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“Oh, come on. It won’t be that bad. What are you going to be studying?”
I sighed. “Pauline, I’m really not--”
“Please, please, please, please, please?”
Why was she hired again? “English.”
“Oh, nice. Whatcha wanna do with it?”
“I want to teach elementary school kids.”
“Shouldn't you be getting an education degree, then?”
“Those classes don’t come into play until junior year. Still have to declare a major other than ‘education’ until then.”
“Gotta have a specialty. Got it. Nice.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Nice.”
“So are you excited?”
I sighed. “Not really.”
“Why not? I’ve heard college is great. Lots of parties. Lots of boys. Lots of friends to make and food to eat. Sounds like paradise, if you ask me.”
Not when you’re losing friends over it. “I’m sure it does.”
“Have you always wanted to teach kids?”
“No.”
“Have you always wanted to do English?”
“No.”
“So, what made you make that decision with your degree?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. It just seemed right.”
Pauline nodded. “Nice.”
In truth, I didn’t know if I was making the right decisions. But I did enjoy English. It was the only subject in school I didn’t hate. And kids were fantastic. So why not combine them? Seemed logical enough. I didn't have any other passions. I mean, other than the graphic design. But I didn’t figure out until I enrolled in this fucking college that they only had a graphic design minor. Not major.
My fucking luck.
I don't know, I felt pressured into going to college. With all this confusion, I heavily leaned toward taking a year off there for a bit. Staying behind. Hanging out with Clint. Continuing to work at the grocery store and helping Mom with the house. But the scholarships I ended up snagging paid for my first year of college if I enrolled this year. I couldn't postpone them, or defer them. I had to use them or lose them.
Talk about extra pressure when trying to figure out my life.
I mean, I hadn’t even turned nineteen yet! What was the rush? Why did I have to have everything figured out by the time I was eighteen? That didn’t make any sense. In some respects, I still wasn’t seen as an adult. Sure, legally I could sign my name on shit. But that was it. I still couldn’t rent a car, or a hotel room, or drink. Was I really adult enough to be making decisions that would affect the rest of my life?
How fucked up was that?
But Clint had a good point. Everything was a chance. A risk. And I could either take it or not. This degree felt the safest, along with my graphic design minor. So, why not? And despite Mom not wanting me to leave her, ever, she was excited about me wanting to pursue something with my ‘doodles,’ as she called them.
It was selfish of me to ask for more than that.
“All right, spit it out,” Pauline said.
