Page 36 of Within These County Lines

One of the hardest things to understand about life is how sometimes, instead of just asking for what we want, we do the opposite, hoping it will somehow get us what we actually need.

It makes so little sense that even thinking about it feels like running in circles.

Like Mom with this salad. Or like when I wanted my family to know I was gay. Instead of telling them, being open, and making myself happy, I shut down, went silent, and made myself miserable hoping they’d notice and force me to tell them. Or like Whitley, when her dad left town. She wanted him to come back, but instead of saying that, she told him to kick rocks and never return, hoping he’d get mad and prove her wrong.

But feelings don’t follow logic. That’s why nothing about how we act makes sense. It’s an equation that doesn’t add up, something I can’t count. Looking back, it’s no surprise that when Murray wanted me to stay, he spent all his time pushing me away.

A chime from my laptop breaks my thoughts. An email.

I refresh my inbox on my phone, half expecting some long-winded hunting plan from Whitley.

Instead, buried between spam from shoe stores, I see it.

Subject: Financial Aid.

A lump forms in my throat. I swallow a french fry too fast, coughing as it scrapes its way down. My thumb hovers over the email before I finally tap it.

I skim the words. My eyes move faster than my brain can process and I’m two paragraphs in before the first sentence actually sinks in.

I’m ineligible for aid.

The world tilts. My meal fades to black like a movie reel running out of film. My ears ring.

I see it in my mind—the word printed next to University of Tennessee on my résumé.

Tentative.

The future just changed from tentative to certain faster than I wanted, and not in the direction I was banking on.

My dream of leaving Penango was like a flashlight on its last flicker in a summer storm. Now the light is gone. I’m in the dark, unsure where to go next.

My mind races, searching for ways to undo this decision. This job might be enough to cover my housing deposit in a few weeks. But the rest? My paychecks won’t even come close. Nights and weekends are open for another position, but in a town this small, every summer job is already taken.

My brain turns into a calculator, frantically adding, subtracting, and multiplying work hours and tuition costs. But the numbers aren’t in my favor.

Murray won.

Checkmate.

I was supposed to be the first person in my family to leave for college. The first to get a degree. Last fall, I never thought I’d fit into Whitley’s plan to go to school far from home.

Now it’s clear that I don’t.

At Stillwell Trail High, my first guidance counselor was a seventy-year-old man I never met. He passed away at the end of my freshman year, and the school struggled to replace him.

For two years, I assumed the position was still empty, until one day I was called to the office. A young woman sat behind the desk, flipping through a stack of SAT prep books. A navy bandana held back her long brown hair, and her round face was flushed like she’d been rushing around all morning. I swore I’d seen her before, maybe in the halls, but I didn’t think she was a teacher, definitely not a counselor.

“Hi there,” she said, barely looking up. “I’m the new counselor for Stillwell.” She exhaled, her shoulders slumping like she was carrying the weight of the entire school. “How are you?” Her voice was a little too fast and eager.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m Stetson.”

I sat across from her with my hands resting on my knees and earbuds still in from the walk over. This was during my Brandi Carlile phase when I had her live album with the Seattle Symphony on repeat after learning she was also queer.

“Do you mind removing your earbuds while we meet?”

She yanked open a file cabinet and slammed it shut, making me jump. I quickly pulled my earbuds out and shoved them into my pocket.

“I’ve only been here for a few days,” she said, tossing a file onto the desk. “But, Stetson, you’re one of the first students I wanted to talk to.”