and crossed my legs, trying to get comfortable on the hard seat.
“Good, I wanted to talk to you about your college plans...or lack thereof.”
I nodded. “What about it?”
She folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward. “Students at the Academy often go to top-tier schools and perform in the top of their classes. They go on to be doctors, lawyers, changemakers. Yet you’ve submitted no applications, and you’re dangerously close to missing deadlines.”
“I’m not going to college,” I answered simply.
If someone had walked in and judged the situation based on her expression alone, they would have thought I’d singlehandedly shut down every college in the country.
“Is that what you want?” she asked, still composing herself.
Did she know my father? It didn’t matter what I wanted. But I pressed ahead. “My father doesn’t believe in college. He says it trains people to fit inside boxes when all the success you could ever want can be found outside of them. He said unless I want to work in a field that requires a certification, I can learn all I need to in the real world, without wasting my time attending classes that won’t apply to my future career.”
Birdie gaped at me like I had Ralphie’s blood on my fingers.
“Those are my dad’s words, not mine.”
She seemed to relax a little, but her back was still stiff. “And assuming you don’t want to train for a career, what do you plan to work toward?”
“I’ll intern with the production company until I find the position I like best. Once I do, I’ll learn what I need to then. College isn’t the only place where learning can happen after graduation.”
“But the scholarships...”
“It’s not like money’s an issue,” I said. “And I know there are a thousand people who would kill to be in my position,” I said, quoting the refrain I’d heard so often lately, “but I’m not one of them.”
She frowned, then leaned forward, her carrot earrings leaning in like they wanted to hear what she had to say. “Look, Zara. I’m going to be honest with you. You’re a bright girl. You get along with your peers. You have confidence that could take you far. I hate to see you waste that gift, that potential.”
Even though her words brought out an aching in my chest, I looked at her steadily and said, “I’m not.”
Her mouth opened and closed for a moment. “It sounds like you have your mind made up.”
Or had it made up for me. “I do.”
She shooed her fingers toward the door. “Get to class then. I don’t want you to miss out on any learning.”
The weight of her disappointment swept through me, but I nodded. “See you, Bird.”
“Bye, Zara,” Mrs. Bardot said.
As the door closed behind me, I muttered, “I was talking to Ralphie.”
Six
Each of my friends seemed to have hobbies, passions. Rory was an amazing artist, Ginger excelled at videography, Jordan was busy saving the world now that her mom didn’t need her to work all the time, and Callie always volunteered with animals. All I wanted to do when I got home was veg out in front of the TV.
I didn’t want to admit it, but my conversation with the guidance counselor got to me. Mrs. Bardot acted like I was throwing away my future, and maybe I was. But she didn’t understand my culture, either. There was no way my dad would let me make nothing of my life as his only child. He had too much pride for that, too much drive.
I went to the refrigerator and looked at the stacks of prepared meals. I took one labeled pasta primavera and followed the heating instructions. The door to the garage opened, and I looked over expecting to see Beth but finding my dad instead.
“You’re home early,” I said.
He dropped his bag and coat by the door and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Unfortunately.” He went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a tumbler of bourbon.
I’d only ever seen him drink outside of a party three times. Once after Mom’s funeral, again when a major actor pulled out of a deal at the last second, and now.
The microwave dinged. Carefully setting my food on the table, I slid onto a stool. “Tell me about it.”
He swallowed and clenched his jaw. “Said I don’t have a feel for the ‘younger generation.’”
“And?” I asked. “That’s what the writers are for. What book is it?”
“We signed an NDA, but it’s a young adult novel.”
I smiled, thinking of