At least I’d been pulled out of chem lab, my last class on this very sleepy Monday.
Mrs. Fiore returned, the aroma of coffee wafting behind her. Probably announced to the faculty lounge as she was getting her java fix: “That quiet girl, Wren Caswell, is sitting in my office—like she’s going to get in anywhere. How can she be Brooke Caswell’s sister? Now, hers was a high school résumé with achievement written all over it.” I straightened out of my slouch as she placed the mug of coffee on her blotter. The mug had a picture of one of those saucer-eyed Precious Moments kids on it with the words God Don’t Make Junk underneath.
She tapped her keyboard a few times then angled the computer screen so I could see. My name, “Caswell, Wren,” was in bold blue lettering at the top of an empty form of some kind.
“So, Wren, where should we begin?” she asked, putting on a tiny pair of half glasses with zebra-print frames.
The truth was, I wanted to like Mrs. Fiore. I wanted to have one of those relationships you see on TV where the guidance counselor is your buddy and you can drop by her office on a whim, just to say hi, and she helps you out of some ridiculous predicament involving laxative-laced bake-sale brownies while the laugh track murmurs in the background. I wanted to be one of those students who had a teacher as a friend, someone who really “got” me, but I clammed up the moment I was around anyone in authority. What was there to talk about except school and the weather? Not exactly the stuff of great bonding.
“I don’t have a clue,” I finally answered.
“That’s pretty exciting. The world is open to you then, isn’t it?”
All except Harvard.
“It’s overwhelming,” I answered.
So overwhelming, it was easier not to think about. I thought I wanted to continue with school, but unlike Jazz, who was gunning for Cornell to follow her mom, or Maddie, who was determined to go to Pratt and become the next Frank Lloyd Wright, I never had my sights on anything so specific. Not law, like my father and Brooke. Josh seemed to like Rutgers, but was that a reason to go there? The stark reality of my average grades made me wonder if maybe my path was elsewhere. Did I really need a college degree to run the Camelot? What if I started straight out of school? Would Mom want me to?
“Well, that’s why we’re having these sessions. You have to reframe that overwhelmed feeling. Take charge. Do you plan on going to college?”
“I . . . um . . . maybe?” I answered. “I’ve been thinking there might be something different for me.”
Her eyes looked bewildered as she peered at me above her zebra frames.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what about, say . . . Mark Zuckerberg, the creator of Facebook? He dropped out of college and he’s a bazillionaire, no degree necessary. Or what if I don’t even know what I want to pursue, but I fall into it, like that guy on the insurance commercial . . . the one who made the Vatican out of toothpicks?”
“The Vatican out of toothpicks?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the defective clock.
“Yes. Not that I’d do that, I just, well . . .” The words spilled out of my mouth one after the other before I could stop them. I was derailing. A flush crept up my neck. “Well, my family owns a catering hall, the Camelot. I was thinking I could run that someday.”
This was something she could grasp on to; the smile returned to her face. “Business, maybe? Or are you more interested in the hospitality part of it?”
“Not sure.”
“Well, we can evaluate your interests and test scores and see where that leads. Here’s the password to your account,” she said, scribbling down a series of letters and numbers on a paper and handing it to me. “Start by taking the personality assessment. We’ve got incredible capabilities with our new computer programs; you can use some of your study periods to research schools, even schedule visits. We can also see where your application can be ramped up. . . .”
I tried to process all the information, but by the end of the thirty minutes I was more confused than ever. I promised to research at least three schools I’d like to apply to next year and made an appointment for my second visit in February, which felt light-years away.
Jazz waved when I walked back into the chemistry lab with ten minutes to spare. I mimed hanging myself with a noose and let my tongue loll out of my mouth.
“That good, Miss Caswell?” Sister Marie asked.
I truly sucked at the teacher/student-bonding thing.
“So what did you talk about? Does she grill you about your personal life?” Jazz asked as we left school for the day and walked down the long driveway next to the building.
“No, thank God.” I imagined Mrs. Fiore’s reaction to the cocktail-frank incident at work this past Friday. “Saving Grayson.” What an amazing topic for your personal essay! How did you know what to do? What were you thinking? The attention of my coworkers was more than I could handle. Even Jazz and Maddie were floored when I told them. As odd as it sounded, I had no clue how I pulled that set of skills out of my ass. I’d learned about the Heimlich maneuver in health class and had passed the poster on the wall in the Camelot more times than I could count, but neither one really prepared me for the reality of having someone’s life in my hands.
“Just stuff about school,” I continued. “I have to research colleges. Think about how I can possibly shore up the holes in my high school career.”
“Since when is going to high school a career?” asked Maddie, panting as she ran to catch up to us.
“Mads, you sound a little breathless there,” Jazz said. “You should come with me on my interval runs.”
“No, Wren and I are doing the yoga thing. Maybe you should join us?”
“When does that start again?” I asked.
“The Thursday after Thanksgiving.”
“I work at my mom’s office on Thursdays,” Jazz said, “but maybe I could try a class sometime. I’m always so tight after my long runs. Doing both is a great way to cross-train, Mads. Just tossing that out there.”
“I can think of better ways to cross-train. Let’s toss out something more interesting, like how we’re going to spend Thanksgiving break.”
“Easy. I’m working,” I answered.
“No,” they both said.
“Yes.”
“What about the Turkey Day game? All those college boys home from school . . .” Mads trailed off as though she were envisioning a stadium full of hot guys.
“C’mon, Wren, it’s tradition,” Jazz said.
The annual Turkey Day game between St. Gabe’s and Bergen Point High was Bayonne’s version of the Super Bowl. Everyone went to cheer on the two bitter rivals, the prep boys and the public scrubs. Bergen Point usually wiped the field with St. Gabe’s defensive line, and there was always an undercurrent that the game was more a battle of classes than of school teams. Sacred Heart girls were supposed to cheer for our unofficial brother school, but Jazz, Mads, and I went more for the eye candy—prep, scrub, anything in between—didn’t matter, we didn’t take sides. This year, though, I wanted no chance of seeing Trevor home for the holidays. Huge stadium, small world—it would be just my luck to run into him and do something stupid like dribble hot chocolate down my peacoat. Not. A. Chance.
“Maybe,” I lied, offering them some hope as we reached the end of the drive and emptied out into Sacred Heart’s thrumming social hub . . . aka the street in front of school.
“Hey, Weenie Girl!”
No. Way.
“Wren, did that guy just call you Weenie Girl?” Mads asked, picking up her pace as she realized what was happening. “Omigod, that’s Puke Boy, isn’t it? You didn’t accurately convey how friggin’ hot he is!”