“You know, Murphy, you’re smart for choosing community college,” Kara says, talking out of the corner of her mouth. “That’s what Marcus did. Two years at Weymouth before transferring to finish his engineering degree at Cal Poly. Ellie could have done the same and saved a lot of money.”
“A good education is an investment, Mom.” Ellie drops her fork on her plate with a clatter, shooting me a sidelongsave melook as she folds her arms over her chest. What am I supposed to do? I agree with Professor Meyers. And if I’m honest, I’m stuck on the sound of her calling me smart. Is this how it feels to be the favorite?
Ellie’s mother holds her hands up in defense, her mouth pinching into a perfect O shape. “I was just pointing out that your girlfriend made a very economical move.”
“But money isn’t the only factor when it comes to an education, right?” I chime in, and Ellie places a hand on my thigh in a silent thank-you.
“Of course,” Kara agrees, but when her eyes lock with mine, they narrow with skepticism. “Did it factor into your education, though? Or was there another reason you chose community college?”
I squirm a little in my seat. There were two deciding factors that made me pick Weymouth: money and Kat. But considering Kara’s earlier assumption that my best friend was my girlfriend, I can’t admit that Kat was half of my major life decision. It would just raise suspicions again—and spin this conversation off in an entirely different direction. “Money was a huge factor,” I finally say, only because it seems better than saying nothing at all.
“But it’s not like she’s doing her entire degree at Weymouth,” Ellie continues. “Because her future is the main priority, and U of I is a way better school for her career goals. Right, Murph?”
I squirm again. Truthfully, I don’t really know what my career goals are right now, and my main reason for choosing U of I is that it’s where Kat wanted to go. But I can’t say that either, and with all the back-and-forth, I feel a little like I’m being asked to pick a side on the subject of my own life.
“Some schools just have better programs than others,” I say. Another nonanswer.
“Exactly,” Ellie says with a decisive nod. “And U of I is…well, it’s U of I! No wonder Murphy’s transferring next semester.”
I focus my attention on the divots in the pie crust, waiting for my brain to tell my mouth what to say in order to get the attention off my life and back on Ellie’s.You’re smart, Murphy. Professor Meyers just said it herself. Say something. Say the right thing.
“Next semester?” Kara places her fork on the table with a tinnyclink, then redirects her narrow gaze toward me. “Have you already heard back about your transfer application?”
“Heard back? No, I uh.” I clear my throat into my napkin, trying to rattle the truth free. “I still need my accounting grade to submit my transfer requirements.” When I look back up at the table, Kara’s face droops.
“Murphy,” she says, her voice airy with regret. “Honey, I write a lot of letters of recommendation for transfer students. The U of I transfer applications were due in October.”
The table falls quiet, sinking into a long, horrible silence. Kara’s words don’t quite make it to my brain; instead, they knock against my eardrums, an unwelcome and unexpected visitor. That can’t be true. There’s no way that’s true. I try to reference my mental calendar, checking the timeline of when Kat submitted her application last summer. It couldn’t have been that far in advance…could it?
“October,” I finally say. One word, not even a complete thought. October. Last month. That was right after the construction wrapped up on Sip, right when we started laying the groundwork for the reopening. October is when I started making overtime. My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.
“Oh Murphy, it’s okay,” Ellie says, but this time, when she squeezes my hand, I don’t even feel it. “Maybe we can call the registrar next week and see if they’ll let you file for an extension. You can’t be the only midyear transfer in this situation.”
“October,” I repeat again, blinking up at Professor Meyers with disbelief. “But I don’t have my grade for your class yet. I don’t know if I have the accounting credit. And I need the accounting credit to transfer into the business school. How could I apply without knowing I had the transfer credits to…”
“The deadline passed, Murphy,” Kara whispers. “And I’m not even sure the business school allows for midyear transfers. I’m so sorry.”
“Murph?” Ellie asks. “You okay?”
My internal panic must not be so internal. It feels like there’s a to-do list stuck in the base of my throat rapidly unrolling down to my stomach. Is there an administrator I can email? A handbook I forgot to reference? It feels like every missed deadline is behind me and every one of my classmates is five years ahead.
“I’m fine,” I choke out. “Just overthinking.” Or I’ve been underthinking for the past two and a half years.
The rest of the table conversation sounds like it’s happening underwater. Otto makes a joke. Aunt Carol squawks a laugh. Ellie says something in a voice that sounds serious, but the words themselves are smudged. When she digs her fingernails into my thigh, I have no context for what’s been said or what she needs, but I know I need some air. Bad.
“So, like Murphy mentioned, I spoke with my advisor, andshe thinks I’m a great candidate for the art therapy master’s program at NYU.” Ellie’s claws haven’t risen from the shallow graves they’ve dug in my leg. Shit, okay, we’re still doing this. I sit up a little straighter in my chair.
“You want to go into even more debt for another art degree?” Kara’s voice is slow and each word is spread out a half second from the last. A scoff gets stuck in her throat, and when I look her way, she’s looking back at me like I’m supposed to speak up. Like I’m supposed to take her side. I open my mouth, but all I can choke out is an airy “eh,” the sort of defeated noise you might expect if I was lifting something heavy or breathing through a cramp.
Kara makes a smug little sound behind closed lips. “If that’s Murphy’s official stance on the subject, I’m not so sure she’s on board.”
“No no no,” I insist, each “no” a pitch lower than the last. “It’s just…” I have the full table’s attention now, but I can’t make use of it. I’m too drenched in panic, too buried beneath the rubble of my own crumbling future to say anything helpful—or really, anything at all.
“Well,” Ellie says, picking up where I’m so brutally letting her down, “Ithink it’s a good career path for me, and I was thinking it’d be a good use of the money from Grandma and Grandpa. Funding my education.”
“So our contributions to your four years of art education aren’t enough?” Kara sounds sterner than I’ve ever heard, and that’s saying a lot. “And why New York? It’s so expensive and far—don’t you want to be close to Murphy?” She turns to meand adds, “Assuming you’d try to transfer to U of I next fall. Is that still what you’d want?”
“I…uh…” I push my tongue against my teeth and stare down at my plate. It’s like we’re back in the classroom, and just like always, Professor Meyers is asking a question I don’t know the answer to. What do I want? I want to disappear from this table. I want to squeeze my eyes shut and magically reopen them somewhere else, somewhere private where I can cry. I lock my jaw to bite back the tears. “I don’t know.” It’s my first bit of honesty since the moment I arrived, so why does it feel worse than a lie?
