Fire with Fire

WHEN THE BELL RINGS AT THE END OF THIRD PERIOD, I head to the library instead of to calc, because the guidance office is offering a workshop for seniors to help them fill out their college applications.

I’m almost positive it’ll be a waste of time. I’m going early-decision Oberlin, and the materials are pretty straightforward. A basic application and a personal statement about who I am and why I want to go there. It should be a cakewalk.

But after my less-than-awesome SAT scores this summer, I need to pull out all the stops. It’s a fucking broken system. With the SATs, there are tons of tricks about how to answer questions that can bring your score up hundreds of points. That’s why rich kids end up doing so much better than poor kids, because they can afford special classes where they teach you those secrets.

It’s not like I could ever afford a private tutor, so I got a bunch of books out of the library. Some of them were super outdated, and some dumb-ass had actually filled in the practice tests in pen. I did the best I could, but it clearly wasn’t enough. I plan on talking about that in my personal statement, actually. Oberlin is a super-liberal, progressive place. I feel like they’d jive on my lower-class angst. Regardless, I’m going to have to take the SATs again next month, and hopefully improve my score by a couple hundy.

If there are any secret guidance counselor tricks I can learn, anything that will make my application to Oberlin rock freaking solid and stand out over all the others, I need to know them. I’ll do whatever it takes to get off Jar Island forever. Ohio might not seem like the coolest place, but it’s definitely where I want to be.

The library is dead, so dead I wonder if maybe this thing is happening in the guidance office instead. I walk over to the reference desk. The librarian there is on the computer. I hold my yellow pass up and say, “Do you know where the—” but she cuts me off with a big fat “Shhhh,” even though there’s no one in here but her. Then she points to the conference room next to the computers.

There aren’t a lot of kids in the conference room. Maybe five other seniors, some I recognize and some I don’t. I take a seat in the back, unzip my bag, and pull out the application to Oberlin. You fill it out online, but I printed a copy out so I could plan all my answers beforehand.

Ms. Chirazo, the head of guidance, comes in as the bell rings, in the flowy black pants and yarn neck scarf that seems to be her unofficial uniform. I swear, the woman has nothing but that shit hanging in her closet.

She frowns, I guess because she’s disappointed with the lack of turnout. But then she sees me and her face brightens. “Katherine DeBrassio! How are you?”

I mumble, “Fine,” and stare down at my papers.

“We should arrange a time to sit down in private and properly catch up!” She says it way too cheerily, and it basically confirms my worst suspicions.

I had to talk with Ms. Chirazo when my mom died. Not because I needed to. I wasn’t acting out in class or crying in public or anything like that. But Ms. Chirazo saw the obituary in the newspaper. She actually showed up to one of my classes with it clipped out and asked me in this weirdly calm voice, “Would you like to talk?” She wasn’t even a guidance counselor at the middle school. She worked in the high school. But I guess grief is her specialty.

I told her, “Nope. I would not.”

And then bitch made it a mandatory five sessions!

I know she loved it, getting to counsel a kid over the death of a parent. I’d come in and she’d be smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. Parental death is like catnip to a school counselor. That, abusive relationships, teen pregnancies, and eating disorders. I barely said more than two words to her at each of the sessions. At our last one she gave me all these grief workbooks and crap that I chucked in the Dumpster as soon as I was dismissed.

“Well, it looks like it’s just us today,” she says, turning her attention back to the room. “Hopefully, you’ll spread the word to your friends and classmates about how valuable this resource is.” She’s about to close the door, but someone stops her.

Alex Lind.

He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans, and a black-and-white-checked shirt underneath a hunter-green sweater. “Sorry I’m late.” Even though there are plenty of empty chairs, he slides into the one next to me. “Looks like we’re officially losers,” he whispers, and laughs.

“Speak for yourself,” I say back. It comes out kind of bitchy, so I tack on a little smirk.

Not that I even care if he thinks I’m a bitch. I’m over him. Summer was a long time ago already.

Ms. Chirazo starts going off on her spiel, breaking down the college application process into three parts. The questionnaire, the recommendations, and the personal essay.

“Personal essay is the most important part. It’s the only time you’ll have a chance to show the admissions board who you are, explain what you’re all about. It’s your chance to stand out, to let them get to know you, and proactively address any aspects of your academic record that might not be up to snuff. This will be the primary focus of our time together. Since we’re such a small group, why don’t we partner up.”

I feel Alex’s eyes on me. I immediately turn in the opposite direction, toward Gary Rotini, who’s sitting on my other side. Unfortunately, he’s already partnered up with some chick from my gym class. I’m surprised she’s here. Maybe they require you to fill out an application for beautician school.

Alex puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You’re up, Kat. Tell me your deepest, darkest secrets.”

I force a swallow. If Alex only knew what I’ve been up to this year, he’d never talk to me again. Again, not like I’d care.

“You couldn’t handle it,” I say.

“Then I’ll go first.”

“You’re a vanilla wafer. Your boring-ass secrets will put me to sleep.” I look around the room for someone else to pair up with.

Alex turns his seat so he’s facing me. “Hey, I’ve got darkness in me. I’m no vanilla wafer.”

I roll my eyes. “Prove it.”

He looks over both his shoulders. “One time, when I was seven, I tried to make out with my babysitter when she put me to bed.”

“Oh my God!”

“What? She was really pretty! Her hair smelled like cherry Slurpee.”

I lean back in my chair. “Un-tell me that right now, pervert, or I’m never speaking to you again!”

He puts his head down on the table, embarrassed.

I reach out to ruffle his hair, but then think better of it and pull my hand back. I don’t need to confuse things between us. I don’t need to be flirting with Alex Lind, even though it is kind of fun. I can’t let myself get sidetracked from my ultimate goal, which is to get the eff off Jar Island for good.