An Off Year Read online

  “Okay. Let’s try this. What do you think you want from a college?” Leah asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, staring at the desk.

  “You seem fairly bright,” she said, glancing at my file. “So whatever your particular issue is that compelled you not to go through with your year, I’m assuming it’s not an academic thing. Or a drug problem or anything like that.”

  I just stared out the window at the weird German-looking building.

  “Okay, Cecily,” Leah said, leaning back in her chair. She let her head slouch to her shoulder and looked out the window at the German building, not at me. “I can respect that it maybe wasn’t your choice to be here and that you’re questioning the point of this. But seriously? I’m getting a little fucking sick of the attitude. Don’t you think you’re a little too old for this?” I blinked, hard, and I started feeling funny in my stomach. My heart began racing.

  “Now,” she said. “I know you didn’t come here because you don’t care about wasting your dad’s money. And I know you’re not acting like this because you’re a spoiled brat.” She looked at me expectantly, but smiling.

  “Um. No.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because I don’t want to have to kick you out of here. I hate kicking people out of here. But I really hate it when my time is wasted. I’ve spent too much precious time on snotty kids, and believe me, there are a lot of them in this town.”

  I snorted out a gross-sounding laugh. She laughed, too.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “We can both admit it. But that’s all right. At least it’s just you,” she said. “Sometimes I get to see these kids’ parents yell at them in front of me. Or they answer for their kids like it’s a ventriloquist act. Or I start questioning the kids’ attitude and then their parents question my attitude and I have to kick them all out and then have a good cry.”

  “I think my dad wants me to figure it out on my own,” I said. “I guess he thinks he can’t figure this all out for me. He was a lot pushier with my sister when she was my age, and she didn’t turn out much better than me. I think she’s worse.”

  “Helicopter parents are not always the best,” Leah said, and I imagined for a minute what it would be like if Dad had made me apply to more schools, tougher schools, had made me take the SATs two or three times, had rung up his colleagues for recommendations. Would I be better off? We probably wouldn’t get along as well, that’s for sure.

  “So what’s up, Cecily?” she said, looking me in the eye again and leaning forward in her chair. The way she said it made me think she knew exactly what my situation was. For a second, I wanted to cry.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what’s up.”

  “So you picked Kenyon, huh?” she said, flipping some more through my file. “It’s a good school. I have a lot of friends from there. You can talk to some of them if you want. They all loved it there. I can’t say that for everybody I know who went to other schools.”

  Kenyon. I liked it because the name sounded like “canyon.” And because they sent me a cool-looking brochure that featured a leaf-strewn path with friends enjoying soon-to-be precious college memories together. And also because I got in there. As I told Leah, Dad had pushed Germaine pretty hard when it came to picking out colleges. Josh was a goody-goody who graduated in the top quarter of the class, so he pushed himself. I didn’t know if Dad was tired from pushing Germaine, hoped I’d be like Josh, or what, but while he checked in to make sure that I was actually remembering to look at schools and apply to them, and recommended some he thought I might like (all small liberal arts schools), he seemed satisfied as long as I was applying to places that had a semidecent reputation and weren’t too far away and didn’t cost an arm and a leg to go to. I received the brochure for Kenyon, applied, and got in. I didn’t have a big plan for what would happen once I got there, what I’d major in or join or whatever. I was okay at everything. Probably less capable at math and science. I liked Spanish. I just figured I’d start college and by the end figure out what I was going to do.

  I mostly liked the school because it didn’t look too much like anything. Josh’s school definitely had a frat and party atmosphere. It was a good university, but it wasn’t like kids were going to museums with their free time or anything. Germaine went to a small college that was 89 percent women, and I was convinced that the smallness and womanliness of it were partially what made her crazy. We fought before she left for college, but I thought that we’d get along better after she came back. I was wrong, though: I think she got so used to fighting with girls for four years that she was just going to keep going. Also, I think that was why she was boy crazy and lazy. After four years of being told the importance of being a strong woman, a leading woman, Germaine just didn’t want to do anything.

