leaned back against the edge of the kitchen island. âIf thatâs the case, then perhaps you should let me in on what youâve been thinking. Then I can be sick of it too. Because right now, what Iâm sick of is not knowing what youâre thinking about college!â
Okay, that logic officially made my head hurt. But she wasnât finished.
âA lot of arrangements have to be made in preparation for your higher education, Morgan. A lot of planning and juggling of finances and all kinds of considerations that have to be, you knowââ
âConsidered?â I deadpanned. It was a dangerous moment to yank Momâs chain, but I couldnât resist.
âRight,â she said, narrowing her eyes. âMy point is, itâs not just about you.â
âMom, I hate to tell you this.â
She started to say something else, then stopped. âWhat?â
âMe choosing a college? Me choosing a career? Me choosing what I want to do with my life?â
âYes?â
âIt is just about me.â
I liked the sound of that as soon as Iâd said it, so I said it again. âItâs about me . It really is.â
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mom backed off after that little piece of insubordination, but she made me repeat the whole drill when my dad got home from work. With him I took a different approach.
âItâs just that I donât know what I want to do, career wise,â I said, little-lost-girl style. That was usually the best strategy with him. âSo I donât know what I want to study. And so I donât really have any, you know, whatayacallemsââ
âCriteria,â my mom threw in, before I could think of the word.
â â Cry teary ahhh! â That is the saddest word ever!â My sister, Tammy, was lying on her belly on the rug, scribbling into a composition notebook. She was so worried that sheâd forget how to spell over the summer that sheâd decided to make her own book of spelling words to keep her sharp as a tack until September. For a kid whoâd just finished second grade, she was showing a lot more concern for her academic future than I was showing for mine. âHow do you spell that sad, sad word?â
âWith a C,â my mom answered. âNow hush, Tammy, weâre talking.â
âSo like, thereâs no way to pick,â I went on, to my dad. âIt just seems so random.â
My dad nodded and said nothing. It was hard to tell if he was listening.
âThereâs no shame in getting a liberal arts degree,â Mom offered.
âOh my God, there so is,â I countered. âLiberal arts means you have no clue.â
âHow about a gap year, then?â Mom was not going to give up. âIf you can find something constructive to do, of course.â
âPlease! Gap year means you really have no clue.â
Dad got up from the sofa and walked the full length of our oversized, no privacy, open-plan house. He marched across the living area to the dining area to the kitchen area and then to the refrigerator. He got himself a Diet Coke and popped it open. He even thought to pick up a coaster. Then he walked all the way back and sat back down on the sofa.
âWell, at least we all agree on something,â Dad announced.
âWhat?â my mom and I said at the same time.
âYou, Morgan,â he said, raising the can to his lips, âhave no clue.â
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the two of them had one of their late-night kitchen conversations that night, the kind I could hear from my room without being able to make out any of the actual words. Like two anxious bees, buzzing and buzzing until well after midnight.
The buzzing must have been about me, because by ten oâclock the next morning my mom had booked an emergency appointment with Mr. Cornelius Phineas, private college counselor.
He was very expensive, my mom explained proudly after sheâd hung up, and