academia ii
See advisor lady.
She sent me a note, marked it URGENT and underlined the word three times. Advisor Lady is surprised I showed up. Happy.
Hear about her quest to save me.
Tell her that I’m fine and “Not in need of salvation.”
She insists: “You’re not. You do.”
“I know you’re not a kid,” she says, from behind her desk.
Her short hair is pulled back into a black ponytail. The blonde highlights make her look younger. The blue blouse is shiny, cut low.
I watch for bra lines as she breathes, speaks.
“I know you’re not a kid. I’m trying not to treat you as one but you are totally behaving that way.”
Her face is a stern pout.
Ask, “What way?”
Eyes roll. “Missing classes. You’ll flunk out.”
She tells me she doesn’t care how high my marks from Cross were or how much scholarship money is at stake.
“It’s being wasted.”
Can’t I see that?
Her questions are pleas.
Time to lie. Get her off my back.
“My mother is sick,” I tell her. “Real sick.”
Frown. Look worried. Try to believe it, myself.
Advisor lady, swallows. She seems unfazed.
We are playing Chicken. She waits for me to blink, crack, waver.
The clock on the wall ticks slowly. It is the only sound in the room.
“I can’t take it,” I say. “I’m cracking under the pressure.”
I wave this at her and adjust in the seat.
She tells me I’m so cliché.
A parody of parody.
I try a new approach.
Snarl, “How dare you.”
The lack of acceptance, understanding, angers me.
“Listen,” she starts.
“No, you listen,” I interrupt. “How dare you! My mom is fucking dying. Why can’t you people give me a break?”
Play the ace.
Advisor Lady tells me, “She's only dying if you see it that way.”
“What? You want me to lie to myself? Turn a blind eye to her?”
Words are chosen.
“Just because you think she's dying, doesn’t mean she's no longer living.”
“I don't prescribe to mythology,” I tell her.
She hears me.
“You'd just give up? How would your mother feel about that?”
I don’t answer. How can I?
Look for something sharp to say. Something stored away.
“The problem is,” she continues, “you've never learned the consequences of your actions. Until now, you’ve kept ahead of the fallout.”
Try to convince her: “I've been through some major shit, you know?”
“I mean, didn’t they tell you?”
“Who hasn't?” she asks. “Don’t you see? You’re not special. Don’t you see? You aren’t the center of it all.”
We're mad at each other, yelling, standing, leaning forward on either side of the desk.
She swallows.