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“Allyson Healey.” The voice on the other end is high and winsome, the opposite of Mom.
“Yes, this is Allyson.”
“Oh, hello, Allyson. This is Gretchen Price from the guidance office.”
I pause, breathing through the sickening feeling in my stomach. “Yes?”
“I’m wondering if you might like to stop by my office. Say hello.”
Now I feel like I’m going to throw up right on the stacks of Buon Giorno Italiano. “Did my mother call you?”
“Your mother? I don’t think so.” I hear the sound of something knocking over. “Damn. Hang on.” There’s more shuffling and then she’s back on the line. “Look, I apologize for the last-minute notice, but that seems to be my MO these days. I’d love for you to come in before the term starts.”
“Umm, the terms starts the day after tomorrow.”
“So it does. How about today, then?”
They are going to kick me out. I’ve blown it in one term. They know I’m not a Happy College Student. I don’t belong in the catalog. Or here. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
That tinkling laugh again. “Not with me. Why don’t you come by—hang on.” There’s more shuffling of paper. “How about four?”
“You’re sure my mother didn’t call?”
“Yes, Allyson, I’m quite sure. So four?”
“What’s it about?”
“Oh, just getting-to-know-you stuff. I’ll see you at four.”
Gretchen Price’s office is in a crowded corner of the ivy-covered administration buildings. Stacks of books and papers and magazines are scattered everywhere, on the round table and chairs by the window, on the love seat, on her messy desk.
She is on the phone when I’m ushered in, so I just stand there in the doorway. She gestures for me to come inside. “You must be Allyson. Just move a pile off the chair and take a seat. I’ll be with you in a second.”
I move a dirty Raggedy Ann doll with one of the braids chopped off and a stack of folders from one of the chairs. Some of the folders have sticky notes on them: Yes. No. Maybe. Paperwork slips out of one. It’s a printout of a college application, like the one I sent in a year ago. I shove it back into the folder and put it on the next chair.
Gretchen hangs up the phone. “So, Allyson, how’s it going?”
“It’s going fine.” I glance at all the applications, all the comers who want a spot like mine. “Great in fact.”
“Really?” She picks up a file, and I have the distinct impression my goose is cooked.
“Yep,” I say with all the chipperness I can muster.
“See, the thing is, I’ve been looking at your first-term grades.”
I feel tears spring to my eyes. She lured me here under false pretenses. She said I wasn’t in trouble, it was just a getting-to-know-you session. And I didn’t fail. I just got Cs!
She looks at my stricken face and motions for me to calm down with her hands. “Relax, Allyson,” she says in a soothing voice. “I’m not here to bust you. I just want to see if you need some help, and to offer it if that’s the case.”
“It’s my first term. I was adjusting.” I’ve used this excuse so much I’ve almost come to believe it.
She leans back in her chair. “You know, people tend think that college admissions is inherently unfair. That you can’t judge people from paper. But the thing is, paper can actually tell you an awful lot.” She takes a gulp from one of those coffee cups that kids paint. Hers is covered in smudgy pastel thumbprints. “Having never met you before, but judging just from what I’m seeing on paper, I suspect that you’re struggling a bit.”
She’s not asking me if I’m struggling. She’s not asking why I’m struggling. She just knows. The tears come, and I let them. Relief is more powerful than shame.
“Let me be clear,” Gretchen continues, sliding over a box of tissues. “I’m not concerned about your GPA. First-term slides are as common as the freshman fifteen. Oh, man, you should’ve seen my first-semester GPA.” She shakes her head and laughs. “Generally, struggling students here fall into two categories: Those getting used to the freedom, maybe spending a little too much time at the keg parties, not enough time in the library. They generally straighten out after a term or two.” She looks at me. “Are you pounding too many shots of Jägermeister, Allyson?”
I shake my head, even though by the tone of her question, it seems like she already knows the answer.
