So, what are we, girlfriends now?
Except that it kind of feels good to stand here and catch my breath for a second. If her boring story is the price of admission, so be it.
“When I woke up the morning after, I felt like I’d swallowed the whole Dead Sea. Wait, you look confused—the Dead Sea? The water has a mad-high salt content? You almost can’t drown in it, no matter how hard you try to go under, because the sodium changes the buoyancy. See, now I need Mr. Knapton here to explain because I’m not saying the math-y-science-y part right. Anyway, drugs aren’t of interest. Not my jam, as you say. Ergo, I’ll be fine around Owen. He can’t corrupt me—I’m incorruptible by choice.”
Gripping one ankle in a quad stretch and then the other, I tell her, “Great, then I’ll cross losing you at Coachella off my list. Can you explain to me then how you have a free afternoon to do nothing?”
“We’re not doing nothing, we’re getting a bit of sun before tackling this mountain of books,” she replies, pointing in the vicinity of her satchel. “We’re taking a little break before we get to work.”
“Why?”
“Why? I dunno, specifically. Don’t you ever feel like eating your pudding first?”
Pudding? No.
I say, “Don’t you understand how important it is to appear well-rounded to university admissions officers? Colleges aren’t just judging you on your grades—your homework’s a part of that, you know—they also want to see your extracurriculars.”
And, it can’t be said enough, college is the big dance.
College is everything, which is why there’s so much pressure on us about it. Our future is all we think about, our singular obsession. Part of the problem is some parents (particularly the narcissistic, self-involved douchebags, i.e. Liam’s dad or my mom) see us as status symbols and as an extension of their “personal brands.”
We are the feather in the cap that is their Facebook status update.
They don’t understand that we are not them.
When they look at how hard they’ve had to work to live in North Shore, their expectations naturally are so much higher. What that means is that even though Southern Illinois University may have been fine for, say, Liam’s father, damn it, the kid’s going to Princeton. What’s so ironic is that Generation X—our parents’ generation—is best known for being “slackers.” Yet they’re the ones who are such taskmasters now.
How is that okay?
With our folks, it’s like their self-worth has become inexorably linked to ours. If we aren’t out there winning, if we aren’t out there overachieving, if we aren’t representative of the very highest standards of success, then there’s hell to pay. Like they’re somehow flawed if we don’t get in early decision at Princeton, if we don’t crush our ACTs, if we don’t win a state title.
I’m like, when the fuck did they ever win State? How come it’s incumbent on us?
I always regret it when I ask that question out loud, but it’s like I can’t help myself.
Simone shrugs. “Meh, don’t particularly want to go to college. It’s not as big a deal in Europe. Half the kids end up in skilled trades instead, which are viewed with much more respect over there than over here. I plan to design jewelry for a living. Technically, I don’t need a degree for that. And, if by some miracle I were to be admitted to university, I’d take a gap year first.”
Her attitude is so askew, so cavalier, that I accidentally let out a bark-like noise in protest.
Owen looks up at us, confused. “You guys have a poodle up there?”
Idiot.
I seem to be amusing Simone, like I’m the clown in this situation. (I’m the clown? Have you even looked at your pants?)
She says, “Would you feel better if I told you I agreed to take photos for the school paper?”
“YES, so much better!”
I practically collapse with relief. I didn’t realize I’d been so tensed up. I feel like I can check one tiny box off a to-do list that’s presently about eight miles long. As a peer counselor and as the leader of Novus Orsa, it’s my duty to make sure she’s getting the most out of North Shore, as it’s given us so much. How is she not wildly appreciative of being here? A North Shore education is like someone handing her a billion-dollar check and instead of falling to her knees in gratitude, she’s like, “Can I have this in small bills instead, then? I’d like to buy a Kit-Kat.”
I don’t relax for long, though.
I say, “You know, the paper’s very competitive. Most students have to try out for it. Hmm...wonder if they just wanted you because they’re hoping you’ll introduce them to your mother? Like maybe she’ll offer them internships?”
Can I legitimately check off this box or are the kids on The Round Table Express just trying to use Simone for her connections? I’m concerned. Does this count as an accomplished mission? Am I shirking my duties or not?
Now she’s confused. Ugh, does she have to telegraph every single one of her emotions across her pasty, freckled face? God help her if she ever plays strip poker. “You’re saying you don’t want me to take pictures for the paper?”
I grip her arm to emphasize the importance of this first step. “No, do it, definitely do it. You need the experience for your apps. You’ll need more, though, much more. Let me think on what else might be a good fit for you. I’ll hit you up in Government with suggestions.” After I let go of Simone, I squat and cross my right calf over my left thigh to open up my hip flexor.
Owen shouts, “You look like the number four!”
“Do you ever stop moving?” Simone asks.
Why do I have the feeling she’s judging me? Is she judging me? IN THOSE PANTS? I’m only trying to help. I reverse positions to stretch the other hip.
“No. Okay, I think we’re done.”
“Then this was...enlightening?” Simone says. She starts to shuffle back down to her spot on the bleachers, hampered by her horrible sartorial choices.
Oh, she’s definitely judging me. She’s awfully smug for someone who probably can’t even get into the University of Iowa. Before she sits, a light breeze musses all the unshaved portions of her hair.
“Wait, one more question. Your bangs—they’re blue now.”
She grins. “Dip-dyed for school spirit. Go, Knights! See you later, Mallory. Have a nice run.”
She sits back next to Owen, who passes her a fresh Coke from a Styrofoam minicooler. Sweet Jesus, a second can. I have diabetes just imagining two sodas in one week. I shudder as I contract my hamstrings.
Seriously, though, that was outstanding advice on my part. I feel like I can count our conversation toward my time commitment to volunteer peer counseling for the week, maybe a fifteen-minute increment if I round up like attorneys do. When my father speaks to a client, even if it’s for two minutes, he rounds it up to the full fifteen. He says otherwise the accounting on his billable hours would be out of hand. (Yes, he has people who do the bookkeeping, but still.)