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I don’t get to spend the rest of the night putting away my stuff or joking around in the common lounge like I planned, because our new hall master, Mr. Pascoli, announces that all seniors have to meet with their guidance counselors.
I have seen Ms. Vanderveer exactly once a year for all the time I have been at Wallingford. She seems nice enough, always prepared with a list of which classes and activities are most likely to get me into a good college, always full of suggestions for volunteer work that admission committees love. I don’t really feel the need to see more of her than I already have, but Sam and I, along with a group of other upperclassmen, trudge across the grounds to Lainhart Library.
There, we listen to another speech—this one on how senior year is no time to slack off, and if we think things are hard now, just wait until we get to college. Seriously, this guy—one of the counselors, I guess—makes it sound like in college they make you write all your essays in blood, your lab partners might shank you if you bring down their grade point averages, and evening classes last all night long. He clearly misses it.
Finally they assign us an order for the meetings. I go sit in Vanderveer’s section, in front of the screen that’s separating her from the rest of us.
“Oh, man,” Sam says. He sits at the very edge of his chair, leaning over to whisper to me. “What am I going to do? They’re going to want to talk about colleges.”
“Probably,” I say, scooting closer. “They’re guidance counselors. They’re into colleges. They probably dream of colleges”
“Yeah, well, they think I want to go to MIT and major in chemistry.” He says this in a tragic whisper.
“You can just tell them that you don’t. If you don’t.”
He groans. “They’ll tell my parents.”
“Well, what is your plan?” I ask.
“Going to one of the schools that specializes in visual effects. Gnomon or Academy of Art University in San Francisco. Look, I love doing the makeup and practical effects, but most stuff today is done on a computer. I need more practice on the digital end. I already started working on my applications.” Sam runs his hand through his short hair, over his damp forehead, like he’s making a confession. “I guess I better ask about loans too.”
“Cassel Sharpe,” Ms. Vanderveer says, and I stand.
“You’ll be fine,” I say to him, and head behind the screen. His nervousness seems to be contagious, though. I can feel my palms sweat.
Vanderveer has short black hair and wrinkly skin covered in age spots. There are two chairs arranged in front of a little table where my folder is sitting. She plops herself into one. “So, Cassel,” she says with false cheerfulness. “What do you want to do with your life?”
“Uh,” I say. “Not really sure.” The only things I am good at are the kinds of things colleges don’t let you major in. Con artistry. Forgery. Assassination. A little bit of lock-picking.
“Let’s consider universities, then. Last year I talked about you choosing some schools you’d really like to try for, and then some safety schools. Have you made that list?”
“Not a formal, written-down one,” I say.
She frowns. “Did you manage to visit any of the campuses you are considering?”
I shake my head. She sighs. “Wallingford Preparatory takes great pride in seeing our students placed into the world’s top schools. Our students go on to Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Caltech, Johns Hopkins. Now, your grades aren’t all we might hope for, but your SAT scores were very promising.”
I nod my head. I think of Barron dropping out of Princeton, about Philip dropping out of high school to take his marks and work for the Zacharovs. I don’t want to wind up like them. “I’ll start that list,” I promise her.
“You do that,” she says. “I want to see you again in a week. No more excuses. The future’s going to be here sooner than you think.”
When I walk out from behind the divider, Sam isn’t there. I guess that he’s having his conference. I wait a few minutes and eat three butterscotch cookies they have put out as refreshments. When Sam still doesn’t emerge, I stroll back across campus.
* * *
The first night in the dorms is always strange. The cots are uncomfortable. My legs are too long for them and I keep falling asleep curled up, then straightening in the night and waking myself when my feet kick the frame.
One door over, someone is snoring.
Outside our window the grass of the quad shines in the moonlight, like it’s made of metal blades. That’s the last thing I think before I wake up to my phone shrilling the morning alarm. From a look at the time, it seems like the alarm has been ringing for a while.
I grunt and throw my pillow at my sleeping roommate. He raises his head groggily.
Sam and I shuffle to the shared bathroom, where the rest of the hall are brushing their teeth or finishing their showers. Sam splashes his face with water.
Chaiyawat Terweil wraps a towel around himself and grabs a pair of disposable plastic gloves from the dispenser. Above it, the sign reads: PROTECT YOUR CLASSMATES: COVER YOUR HANDS.
“Another day at Wallingford,” Sam announces. “Every dorm room a palace, every sloppy joe a feast, every morning shower—”
