I would’ve pointed out that I had joined Mrs. Wentworth’s own club—the Road-to-College Club—but it was hardly optional, and as of now, I was the only member. So I just nodded and tried to look solemn.
“You’ve still got time. It’s only August, but before you know it, deadlines are going to start creeping up. You’ve expressed some interest in Reeding. Let’s pursue it. But we need to explore all our options. If there are any other schools you’ve got in mind, let’s visit them.”
“Visit?” For a brief second, I imagined myself on the road with Mrs. Wentworth, arguing over complimentary shower caps in some cheesy motel room.
“You can’t make informed decisions without knowing what you’re getting into,” said Mrs. Wentworth. “You wouldn’t buy a dress without trying it on first, would you?”
I choked back Maybe if I bought it online and just shook my head. It wasn’t the idea of college visits I was apprehensive of. It was the concept of Road-to-College Club in general. I think this will be good for you, my mom had said, holding up a flyer sent home in the mail and officially making Road-to-College Club akin to broccoli and sunscreen. Maybe it would be good for me. But that didn’t mean I had to enjoy it.
“Are there any particular majors you’re interested in?”
“Not really.” Saying advanced breakfast with a minor in cable television would surely bring about some epic battle that Mrs. Wentworth’s smile was doomed to lose.
“Well, you’ve got some things to think about. This week I want you to look for extracurricular activities. Join a club. Start your own. It’s not too late to get yourself out there and get involved.”
Ugh. She sounded like a brochure. I suppressed an eye roll and opted for a noncommittal head bob.
It was quiet for a moment. I thought she was going to dismiss me, but when I looked up, Mrs. Wentworth was examining me through narrowed eyes.
Her first name was Isobel. She wasn’t very old in the grand scheme of things, but by high school standards, she seemed it. She wore patterned sweaters and long, shapeless floral skirts. Still, Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes were very beautiful. Her lashes were thick and dark, and the color was just as vibrant, just as green as it must’ve been when she was my age. I liked to think that she was incredibly popular in those days. All the guys would follow her around and offer to drive her home and tell her that she looked like the girls in the magazines. And she would laugh and flip her dark curls and have no idea that there would be a time in her life when she would be Mrs. Wentworth, and care what some obnoxious girl wrote to get into Reeding University.
“Devon,” she said, and somehow I felt like the voice speaking was a little more Isobel and a little less Mrs. Wentworth. “Do you want to go to college?”
No one had ever asked me that. College was the natural order of things. According to my parents, between birth and death, there had to be college.
“I don’t know what else I would do,” I said.
“Join the army,” was her simple reply.
I made a face. “I hate being yelled at.”
“The Peace Corps then.”
A choking noise erupted from my throat, something like a cat being strangled. “I hate being selfless.”
“All right.” The twitching around Mrs. Wentworth’s lips started up again. “Get a job.”
“Just start working? Just like that?”
“Lots of people do it. Some very successful people never went to college.”
“Yeah. Look at Hollywood.”
“There’s one. Go to Hollywood. Become a star.”
“But I can’t act. I’ve never even talked in a play.”
“So join drama club.”
“Oh yeah, chorus member number twelve will be my ticket to stardom.”
“Why not?”
“First, you have to like doing that kind of stuff, which I don’t, and second, you have to be good at it, which I’m not.”
“So what are you good at?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, really.”