything to get me on the college track and keep me from having a nervous breakdown.
She pinches her fingers together to show me what a millimeter looks like. “You are this close to graduating the right way.”
A small fire of frustration burns in me. I’m trying so hard here. Trying so hard to find a solution that pleases everybody and looks like a life I want to live.
“You know, I’m eighteen,” I tell her. “I technically don’t even need my parents’ permission to do anything anymore.”
“Then why are you even asking me?”
“Because I want you to be on board with my plan.”
“Have you been taking your medication?”
As if whether or not I’ve been chomping a pink pill is the end-all. The answer, in fact, besides a couple missed doses here and there, is yes. But I have been wondering what would happen if I stopped.
“What does that have to do with this?” I ask, pushing the flier forward. “Listen, I would graduate. That’s the whole point of this. To get me on track to actually graduate. Because right now I wouldn’t pass all my classes this semester. Next semester I would be going to city college and taking classes I’m challenged by and interested in: improv, poetry, anthropology.”