He opens a manila folder, placing it on a desk that looks to be neat as a pin. In fact, I’m impressed by how squared away his whole office is, not a pencil out of place. I bet he’s never had to drink milk out of an old spaghetti sauce jar at his new house because no one’s unpacked proper glassware yet. Of course, right after the whole Ragu incident, Dad went out and bought a gross of new tumblers. A gross! We had no drinking apparatus and now we have every glass in the universe.
Mr. Gorton clears his throat. “Yes, well, much to discuss. Let’s begin with the most pressing part, shall we? ACTs. I can’t stress enough how important these are. Colleges won’t even consider your application without SAT or ACT scores. We’ve registered you for the test—and paid the fee for the late registration, your parents will need to send a check, make it payable to the school—and you’ll sit for the ACTs on October 24th.”
I protest, “Begging your pardon but you didn’t even clear this with me! What if I have plans that day?” I don’t, but what if I did? Very presumptuous on his part.
His wire and tortoise shell glasses make him seem far older than he probably is. I’d guess he was fifty based on his demeanor, but he’s probably barely thirty. Suspect this is intentional, to seem like more of an authority to the students. Muss his hair, skip the shave for a few days, and give him cool shirt and a pair of Chucks, he might even pass for our age.
He tells me, “After you take the test, there’s a three-to eight-week lag period for the results to be released. Let me be clear here. This is the first semester of your senior year—eight weeks is practically a lifetime. You cannot afford to wait any longer, it’s imperative you take the ACTs now. You’re already desperately behind the curve.”
Mr. Gorton’s cheeks begin to flush and little balls of spittle form in the corners of his mouth. I don’t want to stare, but I’m drawn to those tiny spheres of foam wedging their ways into the ends of his lips. They’re so incongruous with the rest of his buttoned-down visage. Would it be rude to hand him a Kleenex?
“Behind the curve for what, exactly?”
“For admission! For starting in the fall.”
I shrug. “If I go to university at all, I’m taking a gap year.”
Mr. Gorton deflates like one of those blow-up Santa yard ornaments on Boxing Day. “We don’t advocate gap years here.”
“Why not? Loads of my friends have taken them. They’re marvelous, great fun. People at home do them all the time.”
Every friend that’s taken a gap year has loved it. In my head, it makes sense to take time to be a kid before vaulting forever into the world of grown-ups. I don’t understand the rush here to have the future all mapped out before you’re even legally allowed to vote or drink or smoke.
Mr. Gorton says, “Gap years slow students’ trajectories—they throw them off course.”
“What if you’ve no clue as to what course you should be on? Wouldn’t a gap year be incredibly useful in that respect? Sometimes people aren’t fully baked—they need a bit more time in the oven, you know?”
I thought I’d be immune to the pressure here, but it’s starting to impact me, put me on edge, particularly now that I don’t have Owen’s calming influence. The pervasive anxiety in the atmosphere is making me more quick to escalate, prone to argue.
I don’t like it; definitely not mindful.
“Here’s what we suggest—take your ACTs, apply to college, and if you insist on a gap year, defer your acceptance.”
What?
“How is this a good idea?” And how could I select a college when I’m not even ready to pick a continent?
“Beg your pardon?” He rests his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers.
“How does your strategy benefit anyone other than NSHS? Let’s say my applying would help maintain the college acceptance statistics, but how would that benefit me? If I’m uncertain about university, why in the bloody hell—sorry, heavens—would I make a commitment? That’s nonsensical. While I don’t want to be a pain, I have to ask—is this not ludicrous?”
“You’re not understanding the bigger picture.”
“Then please paint it for me,” I request. “I’m not trying to be difficult, I genuinely want to understand your point of view.”
His foot taps out a frustrated beat beneath his desk. Suspect this conversation is not going well for either of us.
“My point of view, Miss Chastain, is that 98 percent of our students go on to college right after high school. Our goal is 100 percent. If this were a bad idea, we wouldn’t be pushing it.”
“Right, but what does it look like a year after this most excellent, well-bred 98 percent graduates? How do they progress in college? Is it smooth sailing? Do your alumni continue the patterns of success set up here or do they arrive at uni and just lose their minds after four years of such discipline? And doesn’t anyone want to be, say, an electrician or plumber instead? If that’s more their aptitude? Those are excellent jobs in Europe, highly respected. We’ll always have lightbulbs and toilets. Why is everyone so hell-bent on college here? Without, say, welders or masons, university buildings wouldn’t even exist.”
Mr. Gorton is visibly uncomfortable. “Because of our rigorous standards, students establish the groundwork for success here. That’s our job and we do it well. How students use these tools after graduation is their responsibility.”
So some do flame out from burning too hot in high school.
Interesting.
Kent believes a lot of the NSHS suicides are the result of students having too much academic pressure, and that makes me want to weep. There’s something profoundly wrong when kids feel like they have no other alternative when they don’t reach their goals.
That is not okay.
THAT IS NOT OKAY.
I am on fire right now. “Mr. Gorton, I wholly disagree. The solution this school proposes is to work harder? Be more goal oriented? Have a keener focus? Aren’t we all still reeling from a terrible tragedy here? Wouldn’t everyone benefit from dialing down the heat a degree or two? Why is this school so intent on pushing people forward when a tiny break, a small reprieve, could be the one thing that makes a difference between life and death? I think that—”
Before I can complete my thought, he starts talking, saying, “The other reason I wanted to speak with you is about your extracurricular activities. You’re dropping out of the newspaper? Terrible idea, you need this activity for your applications, it’s a must-have. Good colleges only admit students who are engaged, who demonstrate leadership positions. So why are you considering this impulsive and detrimental move?”
I nod. “Artistic differences.”
“Damn it, Miss Chastain, you’re seventeen years old, you have no right to claim artistic differences!” He bangs a fist on his desk, which takes us both by surprise. Cold coffee sloshes out of his cup and splashes onto the manila folder containing my information. He quickly extracts some Starbucks napkins from his drawer and sops up the spilled brew.