Chapter Five: Ollie

ON MONDAY, I ALMOST FORGET THAT I’M SUPPOSED to meet with Ms. Mirza during fourth period, so I have to sprint across campus to make it to the counseling office in time. I was assigned Ms. Mirza randomly, which was a lucky break because as college counselors go, she is super chill. In fact, she probably wouldn’t even mind if I were late, but you know—I don’t want to be that guy.

I’m a little winded when I skid to a stop in front of the office door, so I’m not really prepared when I swing it open and find, behind a desk piled high with stacks of envelopes, Francine. Her student aide badge hangs on a lanyard around her neck.

“Ollie?” She sets down a small plastic bottle topped with a sponge, which I guess she’d been using to moisten the envelope flaps. “What are you doing here?”

The way she’s asking, though, makes it seem like she’s glad to see me. Like me showing up here is just the pleasant surprise she was waiting for.

I blush. I’m one of those people who blushes easily, often for no reason. Sometimes all it takes is somebody talking to me—they could be saying “Are you finished with that?” or “Where is the bathroom?” and it wouldn’t make a difference. In most cases, it doesn’t have anything to do with who the person is. Like right now, which definitely doesn’t have anything to do with Francine. We haven’t spoken outside of class since the pig dissection day, which is as it should be, though I have sometimes found myself thinking about her Pigby speech and the whole sad thing with her grandpa, and I kind of wish I’d reacted differently that afternoon.

“I’m here to see Ms. Mirza,” I say, hoping she doesn’t notice how pink I’ve gotten.

“Oh,” says Francine, frowning. “She’s out sick today.”

“Wait, really?” I scroll through my phone to see if I missed an email. “Was I supposed to reschedule?”

Francine opens a calendar on the computer and clicks a few times. “No, you’re fine. You’ve been reassigned to Ms. Lane instead.”

I want to tell Francine that this is far from fine. Ms. Lane is the other counselor at Hargis, and she’s worshipped on campus for getting kids into top schools. She’s got a resting face as severe as the part of her hair, which is streaked with gray even though she’s not actually that old. People say she once intercepted a Stanford interviewer at a SoulCycle class in Huntington Beach just to make someone’s case. Basically, she’s dedicated AF and that’s not exactly the best fit for me.

Before I can react, however, Ms. Lane appears in her doorway. “Good morning, Ollie,” she says. “You’re late.”

I glance at Francine, who looks sorry for me, and then the clock on the wall. In the time that we’ve been talking, it’s become two minutes past eleven—which means I am, technically, now late.

“Sorry,” I say, shuffling over to take a seat in Ms. Lane’s office. As she shuts the door, I remove my backpack and hug it to my chest, then change my mind and drop it on my shoes, then change my mind again and kick it under my chair. Ms. Lane watches all of this without a word, and only when I finally sit still does she speak up.

“All right, Ollie,” she begins. “This meeting is for you. What questions do you have for me?”

I’d been under the impression that this would be a quick check-in—a simple requirement for all juniors at this point in the semester—so I obviously have no questions. “Um,” I venture. “I guess I’m wondering how I’m doing, college-wise?”

Ms. Lane opens a manila folder on her desk and pulls out my transcript. Of course she has her shit together, despite being saddled with me pretty last minute. “Your grades look competent,” she observes with a sniff of surprise. “Quite competent.”

This is not an accident. I discovered long ago that getting decent grades was a surefire way to keep my parents off my back, so I always make sure to do just well enough to fly under their radar. It’s one of the few useful things I’ve learned from Isaac, who has perfected the practice into an art. In high school, he was the poor man’s golden boy: earned straight A minuses, played varsity basketball but didn’t make captain, got nominated for homecoming court but wasn’t crowned king. He was, and still is, slightly below above average in all aspects of his life and generally affable about the whole situation. Somehow, though, he’s now a junior at Berkeley, so I guess it worked out for him.

“Your extracurriculars, in contrast, are extremely weak,” Ms. Lane continues. “We’ll have to fix that if you’re hoping to get into a certain tier of school.”

I shift uneasily. My activities are nothing stellar, though they always seemed fine enough for getting by. Especially considering I’m not even trying to pull off an Isaac. But Ms. Lane is looking at me expectantly, so I say, “You mean, like, join more clubs?”

Ms. Lane shakes free another sheet of paper, this one a form I’d filled out with a summary of my extracurricular experiences. “Not necessarily. Colleges want to see depth, not breadth. They’re particularly interested in evidence of initiative and commitment.” She places the page in front of me. “To be frank, I’m not seeing a lot of that here.”

