“Did you hear that Dahlia Butler got a drama scholarship to Wellesley? A full ride.”
Two words I can live the rest of my life without ever hearing again: “full ride.” I can also do without “reach, match, and safety school,” “early action,” and “early decision.” In fact, the word “college” is starting to give me hives. The anxiety level is off the charts, with everyone writing essays and filling out their FAFSA applications and retaking SATs for the eleventh time.
While Wren and Amelia debate the merits of Williams versus Bowdoin versus just going somewhere in state and which school would give them the most money, I tune out and wonder how tortillas can go stale in such a busy restaurant. I have no thoughts about or interest in any of the colleges they’re analyzing and try to work out what I’d like to be eating at this moment. Hot, I am thinking, hot would be good. But not pizza. I am sick of pizza. And sick of living off the microwavables that Mom has started lugging home from Costco since her work got so busy that even if, initially, the empanada or pot pie or whatever is all right, by the time I’ve choked down half a dozen of the things, just reading the words “Pierce film in 3–4 places to vent” can make me start gagging.
“Aubs? Aubrey?”
“Huh? What?”
“What are your top three?”
Their eyes drill into me, waiting for an answer. “Colleges?” I ask.
Wren and Amelia blink, stunned that anyone would think there is any other topic in the entire world.
“Uh, well, I’m not totally sure.” Then I remember the college I’m supposed to visit next week. “Peninsula.”
“Peninsula?” Wren repeats. “Is that the one that doesn’t give grades?”
“Really?” I can’t remember anything about this college, not even why I ever agreed to visit. At least I’ll get two days away from Parkhaven High.
“What if you want to transfer?” Amelia asks, alarm brightening her eyes, which, now that I think about it, are kind of always in a state of high anxiety. “I mean, what will they put on your transcript?”
I hold my cup up. “Do they give free refills here?” I leave Amelia blinking with worry. At the drink machine, I confidently fill the cup with Diet Dr Pepper, adding my signature squirt of Nehi Strawberry. Here is a decision I can handle.
Even though I am really late by the time I get to the attendance office, Miss Olivia is still putting her purse in a file drawer and locking it up. Unlimited tardies is the perk we give each other. Madison Chaffee’s mom and dad are waiting at the counter. Unlike most parents—who are almost always harried moms come to get their kid out for allergy shots or prenatal doctor visits or meetings with their probation officers or some other reason that ranges from mundane to tragic—the Chaffees are grinning like idiots.
“Aubrey!” Mrs. Chaffee explodes. I’m surprised she remembers my name. Maybe euphoria improves a person’s memory. “I’m so glad it’s you. We need to tell Madison something. In person.”
I look over to Miss Olivia. She nods that it is OK for me to go get Madison out of class. I take my time getting to Madison’s Calculus-for-Asians-and-Kids-Whose-Parents-Put-Them-in-Kumon-Math-Tutoring-When-They-Were-Two-Because-They-Knew-That-Public-School-Math-Teachers-Suck-and-Could-Afford-to-Buy-Better-Ones Class. As I dawdle my way through the halls, I realize that I actually have nothing against Parkhaven per se. In fact, the halls, when they are empty, are quite pleasant. I like the wide, airy breezeways with little hives of learning humming behind closed doors.
Going to get Madison makes me remember how, when I was little and got called out of class, my first thought was always, My dad’s here. My dad came back for me. I didn’t even like to talk to whoever came to get me. I didn’t want to give them the chance to tell me that it was just Mom waiting in the office to bring me my geography homework or an extra inhaler. Because for those few minutes, walking down an empty hall, I would just stop agreeing with the way things really were and I did have a dad and he was in the office waiting for me.
I guess that’s what my dad did. Stopped agreeing with reality. I could do it for as long as it took me to get from my classroom to the office. He managed it for sixteen years. He must have had more mental discipline than me. Or maybe it wasn’t that much of an effort to