“Maybe you could help ease him in here a little bit, introduce him to some people. Help him get settled in so when school starts he’s not going in cold, not knowing anybody?”
I bit back the word temporary and nodded instead. “Yeah, sure.”
Heather looked relieved. “Great. Thanks. That would be great.”
three
Sophie:
Is it hard being a new person in school?
Ciara:
Yes but no
I mean everyone is new at the start of college
So at the very least, you’re all in the same boat
Sophie:
How did you make friends?
Ciara:
I honestly don’t know
Sophie:
Super helpful
Ciara:
No, I just mean it kind of happens organically I guess
If you’re lucky
There are people in your classes that you just start talking to
People in your dorm that you see a lot
Going to events on campus, joining clubs and stuff
Sophie:
You have to be good at talking to people though
Ciara:
Good thing I am
And you are too
Sophie:
You think?
Ciara:
Yeah
Who do you think you learned it from?
four
I had gotten a job working at Safeway last year and had boosted my hours for the summer. I wanted to work as much as I could before band stuff started up again, so I was dedicating a fair amount of time these days to bagging groceries and collecting carts and restocking shelves.
I was helping an older lady load her grocery bags into her car, a couple of days after babysitting for Harper, when I heard voices nearby. I recognized one—it was Mrs. Benson, from the booster club. She taught at Harrison, the elementary school. Her voice carried, which was an excellent quality in a fourth-grade teacher, and also in an eavesdropping target.
Not that I was trying to eavesdrop. But I couldn’t help it.
“You know, it’s a huge honor, it’s incredible, I get that,” she was saying. “But good Lord, the money that goes into this thing, it’s unfathomable.”
“How’s the fundraising going?”
“Honestly? I know everyone thought it was a long shot when they were getting the audition together, but I wish we had started then. With that kind of lead, we’d be all right, but as it stands … there’s so much more to go. Michelle, you have no idea. These kids would have to sell candy bars to the moon and back.”
I finished with the bags and shut the trunk. Quietly enough to not draw attention.
“Thank you, sweetie,” the older lady said, and I smiled as I took her cart and steered it back toward the cart return outside the front of the store. Slow enough so I could keep listening.
“There’s more to come, though,” the other woman—Michelle—said. “Sponsorships, July Fourth, the sports banquet.”
“Yeah, but we really need to get creative. If we do what we always do, we’ll get the same we always got, which is just enough to fund those little trips here and there. Honestly, coming from Indianapolis, I just don’t think she gets how chipping in two grand is impossible for most of these kids. And there’s only so much money we can wring out of the people and businesses in town.”
“She” was undeniably Meredith Hill, the band director, who had taken over for Mr. Haverty, the long-standing director of the Marching Pride of Acadia. He retired four years ago, and Ms. Hill had come from Indianapolis to replace him.
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” the other woman said.
Mrs. Benson nodded. “Keep your fingers crossed. I’d hate for them to have to pull out. It’s happened before apparently, with other schools, but … I know Sam, at least, is so, so excited to go. I’m sure Becca is too.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Well, keep it between us, and I’ll keep you posted.”
“Sounds good. Night, Jen.”
“Night.”
I slotted the cart into the one in front of it and headed inside.
* * *
I volunteered at the library on Saturday mornings.
It wasn’t a huge place—just one room, with the checkout desk in the middle. The general-fiction shelves sat to the right in tall rows, with the nonfiction shelves lining the room. The kids and teen books were tucked on the other side, in each of the corners.
The head librarian was named Mel. She was probably midfifties, and humorless, but she knew everything there was to know about books. I’d swear there wasn’t a book in there she hadn’t read.
She knows everything, Flora said. She’s like the internet.
She was possibly better than the internet sometimes. I’d volunteered there since freshman year, and Mel had never once redirected to an ad for male enhancement.
When I got to work this morning, I took a seat in the Kids Korner.
Why do we have to spell it like that? Why can’t we just spell “corner” the normal way? I had asked, when Mel first announced her plan to redesign the children’s area.
It’s for kids, Mel had answered simply.
Yeah, even more reason we should spell it right, don’t you think?
She looked at me, deadpan: It’s cute.
So every few months I hand-lettered a new seasonal banner with KIDS KORNER outlined on it in sparkle paint, and it was cute, I guess—if an inconsistent foundation in spelling could be considered cute.
The Kids Korner faced the teen area in the opposite corner, which had its own banner, although it didn’t change to match the seasons. It was a permanent fixture, a large purple sign with cutout bubble letters attached to it spelling out the words TEEN ZONE.
The Teen Zone sign had appeared after I started volunteering there. Mel never discussed it, but it was a source of great delight among my friends—so much so that we christened the Cunninghams’ pole shed, where we did the majority of our hanging out, Teen Zone 2.
After all, it’s where the teens are at, Brit had said. It’s the zone for teens. We almost can’t exist in any other kind of zone. Child Zone? Forget it. Adult Zone? Fuck that noise. I am for the Teen Zone only.
She also often used it as a euphemism: I want to put my Teen Zone on his Teen Zone. I want her all up in my Teen Zone.
Today I sat across from the non-euphemistic, original Teen Zone with my copy of The College Collective. The library was pretty empty for a Saturday morning—a couple of people wandering the fiction shelves, one tween girl thumbing through a stack of novels in the Teen Zone. But there were no kids to populate Kids Korner, so I flipped open my book.
The College Collective was a website whose college application timeline I had adopted. Unlike some of the other sites that guided more broadly, they broke it down month by month for your last two years of high school. Things to consider, action steps you should take, tips and helpful suggestions. I sent away for their hard copy handbook at the beginning of sophomore year and received a thick spiral-bound book with a multicultural band of smiling kids on the front, arms slung around one another. It was well-worn now, I had thumbed through it so often.
I had been one full year under the College Collective’s guidance (it started with SOPHOMORE YEAR, JUNE), and, accordingly, I felt like I was in good shape. I had taken the SAT and ACT early, with plenty of time to retake (I knew I could do better on math). I had created my general list of schools, and I was prepared to narrow them down this summer to a finalized list that I would begin targeting closely. I had focused on my grades this past year (junior year transcript is essential), and my extracurriculars (homecoming committee, band). I volunteered (the library), and I had a leadership position (MPASFC), and work experience (the grocery store).
Today I was staring at the chapter labeled JUNIOR YEAR, JUNE–AUGUST: THE EVE OF SENIOR YEAR, but my mind kept wandering. I couldn’t help but glance toward the bulletin board tacked up between a set of shelves in the Teen Zone. Right in the center was a clipping from the front page of the Acadia News, an old edition that had been pinned up for some time. MARCHING PRIDE OF ACADIA SELECTED FOR TOURNAMENT OF ROSES PARADE.
No part of the College Collective handbook covered how to raise the money for something like that. It had tips for financial aid and scholarship opportunities, and although I definitely needed both of those things for college to be a remote possibility, the money I needed right now was for a different purpose.
It was a huge honor—bigger even than marching in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, which Acadia did in 2007. We were a small high school, but it’s not like there was much else to do but sports or marching anyway, and everyone pretty much participated in one or the other or both. Sure, there was other stuff—Flora did art club, Terrance was in the school play last year—but the band and the football team ranked first and second in order of importance. (Although the football team probably saw it as the other way around.)
I thought about what I overheard Mrs. Benson saying in the parking lot the other day. These kids would have to sell candy bars to the moon and back.
I hadn’t really thought about the possibility of not raising the money. The booster club would pull through. They always did.