I look down at my list, which includes some basic stuff like Key Club and National Honor Society—organizations that are impressive sounding, but so big that nobody notices if you don’t show up to a meeting. The reason Ms. Lane isn’t seeing a lot of initiative and commitment here is that there isn’t any.

“I can work on it,” I say, because I feel like the quickest way out of this conversation is to agree with everything.

Ms. Lane doesn’t buy it. “What exactly are your goals, Ollie?” she asks, leaning forward suddenly. The question is suspiciously similar to one of my dad’s favorite topics, which is what I plan to do with my life if I don’t want to join the family business. My parents run a company importing and exporting Chinese medicinal herbs, and we all expect Isaac to be in charge someday. The problem is, the only thing that interests me less than medicinal herbs is working for Isaac.

“I’m not sure,” I say blandly.

Ms. Lane’s gaze stays fixed on me, and I remember another rumor I’d heard about how her eyeliner is tattooed on. How or why this came to be known is anybody’s guess, but Ms. Lane shockingly settled the matter by corroborating the story. “It’s much more efficient this way,” she supposedly said—which, in retrospect, seems on brand.

“I can tell you have a lot of potential, Ollie,” she says, which is one of those things adults want you to think is a compliment but actually means they’re about to make you do a lot more work. “It seems to me, though, that you are in grave danger of wasting it.” She folds her arms across her desk. “But don’t worry—you’re one of my students now. Which means it’s my job to ensure you make the biggest impact you can.”

I gulp, because that’s exactly what I was afraid of.

“I think the key for you is to invest in something other than yourself.” Ms. Lane waves a hand over my transcript. “Grades are important, Ollie, but I want to know: Are you willing to step up for others? Are you passionate about your community? Do you care?” I shrink a bit in my seat because I don’t know how to answer those questions. I mean, if she puts it like that, then sure, I care. Don’t I?

Ms. Lane, however, is already closing my folder. “Decide on an activity you’d like to get more involved in and bring me a plan of action when I see you next week.” When I look bewildered, she adds, “It’s already March, Ollie. You don’t have much time. Let’s get more substantial experience under your belt before the year is over.”

I manage to mumble a positive response, then almost as quickly as I was diagnosed, I’m dismissed. I can’t quite wrap my head around how Ms. Lane’s interest in my college prospects seems both way too aggressive and, at the same time, totally perfunctory. Either way, it blows. I have no idea what I’m going to report back to her. It’s not like Key Club is suddenly going to let me be their treasurer or whatever—kids spend years working up to those positions. I, on the other hand, have never been comfortable putting myself out there like that. I’m not one of those people who always feels the need to make some big contribution. After all, I’m not—

“Francine, geez!”

She jumps backward, flailing but recovering quickly, as I almost trip over her. I wasn’t expecting her to be right outside Ms. Lane’s door.

“How was it?” she asks, like she wasn’t just listening in on the whole thing.

“I don’t know.” I’m partly disoriented and partly annoyed. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Well, if I’m being honest,” Francine replies, “it didn’t sound too good.”

Reflexively, I get defensive, but then I realize that I literally asked for it. Sighing, I rub the back of my neck. “The gist is that Ms. Lane thought my extracurriculars were shit.”

Francine nods solemnly—you would’ve thought I’d said I was getting expelled or something. “And are they?”

“No,” I snap. Then I pause. “I mean, maybe they are, but it’s whatever. What’s it to her? She barely asked me about my interests and basically stopped listening when I didn’t have an immediate response. Now she’s expecting me to conjure up more ‘substantial experience’ out of thin air. How the hell am I supposed to do that, especially this late in the year?”

“That’s fair.” Francine nods again, weirdly agreeable. “Did you tell Ms. Lane how you feel?”

“Did I tell Ms. Lane?” I repeat, faltering, and it occurs to me then I’ve kind of been going off, which I hadn’t meant to do three feet from Ms. Lane’s office and certainly not to Francine. I don’t know what about her right now is making me blab on like this. Blushing again, I take a step toward the main office door. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

“Oh,” says Francine, but you can tell she really wants to ask why not? It’s another question I don’t have an answer to, and I’m thankful when she instead goes with “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. I’m sure there are lots of clubs that would love to have your gung-ho spirit!”

Her exaggerated you-can-do-it fist pump is so ridiculous that it makes me laugh, and I forget for a second why I was embarrassed. “Well, tell them to get in line,” I joke just as the bell rings.

“Sure thing.” Francine grins at me. “I’ll draw up a list.”

As I reach for the door, I decide against my better judgment to wave, and at first it takes Francine by surprise. Then she waves back energetically, and I smile to myself as I step outside, shaking my head. She always was a funny girl.

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