What I Wore to Save the World

What I Wore to Save the World Read Free Page B

Book: What I Wore to Save the World Read Free
Author: Maryrose Wood
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leaned back against the edge of the kitchen island. “If that’s the case, then perhaps you should let me in on what you’ve been thinking. Then I can be sick of it too. Because right now, what I’m sick of is not knowing what you’re thinking about college!”
    Okay, that logic officially made my head hurt. But she wasn’t finished.
    â€œA 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 know—”
    â€œConsidered?” I deadpanned. It was a dangerous moment to yank Mom’s chain, but I couldn’t resist.
    â€œRight,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “My point is, it’s not just about you.”
    â€œMom, I hate to tell you this.”
    She started to say something else, then stopped. “What?”
    â€œMe choosing a college? Me choosing a career? Me choosing what I want to do with my life?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œIt is just about me.”
    I liked the sound of that as soon as I’d said it, so I said it again. “It’s about me . It really is.”
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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.
    â€œIt’s just that I don’t know what I want to do, career wise,” I said, little-lost-girl style. That was usually the best strategy with him. “So I don’t know what I want to study. And so I don’t really have any, you know, whatayacallems—”
    â€œCriteria,” my mom threw in, before I could think of the word.
    â€œ ‘ Cry teary ahhh! ’ That is the saddest word ever!” My sister, Tammy, was lying on her belly on the rug, scribbling into a composition notebook. She was so worried that she’d forget how to spell over the summer that she’d decided to make her own book of spelling words to keep her sharp as a tack until September. For a kid who’d just finished second grade, she was showing a lot more concern for her academic future than I was showing for mine. “How do you spell that sad, sad word?”
    â€œWith a C,” my mom answered. “Now hush, Tammy, we’re talking.”
    â€œSo like, there’s no way to pick,” I went on, to my dad. “It just seems so random.”
    My dad nodded and said nothing. It was hard to tell if he was listening.
    â€œThere’s no shame in getting a liberal arts degree,” Mom offered.
    â€œOh my God, there so is,” I countered. “Liberal arts means you have no clue.”
    â€œHow about a gap year, then?” Mom was not going to give up. “If you can find something constructive to do, of course.”
    â€œPlease! Gap year means you really have no clue.”
    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.
    â€œWell, at least we all agree on something,” Dad announced.
    â€œWhat?” my mom and I said at the same time.
    â€œYou, Morgan,” he said, raising the can to his lips, “have no clue.”
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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 o’clock 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 she’d hung up, and

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