Landing at being someone from
Pells Landing, I became someone from Yonkers—which is a
perfectly nice place to live, actually. But it’s not Pells. Now
I am so closely tied to Yonkers that it is what I am called. My friends from home would laugh at me. They’d be disgusted by me.
My house, then, says Lindsay. Can you come after practice tonight?
The answer is yes. I walk out of the classroom feeling light with anticipation.
In the hallway, I see a dozen people I know in quick succession and they all shout some version of my name. I am going to an appointment with my guidance counselor, Ms. Warren. She is going to tell me about all the colleges I can’t get into.
• • •
When I walk into Ms. Warren’s office she is eating a sandwich and part of it falls out into her lap. It’s only 9 in the morning. She scrambles to remove the clump of ham and mayonnaise-y lettuce from her blue skirt and then dabs at the spot with a napkin.
Oh my gosh, she says. You surprised me.
Sorry, I say.
Ms. Warren is young and plump and she always has very red cheeks. From being embarrassed or from being overheated I don’t know. She has lots of curly blond hair that she wears long down her back. She touches it constantly, flipping it back and forth with her hand. I can tell that she wants to be both young and old. She wants to be our age and she wants us to be damn sure that she’s older than us.
I think I am making her nervous so I ask if I can sit down.
Sure, she says, and sort of pulls the other chair forward halfheartedly. She is facing her desk which is facing the window. She sits on a swivel chair and she turns slowly toward me after I have sat down. She is checking her face with her fingers. She is running her tongue over her teeth. She was not popular.
What brings you here today, Kel? she asks.
I look at her for a moment. You asked me to come, I say.
Oh, right, she says, and laughs. I forgot! The reason I asked you, she says, ruffling through some papers on her desk. The reason I asked you is because we still don’t have information from you on where you’re applying.
This is what Pells is like. In Yonkers this would not happen. In Yonkers if you wanted to go to college you would seek out a guidance counselor who would not know your name. You would make an appointment and if your grades were good they would tell you you could get in anywhere and if your grades were bad they would tell you to apply to several local colleges, mostly community colleges, and then transfer after a year. In Pells they practically stalk you. I think everyone goes to college. I don’t know anyone who’s not going.
Which is why Ms. Warren is surprised when I say, I don’t think I’m actually going to apply.
She looks at me. She is speechless. I have just noticed a bread crumb on her collar.
What would you do instead? she asks.
Play baseball, I say.
Isn’t that—what college is for? she asks.
—You can play baseball outside of college.
—Where?
—The majors.
She does not know whether to be skeptical. She opens and closes her mouth. I could rescue her but I don’t. I could tell her about the scouts, about my private practice with Gerard Kane, the reason I have reason to hope. But I don’t. I want to watch her talk—I want to smile and nod.
Now Kel, she says. I know you’re very good at baseball. But who actually.
She doesn’t finish. I am still quiet.
—Aren’t the odds of anyone making it slim? Not just you, but, like.
She seems young now.
Of course, I say.
So. If you played baseball in college, you could have the best of both worlds! she says. She looks relieved. As if she has come across the answer.
I shake my head. I’m not good at school, I say.
She pulls up something on her computer. It is my record. C’s across the board which is almost impressive if only because it is consistent. I got one F in English my freshman year and my mother yelled at me because she was so embarrassed. Because she still worked there. I got A’s in phys ed and in art. Besides that, C’s.
Now look at this, she says. A’s in art?
I nod.
What if, she says. What if we could find you