  Kate’s college was prestigious but hippie-ish, the kind where most of the kids were filthy and stunk like incense and shopped at co-ops, but were also all really rich. Everyone at Mike’s former school seemed like assholes. I had no real basis for this stereotype, but I was going to go with it. I had no idea what the University of Kansas was like, other than the fact that it was located in Kansas.

  I liked Kenyon because it seemed like I didn’t have to join a club, be an asshole, or be too smart or too independent or too womanly or too girly or live in Kansas. And now I liked it because I could go there without having to send in an application.

  As I talked to Leah, I figured out what it was about her that seemed odd. She was about my dad’s age, maybe ten years younger, but the way she listened to me and said “Uh-huh,” or “Oh really?” or “like” instead of “said” and really looked at me while I talked, it was more like a friend, or someone my age. I didn’t know what to think. Germaine and I never had conversations on purpose, and my mother never seemed to listen to me that closely when I talked. I wasn’t sure if I liked Leah, but I liked talking to her. It felt like one of the few normal conversations I’d had all year. I wondered if she was a mom. I didn’t see a wedding band on, but I saw some picture frames on her desk, though I couldn’t see what was in them. They could have contained babies, or a sailboat, or dogs. I wondered what it would be like to have a mom like her. She seemed cool with her own dorkiness.

  “Okay,” she said when I was done talking about where I might have gone to school. “Let’s start from the beginning, though, and get a few other options in there. What size student body were you looking for?”

  “Seriously?” I said. “In all seriousness, I don’t think it’s the school. I was ready to go to Kenyon. And then it went to shit.”

  “Well, you know it’s also my job to help kids figure out if college just isn’t right for them,” she said. “I’ve had plenty of kids go into the army, or they went right to work, or they traveled first.”

  “I don’t want to join the army,” I said. “I would suck at being in the army.”

  “Do you think there’s something about a university setting that just isn’t right for you?” she asked. “You could always take classes online.”

  I made a face, and she snorted. She took a huge plate-size cookie out of her fast-food bag, unwrapped it, and held it out for me to break off a piece. I declined. I didn’t believe in sharing desserts. When I went in, I went in all the way.

  “No,” I said. “That sounds superboring.”

  “That’s good,” she said, some cookie bits falling onto her chunky gray sweater. “We’re establishing that you’re not totally socially inept.”

  “I am, kind of.”

  “That’s okay. Me too. I mean, obviously,” she said, looking down at the crumbs on her sweater. We sat in silence for a few moments. The room was quiet except for a few whooshes from cars down the street below.

  “You know what,” I said, “I know I shouldn’t take it for granted, but I always just assumed I’d go to college. I know there are kids in the world who would love to but they can’t afford it, but I just assumed I’d go anyway. I didn’t worry about going. My d
ad always talked about me going the way he had talked about my brother and sister going, and they went. I took it for granted that it would happen.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re thinking that assumption was wrong?”

  “No,” I said. “Because I think not going, ever, would feel weirder than going. Despite all the issues I apparently have with it.”

  “What are the issues?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Like, everyone ends up the same when they go to college. It’s all about partying and awesome-ness and getting drunk and going to class.” Based on my conversations with Kate, anyway.

  “Well,” she said, “that’s not entirely inaccurate.”

  “And,” I said, “I don’t even know if I would have any friends anyway. I’m hardly friends anymore with the people I went to high school with, and I’ve known them for years. And everyone’s going to think I’m a freak when they find out I’m older than them.”

  “Well, they won’t. But you’re obviously afraid of blending in too much, losing your identity.”

  “Right.”

  “But I also get the feeling that you’re afraid of not having any friends at all.”

  “I guess that’s right.”

