So yeah, ever since then, I have counted myself proudly among the people who roam the halls of high schools on a weekend, talking to themselves at a million miles an hour about social justice issues. Yes, the weirdos who decide it might be a fun idea to read an entire Internet search yielding thousands of articles on Roe v. Wade and recite them in intervals at a podium across from another person in a battle to the rhetorical death. The ones who think they are teenage lawyers, the ones who wear business suits. I love it.
Which is why I haven’t quit, even though I’m now kind of stuttery at practice, and I make excuses when I miss research sessions for doctor’s appointments, and I have to, you know, psych myself up in the mirror at tournaments. Before this happened, my memory was my golden ticket. My ability to memorize things got me scholarships. My memory won me the Grafton County Spelling Bee when I was eleven. And now it’s gonna be gone. This is, like, inconceivable to me.
ANYWAY.
Back to the office, where I can hear people in the hallway, yelling at one another about stupid shit.
Me (over the noise): It’s fine. Anyway, can you give me the name of that NYU pre-law mentorship thing again? I know only college juniors are eligible, but I think I could— Mrs. T makes a choked sound.
Me: Mrs. T?
Mrs. Townsend pulls Kleenexes from her drawer and starts wiping her eyes.
Me: Are you okay?
Mrs. T: I just can’t believe this.
Me: Yeah. I have to go to ceramics now.
Mrs. T: I’m sorry. This is shocking. (clearing her throat) Will you have to miss more school?
Me: Not until May, right around finals. But it will be a quick trip to the specialist. Probably just a checkup.
Mrs. T: You’re very strong.
Me (starts packing up stuff, in anticipation of leaving): I try.
Mrs. T: I’ve known you since you were a little fourteen-year-old with your (puts fingers in a circle around eyes) little glasses.
Me: I still have glasses.
Mrs. T: But they’re different glasses. More sophisticated. You look like a young woman now.
Me: Thanks.
Mrs. T: Sammie. Wait.
Me: Okay.
Mrs. T: You are very strong, but… But considering everything… (begins to choke up again)
At this point, I began to feel an uncomfortable tightness in the back of my throat, which at the time I attributed to a side effect of my pain medicine. Mrs. T really had been there for me since I was a freshman. She was the only adult that actually listened to me.
Sure, my parents tried, but it was only for five minutes, between their jobs and feeding my younger siblings and fixing some hole in our crap house on the side of a mountain. They don’t care about anything I do as long as I don’t let my siblings perish and I get my chores done. When I told Mrs. Townsend I was going to win the National Debate Tournament, get into NYU, and be a human rights lawyer, the first thing she said was, “Let’s make it happen.” She was the only one who believed me.
So for what she said next, at the risk of being melodramatic, she might as well have stuck her hand down my esophagus and clutched my heart in her hands.
Mrs. T: Do you think you can even handle college?
Explosions in head.
Me: What?
Mrs. T (pointing at computer screen): This—I mean, I will read up on it more, but—it seems like it affects everything. It could do serious damage.
Me: I know.
And here’s the thing. The health stuff I could take, but don’t take away my future. My future I had worked so hard to set up so nicely. I have worked for years to get into NYU, and now I was in the homestretch. The very idea that Mrs. Townsend would even consider that I would give it up filled me with rage.
Mrs. T: And on top of that, your memory is going to suffer. How are you going to go to class with all of this? You might— Me: No!
Mrs. T jumped back. Then it was my turn to begin weeping. My body wasn’t used to crying, so the tears did not come out in clean, clear supermodel drops like I thought they would. I shook a lot and the saltwater pooled up in my glasses. I was surprised by the strange whine that came out of the back of my throat.
Mrs. T: Oh, no. No, no. I’m sorry.
I should have accepted her apology and moved on, but I couldn’t. I yelled at her.
Me: I am NOT not going to college.
Mrs. T: Of course.
Me (sniffling): I am NOT going to stick around Strafford, riding around on four-wheelers, working at a ski resort and smoking pot and going to church and having tons of children and goats.
Mrs. T: I didn’t say that…
Me (through snot): I pushed my way into Hanover, didn’t I? I got into NYU, didn’t I? I am the valedictorian!
Mrs. T: Yes, yes. But—
Me: Then I can handle college.
Mrs. T: Of course! Of course.
Me (wiping snot on my sleeve): Jesus, Mrs. Townsend.
Mrs. T: Use a Kleenex, hon.
Me: I’ll use whatever surface I want!
Mrs. T: Sure you will.
Me: I haven’t cried since I was a baby.
Mrs. T: That can’t be true.
Me: I haven’t cried in a long time.
Mrs. T: Well, it’s okay to cry.
Me: Yeah.
Mrs. T: If you ever need to talk to me again, you can. I’m not just an academic resource.
Me (exiting): Yeah, cool. Bye, Mrs. T.