1
Genevieve
Some of us take longer to figure out who we are. I’m only a freshman, I thought I still had time. With each tick of the clock on the wall, my headache pounds harder.
I desperately need a manicure. My cuticles look like a crime scene and if my mother saw them, she’d faint—then rise from the dead just to lecture me about image. I’ve chewed my nails to nubs, impatiently waiting for my academic advisor and the dean of students to come to a decision. These two crusty admin women keep staring at me like I’m some walking Prada bag with an attitude problem.
They're not wrong.
I’m sure they would like for me to just disappear. I’ve given them enough to deal with.
But it’s their job.
“Genevieve, you are on academic probation. You cannot change your major for a third time mid-semester. It’s against school policy to add new courses this late into the semester,” my academic advisor, Bridgett Haslor, says.
“What do you mean I’m on academic probation? I just got to this school!” I respond to her. She stares at me under her clumpy mascara with a look of disappointment.
Don’t they know how hard it is to find a major? To commit to one field of study for four entire years? I’m not perfect like Lana, the perfect roommateandthe perfect student. I wasn't born knowing what I wanted to do for my whole life. I’m supposed to have more time, and I know that, but why doesn’t the dean?
“You’re failing statistics, Genevieve, and you have straight “C’s” in the rest of your classes. You cannot change your major for the third time when your grades look like this. It’s November, school has already been in session for three months,” Ms. Haslor says. Her tone oozes with disdain. I roll my eyes.
“The University’s policy doesn’t allow it. You’ll have to bring your grades up if you want to change your major again. Even if that happens, you need to really think about what major you want. You can’t just change your major on a whim,” says the college dean, Sherri Grant. Mrs. Grant looks at me as if I'm a child throwing a tantrum instead of a college student struggling.
They don't want to see a tantrum from me.
I take a deep breath quietly and try to keep my cool as I listen. I focus on the bright yellow painting on the wall behind them that says,you have the power to write your story.
How ironic.
I have the power to write my story, but they won’t let me change my major.
I’m not a child. I’ve heard the word ‘no’ before, but it sure sucks to hear it yet again, especially from people I’m supposed to admire.
I can’t fathom finishing this semester taking classes I loathe. There has to be something I can do. Maybe my dad could give me a leg up. He could donate a building or some new computers for the library.
He owes me.
But maybe they know about his past.
I look at my dean and advisor's faces, noting the disappointing gazes sent to each other as if I'm not sitting right here. I can tell they both despise me.
I call them by their first names because they don’t deserve my respect right now.
“Bridgett, Sherri, I’m sure my father, David Brown, would love to hear about how I’m being treated,” I say, crossing my arms tightlyagainst my chest, “and that neither of you could help the daughter of the person who funded the new auditorium find a major that she likes.” Cue my best death stare, Chanel No. 5 edition.
They can’t mess with me; my father won’t allow it. No matter how much damage he’s done to our family, he still cares about me.
I think.
I coil a strand of my long, blonde hair around my finger imagining that it’s Bridgett and Sherri.
Ms. Haslor’s eyebrows raise so high that her glasses almost fall off. Dean Grant looks stunned. I know I’ve scared them now.
“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Brown. This is simply the University’s policy,” Bridgett says trying to talk her way out of the situation.
“I think what Ms. Haslor meant to say is ‘what would you like to change your major to?’” Dean Grant intervenes with full composure, trying her hardest to hold back her clenched jaw.
I smile back at her like I’m posing for a close-up.