  “Well, Cecily, I gotta tell you,” Leah said, wadding up the cellophane from the cookie into a ball. “I know it’s my job to help you find which schools would make you happiest and be best for you, and then try to help you get in there. But, like you said, it doesn’t sound like it’s the school that’s the issue. I mean, yes, I think you actually would be better off at Kenyon than, say, University of Arizona. But all that other stuff—that’s up to you. I actually think it’s pretty cool that you’re doing your own thing, even if you don’t know why you’re doing it. All these parents shove their kids into the system, and nobody really seems to know why. They have an idea that it’s going to be helpful down the road somehow. That if they don’t power through and go-go-go, then they’re going to be fucked for life. You should question it. I question it and it’s my job, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’m questioning it or me or what,” I said. I liked the idea that I was actually a rebel, fighting The Man and not letting myself be led through the cattle chute of my late teens. But I didn’t mind The Man. I was probably afraid of The Man more than anything else. I didn’t want to fight him.

  “Cecily?” she said. “My advice? Don’t worry so much.”

  “Aren’t you paid to get me to worry about it?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t get kickbacks from schools for sending them there. I’ll get your money regardless of whether you go to college or go get pregnant and have six kids and move to Peoria.”

  “What?”

  “Our hour is up,” she said sweetly. “Come back and see me if you want. Or don’t.”

  “Okay,” I said. I did sort of want to come back and see her again, just to talk to her, not even to help with college stuff. Maybe in some alternate universe.

  “Okay,” she said.

  I got up and put my vest on. “Good luck,” she said as I opened the door.

  “You too,” I said. I had closed the door before I realized that I meant to say, “Thanks,” because I wasn’t wishing her luck on anything, but I let it go.

  The walk home wasn’t nearly as bad as I had dreaded; in fact, it felt good to actually move around. I bought a hot chocolate on the way, which, of course, made the entire world more pleasant. Except for Germaine, who was in the kitchen when I got home, heating up a Lean Cuisine and basically making the entire kitchen reek.

  “How was Leah?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said suspiciously. I didn’t know Germaine was so in on my plans.

  “I saw her once, you know,” she said. “She didn’t help me at all. I think she’s an idiot.”

  “Well, I kind of liked her,” I said. She snorted and took out her dish of sadness, stirred it, and put it back in the microwave.

  “So? What did she say?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know . . .” I said, hoping to make that profound statement last until I could find Superhero’s leash and get back out of the house. This was unpleasant.

  “No, I don’t know,” Germaine said. “I’m just curious about what she told you.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why should it matter to you?”

  “Everybody just wants to know why, Cecily. That’s really it. Once we know why, then we can just go back to ignoring you and let you have your little year off.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, I don’t know why, so fuck off.” The only thing that really bothered me was the way she said “everybody,” like everybody was gathering together to whisper about me. But of course, to her, that was what I wanted.

  “Oh, come on,” said Germaine. “You can’t have been that scared. It’s not like you haven’t gone away before. You’re not completely socially inept. You’re not fat. Are you crazy? Or are you just acting crazy because you want attention?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly it. And oh how I enjoy this. I’m really having fun with the attention I’m getting right now.”

  “I bet you are,” she said.

  “You know, contrary to what you might think, I didn’t orchestrate this just to piss you off,” I said. “I didn’t really think this through at all. Okay? I did something and I clearly didn’t have a follow-up plan. But I’ll tell you this: if I knew it would be this much fun, I probably wouldn’t have done it.”

  march

  “I want you to get a job,” said Jane at our next appointment. This was possibly a good idea, as I was starting to get cabin fever as most people in Chicago did. Even though the rest of the country was apparently undergoing something called “spring,” here it was still winter. Still, going to work wasn’t really my idea of what to do on spring break.

  “Ah,” I said. “Believe it or not, I don’t really need a lot of spending money. I’m actually saving money, when you think of it.”

  “That’s nice. It’s not really so much about you earning cash. It’s about direction.”

  “Well, actually, I met with a college counselor—”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, and we agreed that I probably should go back to school anyway.”

