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She nods. “So the other pattern is a bit more insidious. But it’s actually a predictor for dropouts. And that’s why I wanted to see you.”
“You think I’m going to drop out?”
She stares hard at me. “No. But looking at your records from high school and your first term, you fit a pattern.” She waves around a file, which obviously contains my whole academic history. “Students like you, young women, in particular, do extraordinarily well in high school. Look at your grades. Across the board, they’re excellent. AP, science classes, humanities classes, all As. Extremely high SAT scores. Then you get into college, which is supposedly why you’ve been working so hard, right?”
I nod.
“Well you get here, and you crumple. You’d be surprised how many of my straight-A, straight-and-narrow students wind up dropping out.” She shakes her head in dismay. “I hate it when that happens. I help choose who goes here. It reflects badly on me if they crash and burn.”
“Like a doctor losing a patient.”
“Great analogy. See how smart you are?”
I offer a rueful smile.
“The thing is, Allyson, college is supposed to be . . .”
“The best years of my life?”
“I was going to say nourishing. An adventure. An exploration. I’m looking at you, and you don’t seem nourished. And I’m looking at your schedule. . . .” She peers at her computer screen. “Biology, chemistry. Physics. Mandarin. Labs. It’s very ambitious for your first year.”
“I’m pre-med,” I say. “I have to take those classes.”
She doesn’t say anything. She takes another gulp of coffee. Then she says. “Are those the classes you want to take?”
I pause. Nobody has ever asked me that. When we got the course catalog in the mail, it was just assumed I’d tackle all the pre-med requirements. Mom knew just what I should take when. I’d looked at some electives, had mentioned that I thought pottery sounded cool, but I may as well have said I was planning on majoring in underwater basket weaving.
“I don’t know what I want to take.”
“Why don’t you take a look and see about switching things up a bit. Registration is still in flux, and I might be able to pull some strings.” She stops and pushes the catalog clear across the desk. “Even if you do wind up pre-med, you have four years to take these classes, and you have a lot of humanities requisites to get in too. You don’t need to jam everything together all at once. This isn’t medical school.”
“What about my parents?”
“What about your parents?”
“I can’t let them down.”
“Even if it means letting yourself down? Which I doubt they’d want for you.”
The tears come again. She hands me another tissue.
“I understand about wanting to please your parents, to make them proud. It’s a noble impulse, and I commend you for it. But at the end of the day, it’s your education, Allyson. You have to own it. And you should enjoy it.” She pauses, slurps some more coffee. “And somehow I imagine that your parents will be happier if they see your GPA come up.”
She’s right about that. I nod. She turns to her computer screen. “So, let’s just pretend we’re going to jiggle some classes around. Any idea of what you might like to take?”
I shake my head.
She grabs the course catalog and flips through it. “Come on. It’s an intellectual buffet. Archaeology. Salsa dancing. Child development. Painting. Intro to finance. Journalism. Anthropology. Ceramics.”
“Is that like pottery?” I interrupt.
“It is.” She widens her eyes and taps on her computer. “Beginning Ceramics, Tuesdays at eleven. It’s open. Oh, but it conflicts with your physics lab. Shall we postpone the lab, and maybe physics, for another term?”
“Cut them.” Saying it feels wonderful, like letting go of a bunch of helium balloons and watching them disappear into the sky.
“See? You’re already getting the hang of it,” Gretchen says. “How about some humanities, to balance you out? You’re going to need those to graduate anyway as part of your core curriculum. Are you more interested in ancient history or modern history? There’s a wonderful European survey. And a great seminar on the Russian Revolution. Or a fascinating American Pre-Revolution class that makes excellent use of our being so close to Boston. Or you could get started on some of your literature classes. Let’s see. Your AP exams tested you out of the basic writing requirement. You know, we could be devilish and slip you into one of the more interesting seminar classes.” She scrolls down her computer. “Beat Poetry. Holocaust Literature. Politics in Prose. Medieval Verse. Shakespeare Out Loud.”
I feel something jolt up my spine. An old circuit-breaker long since forgotten being tested out and sparking in the darkness.
