And then suddenly a door flies open between us and Dean Hammer pops his head out, straightening his glasses and peering in my direction.
“Alice. Excellent. I was hoping I’d catch you. I saw you walking up the stairs from my window. Any chance you have a moment?”
“Sure,” I say, hesitating slightly. Was Max going to say something? Do I even want to hear it?
“Great,” the dean says, stepping aside and motioning to the open doorway. Reluctantly, I lead the way inside.
“So, how is it all going?” Dean Hammer says with both brows raised, the most enthusiastic I’ve seen him yet, as he sits down across from me in a leather armchair in his office. I realize this is actually the perfect place for me to be right now, in my heartbroken and jaded state. With someone whose own natural demeanor mimics my current internal apathy. Sometimes people with too much enthusiasm make me wonder: Are they actually that excited, or are they acting excited in the hopes that it will make them feel that way? That whole “Smile and you’ll feel happy” thing.
Like crap, I want to say.
“Pretty well,” I reply instead. If you say “pretty good” in my house you practically go without dinner. You are not good, you are well! I can hear my father correcting me as though he were standing at his lectern.
“I’ve checked in with a few of your teachers, and they say the same.” The dean nods. “Mr. Levy in particular is a fan.”
This actually does elicit a small smile from my lips. Levy may be fulfilling some kind of Dead Poets Society fantasy, but he’s smart, I’d give him that. I want him to feel the same way about me.
“So now comes the next step,” Dean Hammer says. “I didn’t want to throw this on you right away, but we need to set you up to talk with our college counselor. All the other juniors got assigned one at the end of their sophomore year.”
“One?” I say. “You have more than one college counselor?”
Dean Hammer nods solemnly again. “Another Bennett benefit,” he says like he’s advertising car insurance he doesn’t believe in. “We actually have four. Most of them are at capacity, but not to worry, I found just the one for you. She had a little space.”
As I approach Delilah Weatherbee’s office, I can tell immediately that, like me, she does not belong. For one thing, her office isn’t even in the administrative wing. It’s in the attic of the creative arts center, and I have to push past fashion mannequins and forgotten sculptures and broken easels to even knock. Also, it smells like incense, and the sound of New Age flute music is whistling from beneath the door.
Delilah opens it almost instantly. “Alice,” is all she says, her face glowing and rosy and tilted to one side, her arms stretched wide. I understand almost too late that I am supposed to embrace her. Which I do, and she smells like patchouli. She pushes me away but, still gripping my shoulders, whispers, “Welcome.”
Delilah ushers me in, all effortless beach waves and bare feet, her long linen skirt trailing on the floor. “Have a seat,” she says, nodding to the corner as she pours some tea. I look over, but there are no chairs. Then I notice the floor pillows.
“So,” Delilah says when we are seated cross-legged, facing each other, each clutching a small mug of fragrant green tea. “Who is Alice Rowe?”
“I don’t think I understand the question,” I say.
“Exactly,” Delilah says, which only confuses me more. “I know you met with Dean Hammer and discussed your academics. Good work, by the way.” She gives my knee a squeeze. “But now I want to ask you: What else?”
“What else what?” I ask.
“What else is there to Alice? What are your interests? What clubs have you joined? Who have you been hanging out with? You see, Bennett is a great school, but in order to make you a good candidate for college, we really need to cultivate a sense of self. I like to encourage my students to practice a certain kind of mindfulness. Taking time, paying attention to your likes and dislikes, your behavioral tendencies, to help you figure out who you are.”
I don’t think she really wants to hear my answer to who I am hanging out with, because currently it’s Oliver, the school’s biggest troublemaker; my father, a middle-aged neuroscientist; Jerry, a geriatric bulldog; and golden boy Max Wolfe, but only in an subconscious state. It also strikes me as amusing that she and Dean Hammer could be so very different and yet very much the same. This is not far from asking me what I want on my tombstone.
“Um, I think I must have missed the signup deadline for clubs?” I try. “I hadn’t really thought about it . . .”
Delilah studies me, her head nodding over and over. Her stare makes me uncomfortable, so I glance out the window, and that’s when I see Sergio and Brunilda, watching me from a tree outside. Sergio lifts a wing, salutes me, and they both fly off.
What in the—? Am I asleep? I blink a few times.