  “Well, first of all, I think that’s great that you met with a counselor,” said Jane, who looked so legitimately happy it was weird. “Was it helpful?”

  “Um, yes and no. I’m probably just going to try to go back to Kenyon. I still think it’s the school for me. We’ll just see if it’s the year for me.”

  “Cecily, that’s great! You have a plan, at least. That’s a big step.”

  “Oh stop. You’re much too kind,” I said with pretend modesty, although I did feel embarrassed all of a sudden. I felt like I was being congratulated for getting a C on a test, or maybe just putting my socks on right-side-out.

  “Well, anyway, you clearly still need to get out of the house and occupy yourself. And, yes, get a little spending money. Go out and have fun.”

  “I’m not a big shopper,” I said. “Maybe you could take me.”

  Jane ignored me. “Your dad works at the university, right? Maybe he can get you something?” She pulled out a piece of paper and began scrawling.

  Actually, it wasn’t unheard of for me to go help my dad out with filing from time to time (like when I wanted to escape having to see people). I didn’t exactly love it, but there was something pleasant about hanging out in the offices.

  “I guess, yeah.”

  “And you’ll at least be around some people your age. Ooh! In fact, maybe you can sit in on a class or two.”

  “Okay, Jane. Let’s not get crazy. Maybe I don’t want to be around people my age. Maybe I should just work in a geriatric home or something. All the old people I know seem to take a shine to me—Dad, you . . .”

  “You’re very funny, you know that?” Jane said, and handed me the paper, which read
, “Rx: Work!”

  Ugh. For the first time I wished I was taking a fancy year off, because I bet I could be in Greece right now or something, getting swarthy and eating flaming cheese instead of agreeing to get a job and go to class. Greece definitely sounded more fun.

  “Good-bye, Cecily.”

  Gina was wearing headphones when I came out, listening to music so loud I could hear it from several feet away. I pounded on the countertop, just once, hard, with my fist, and fled before I could see her look up.

  At home, Dad and I got into a stupid fight about me going to work with him. To summarize, it went something like this:

  “Jane the Shrink says to ask if I can work with you a few days a week or something. I need structure and to get out of the house and to socialize.”

  “Good, because I was going to tell you that you needed to find a job anyway.”

  “Oh, you were going to tell me this? You were going to make me?” Suddenly the idea of working for my dad, which was only mildly annoying before, now seemed completely unfair.

  “Yes.”

  “What if I didn’t want to work? What if I wanted to travel?”

  “Well, do you want to travel?”

  “No.”

  “Sometimes I don’t get you, Cecily.”

  I shrugged. “I’m an enigma!”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be cute. Here’s the deal. I’m not going to fund your year of sitting around doing nothing anymore. You’re coming to work with me on Monday. End of story.”

  “Fine!” I said, and ran outside with Superhero to try to calm down and figure out what I was upset about anyway. Dad and I hadn’t been getting along so great lately, and it was making me feel guilty. Either I was clearly bugging him for, I think, not knowing what I was going to do with myself, or he was irritating me with his attempts to help me. I guessed he was being helpful, but I didn’t want it.

  It didn’t help that by this time Germaine had found a job, too, one downtown doing some assistant work at a law firm. I don’t think she was happy with it at all: she came home every day crabby from the commute and from doing boring work, but despite her irritability, she seemed to get along better with Dad, who was nicer to her now that she wasn’t just lying around all the time. I didn’t mind the concept of working when it was my own idea, but I didn’t like it when it sounded mandatory. Plus, shouldn’t I try to find a job somewhere other than Dad’s university? I already knew that place. I was used to the vision of kids in backpacks crossing long paths on their way to class, the fliers taped to the ground advertising sit-ins or walkouts or dance marathons. I had been in the huge, scary library where everyone seemed strange and serious. I had seen the tour groups, wide-eyed or sullen kids and their parents being led around by some jerkoff prep kid walking backward, explaining excitedly how old the old clock tower was and the differences between the various a cappella singing groups on campus.