Ugh, locker rooms—football players.
The idea of having to listen to a kid namedGarretttell me about his game-ending injury and how his life is over makes me want to gag.
But I will do it, wholeheartedly. If that’s what I have to do for the next three months, I may as well just leave my dignity at the door and accept my fate. Because my sister is the best person I know and I can’t let her decision to go to bat for me be in vain. If theGarrettsof this school need weekly pep talks, I will do it forher.
A knock at my window interrupts Emma’s ramblings of her curriculum and art supply fiasco.
Benny stands on the other side of the large, glass window separating my office with the front office. With him, stands a wide-eyed teenager, looking a little too fidgety and uncomfortable with Benny patting her on the shoulder. He waves as he directs her into my office.
“Hi Sarah! How are you? How are your parents?” Emma jumps up, hugging the jittery girl standing in my doorway.
“Good, they’re good. They are going to visit my grandparents this winter, so . . . happy,” she responds, hugging Emma back uncomfortably.
“Ms. Bailey, this is Sarah Kim, one of our star students here at Glendale. She was just telling me how she wanted to find a mentor for the term and start working on college applications. I figured you were just the person for the job.”
Benny penetrates my soul with his eager grin as he presents me with something to do. It was as if he knew I was dying a slow death of boredom between these four walls.
“Hello, Sarah. I’m Ms. Bailey,” I say, reaching out to shake Sarah’s hand. She shakes back, a little aggressively, and sits on the couch where Emma was. I look at Benny, my eyes lingering on his lips, seeing a smirk twitch on one side of his mouth. “Thank you, Mr. Divata.” My voice cracks as his name leaves my lips—such a good name.
“Mr. Divata? So formal. Can I call you that now? Mr. B sounds immature compared to that,” Sarah says, causing me and Benny to break our staring contest.
He laughs. “I think Mr. B suits me, don’t you?” he asks Sarah, but is looking at me, running his hand through his black hair. It has a slight curl at the edges today, like he just let it air dry after stepping out of the shower and into the hot humid air. A very effortless look, but still sleek and put together too.
“I guess.” She shrugs, opening her backpack and pulling out an extra-large, white binder, with a plethora of color-coded tabs lining its interior. I see I have my work cut out for me, already.
“I will leave you to it.” He smiles amused at me, displaying his perfect, bright, creates-an-empty-pit-in-your-stomach smile.
The inability to verbally respond overtakes me as I clear my throat, desperate for water. I nod at him and Emma and take a long chug of iced coffee. They leave, but Benny definitely watches me through the window as he disappears down the hall. I watch him, with the straw of my coffee still in my mouth, tongue hanging out.
Drooling. I'm definitely drooling.
“He’s hot, huh?” Sarah says, with a wry grin and mischievous eyes.
Choking on my coffee drool, I quickly recover, asking, “Um—what can I do for you today?” Directing my attention to the pile of binders, books, and manila envelopes now sitting on her lap.
“I need to get into Columbia. Or Yale. Princeton would even work.” She sets the pile atop my desk with a thud. “I hear you can help me.”
“Oh, well . . . I can certainly try. Do you have your transcripts?” I start to dissect her pile, quickly finding the manila envelope labeled:Transcripts, 7th - 10th.“So this is your junior year, correct?”
“Yes, I plan on skipping senior year. At this rate, I could be done by my first term of junior year, but my mom thinks I should at least finish it out and . . .enjoymyself.” She rolls her eyes at the word.
“What’s wrong with enjoying—”
“I have four years to get into medical school.” She cuts me off. “This is the time for me to focus. Not the time to think about friends or boys or prom.” Her nose wrinkles at the mention of boys and prom. “I don’t have time to enjoyanything.Can you help me or not?” She looks at me with uncertainty, as if she’s sizing me up, waiting to see what I have to offer her.
“I’m sure I can help you. But your acceptance is all on you, it will have very little to do with me. I can put in a good word”—I wave to my multiple degrees hanging on the wall behind me, one beingMagna Cum Laudefrom Columbia University—“with Duncan in admissions. He’s a long-time friend. But I will have to go over everything you have here and make sure you meet their standards. I don’t recommend just anyone.”
“Good.” She sits back, obviously pleased with my answer.
This girl wants to earn it, I respect that.
“Now, let’s discuss this upcoming year. I can tell you have everything prepared for applications, and a very strenuous term coming up.” Noting a jam-packed class schedule for the fall, I start to read through her transcripts, doodling little pencils and talking points that I can use in casual conversation with her when she visits next. “Any fun plans you have to look forward to aside from school work?”
“No. Like I said, I have too much to do. Havingfun”—she uses her hands to air quote the word for emphasis—“will set me back two whole weeks.”
“If you intend for this year to be your last one, don’t you want to make some memories?” I question, pen moving across my notepad.
“If I am to be a first-generation college graduate, I can’t waste time makingmemories.” She makes a yuck sound at that. I keep doodling.
