TUESDAY IS OUR THIRD MEETING OF THE COLLEGE prep group. A few kids have dropped out, which I totally don’t get. Hello! It’s essentially a get-out-of-class-free card every couple of weeks.
Alex is already there, clicking away on his laptop. I sneak up behind him to scare the shit out of him, but then I notice what website he’s looking at.
The University of Southern California.
Funny. I thought Alex was only applying to two colleges. Early decision to the University of Michigan, and Boston College as a safety.
He clicks a drop-down menu with all the undergraduate majors listed and selects the songwriting program.
Before I can say anything, Ms. Chirazo walks over to us. Alex quickly closes his laptop, as if he was looking at porn or something. I pull out the chair next to him and take a seat.
“Okay, you two. I’ve read both your essay drafts.” She sets the papers down on the table, Alex’s and mine. Alex’s doesn’t have much written on his. A couple of check marks in red pen. Mine is covered in scribbles.
Damn. I snatch it away so Alex doesn’t see.
“Alex, I love what you’re exploring here. I think you make a strong thesis about how class and privilege disappear on the football field, and success hinges only on hard work. But I want you to make sure that you aren’t too critical of your parents’ wealth when you relate back to your own life. I’m hoping you can temper some of those places to sound a bit more grateful for the opportunities you’ve been afforded.”
Alex nods. “Sure, of course.”
I slump in my chair. I thought Alex’s essay was fine, it was well-written and tight, but I also know exactly what Ms. Chirazo is talking about. There were a couple of points where I felt like he was being kind of a doof. Where he’d say things like, I never knew how rich my family was, and how that might make people think of me differently.
Come on, dude. Your SUV costs more than a year’s tuition at Oberlin.
Ms. Chirazo turns her head to me. “Now, Kat . . . I was surprised by your essay.”
“Pleasantly surprised?” I say it with zero enthusiasm, because I already know she hated it.
I wrote about how freaking bizarre it is to grow up in a place like Jar Island. How it shelters you from the outside world. I talked about my friendship with Kim, how music has made the world seem a lot bigger. I talked about how ready I am to get the eff out of here and start living my life. obviously not in those exact words, but it was pretty much an indictment of this place. It was a counterpoint to Alex’s essay. It’s kind of hilarious, how Alex and I basically wrote about the same thing. It’s not like we planned it.
“I thought Kat’s essay was great,” Alex says. “Jar Island is a weird place to live, and that should help her stand out.”
Bless his bleeding heart.
Ms. Chirazo’s glasses are on a chain around her neck. She puts them up on her nose and reaches for my paper. “I agree. I’m not saying that your essay isn’t good, Kat. It is. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Jar Island in quite the way you present it.” She starts turning pages, and presses her lips together tight. “My biggest problem is that it doesn’t tell me much about you. It’s more about this place. And remember, we’re trying to make the admissions committees think of you as a real person.” She sets the paper down and turns her chair toward me. “Have you considered writing about losing your mother at such a young age?”
My jaw drops. Did she really go there? I swear to God, Ms. Chirazo freaking gets off on the fact that my mom is dead. She brings it up every freaking chance she gets!
“I considered it, and then decided against it,” I say, using all my energy to sound calm and not rage on her. That’s probably what she wants. For me to explode so she can force me to go to more counseling sessions.
“Would you mind explaining your rationale?”
I huff. “Look. I have a lot of reasons, but I’ll give you one. I don’t want to use the fact that my mom died to get people to pity me. Not to mention I’m pretty sure I’m not the only high school senior in the United States to have lost a parent. It’s not as uncommon as people think. And there are kids out there with way, way worse problems than I’ve got. Trust me.” I say it pretty bitchy. “So I don’t need to use it. My grades are stellar, and I’m pretty sure I killed it on the SATs last time.”
“Your academic record is great, Kat. Especially the fact that you’ve accomplished what you have in light of your situation.”
“My situation,” I repeat, my lip curling.
And then I feel it. Alex’s hand on my knee, underneath the table, where no one else can see. He gives my leg an encouraging squeeze, a sign to breathe, to not let this upset me so bad, to not explode on this lady in front of the whole room.
I lean back in my chair and say, “Fine. I’ll consider it. Whatever.”
“I don’t mean to upset you, Kat. But please do think about it. You can write about your mother without exploiting her memory. I think you owe it to yourself to speak about that experience and how you derived so much strength from it.”
I force a tight-lipped smile as Ms. Chirazo gets up, pats me on the back, and moves on to the next group.
“Thanks for that,” I say to Alex, under my breath. “If you hadn’t been here, I’d have gone off on her.”
He bumps my leg under the table. I wonder if he’ll say anything comforting, if he’ll ask about my mom, or try and talk me into writing that kind of essay. But all Alex says is, “Any cool bands playing this week?”
I think about telling him that I’m going to a show with Ricky, to see if it might make him jealous. But I decide against it . . . because what if Alex is asking because he wants to hang out? We’ve been having a good time together lately, like last summer.
I decide to play it coy. “There’s a band coming Thursday that I might want to see,” I say. “What are you up to?”
“I’m going to Boston with Lillia. We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning. Taking two days off from school.”
Huh. Never mind. “Shit. I forgot. I have a date Thursday night, actually. He’s in a band. Lead singer. They’re pretty big in Germany.”
“Whoa. Cool.”
“Yeah, I know right?” Lillia didn’t tell me about any special trip with Alex. “What are you guys heading to Boston for?”
“We’ve both got prelim interviews with alums.” He sighs. “It ended up being this whole fight between my mom and my dad. If he had his way, I’d only apply to Michigan. But my mom said I should at least visit my backup school. Between us, I think she wanted to go shopping.”
Okay. So it’s not like a romantic trip or anything. “You should probably check out Berklee, too.”
“Huh?”
“It’s the number-three music school in the country. I think they might have a songwriting major too.” Alex’s face gets tight, and I suddenly feel guilty, like I’ve said something I shouldn’t have. “Sorry. I saw over your shoulder.”
I wonder if Alex is going to try and deny it. Which would be weird. I mean, what’s the big deal? “I don’t think so,” Alex says quietly. “There probably won’t be time.”
“How you guys getting there? Driving? Leave a little earlier, then. or come back a little later. Whatever.”
Alex grimaces. He leans forward and whispers, embarrassed, “We’re taking a private charter plane. I’d be fine with driving. But my dad’s already out of town, and he thinks my mom is a terrible driver, so he told us to take the plane. He pays to be a part of this service, so it doesn’t actually cost us anything.”
A private plane. Jesus.
The bell rings. “Welp,” I say, and quickly pack up my stuff, “you two kids have fun.” But I don’t mean it. Not at all.
