“Blake?”
We’d just finished for the day, finished for the week actually, and I was packing my things away when the professor called my name. “Yeah?”
Dr. Langen motioned for me. “Do you have time for a quick chat?”
“Oh.” I frowned. There were very few adults I was comfortable around and even fewer that I enjoyed. I’d begun to enjoy this professor, but I knew that could change at the drop of a hat. I was loath for that to go away, and talking with her one-on-one was a window opening for that to happen. I’d only met two adults who turned out to be stand-up through and through. My first social worker and Miss Marcie. I doubted this professor was also one of them, but with a tight smile, I gave a nod. “Sure.” Standing up, I grabbed my bag and shrugged it on.
She was a thin woman, with short black and gray hair, cut similar to a boy’s haircut. She had a propensity for wearing thick red glasses, long baggy skirts, and sweaters. The sweaters and skirts were always brightly colored, and they never matched. Today she was wearing a green neon skirt that went all the way to the ground with an orange fuzzy sweater. A brooch was always pinned to the top right corner of her sweater. A metallic unicorn with some diamonds attached. It was pretty, but odd looking. Though, I was starting to enjoy her various outfits. I knew some of the guys laughed about them, and I’d heard a fraternity had her different outfits made into a drinking game. I didn’t know the details. I didn’t want to know.
She motioned for the door. “Walk and talk with me?”
That made me even more tense. “Uh. Sure.”
She waited until we stepped out into the hallway. “I’ve been impressed with the papers you’ve turned in so far.”
“You have?” My head popped up. “I mean, that’s great.” We’d only turned in three smaller ones. She might change her mind when our midterm paper was due.
“And I’m sorry.” She paused, touching my arm. “Can I go personal with you?”
No.
That was my automatic answer, but I just smiled tightly again and prepared myself. “Sure.”
She relaxed, her own smile widening. “Good because I wanted to bring up your entry essay. I read it.”
My stomach dipped. “I didn’t know faculty could read those.”
“We can, if we request to see it. Sometimes we do if we think it might give us further insight into a student. Which is why I asked to read yours. I meant it when I said I’ve been impressed with your essays. What you have to say, the insight you have, it’s postgraduate-level work, to be honest. I wondered if you had personal experience in some of the things you’ve been writing about, and I read that you were in the foster system.”
“Yeah ...”Please don’t ask me to talk about it. Please don’t ask me—
“The reason I’m bringing it up is because a colleague of mine received a grant for a community center. They’ve recently opened. It’s supposed to cater to general youth in the area, but a unique opportunity has been brought to her attention. They’re going to offer one of the lounges only to youth in the foster system, and also foster parents.”
“What?” I wasn’t sure if I was hearing this correctly. I was hoping I wasn’t because she had no idea the ramifications that could come with that.
She nodded, brightening. Eager. “Yes. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? The idea is that it’s there if a foster kid needed an additional place to spend time for whatever. Homework. A place to get away that’s safe. It’ll be supervised, of course. And there’ll be resources available. A few computers. Art. Books. The other idea she had was that if multiple foster parents knew about it, there could be an opportunity to see previous foster kids or parents that they don’t get to see anymore. My colleague is a foster parent herself and has mentioned how she misses some of her past kids.” She lowered her head, stepping closer. “The reason I’m bringing this up to you is because she needs some staff to help supervise that room specifically. Previous foster children would be the best qualified, don’t you agree? It wouldn’t be a paid position, but you could use it as an internship for an independent study. I’d be overseeing you as the professor, but she’d be your on-site internship supervisor. This would be a great experience for you, especially if you want to continue on to graduate education. You’re majoring in psychology, so that’s a good avenue for you to keep in mind. There isn’t a lot of entry-level work for a bachelor’s in psychology. You’d need to go onto a specialization or for your master’s or a PhD program.”
This was my last year in college. I hadn’t considered doing more college, but she was right about this particular degree. I should’ve been thinking of the future, but just to get into college was an achievement for me. To graduate college was almost mind-blowing. I used to live with the motto that you lived life in the present. You survive the presentand worry about the future when it got here. I’d adopted that mantra for my psychology degree as well. I’d worry about it when I needed to do something about it. Right now, being here, being in New York, being away from someone was all I could focus on.
“You transferred from Cincinnati, right?”
I got even more tense. “Yeah.”
What was she going to say? I didn’t want to talk about growing up in the foster system, though I’d been able to stay at Miss Marcie’s for so long and was grateful for her. But I also didn’t want to talk about anything oranyonefrom Cincinnati. When I came here, I wanted to get away. I wanted to be free.
“I assumed you transferred here because of our postgraduate opportunities. If that’s the case, this opportunity really is a great experience for you, if you choose to do it.” Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it, her forehead wrinkling. Distracted. “Okay. I have to get going, but how about you think on it? I’ll have my secretary email you the center’s information and you can look into it? Let me know by tomorrow?”
“We don’t have class tomorrow.”
“End of day. Let me know. Or I can have Lucinda reach out to you. That’s the secretary in our department. I’ll leave a note for her to do that and for her to notify me as well. If you decide to pass on this, I’ll need to let my colleague know so she can fill that position. But also, you wouldn’t be the only one supervising. There’d be others. You’d all work together.” Her phone buzzed again, and she began walking away. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Give it a good thought. Yeah?”
She hurried down the hallway, quickly being swallowed up by students, and I just stared after her.
I didn’t understand this world sometimes.
I came from the foster system. Survived it. Survived other things, and now I was being asked to return to it? Just in a different capacity.
I wasn’t in school for social work. I wanted to learn more about cognitive thought patterns, how the brain worked, why certain peoplehad not-so-good tendencies or why they were apathetic toward others’ suffering. I wanted to help fix someone. That’s why I was majoring in psychology. Not social work.
