“Welcome, Kennedy!” Watts says, opening the door wide. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m Geraldine Watkins, but you can call me Watts. All my friends do.”
I shake her outstretched hand with fervor. “So nice to meet you, Watts. What a lovely home you have.”
She beams. “Why, thank you.”
I step inside and stare at the wall of framed photographs and diplomas. “Wow!” I exclaim. “You’ve been everywhere!” I point to the picture of Watts in the desert surrounded by cacti and sand dunes. “Oh my gosh! Is that the Kalahari?”
She looks impressed.
I give myself an invisible point in the invisible tally.
Current Kennedy: 1. Former Kennedy: 0.
“Yes, it is! Have you been?”
“Not yet,” I say, with a desolate sigh. “But I’ve always wanted to go. It’s so horrible what’s happening out there with the poaching. All those poor elephants being slaughtered for their tusks.”
I did a little research on the topic so I could be well versed on the issue. It really is horrific.
She nods solemnly. “Yes, it is. Terribly sad.”
“Did you know that over twenty thousand elephants are poached every year? Just so people can have a useless ivory trinket?”
She puts a hand to her heart. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“Atrocious,” I agree.
She lets out a sigh. “It’s so nice to see someone your age show an interest in such an important issue. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
Almost immediately after we take our same seats in the living room, the little white dog—Klaus, if I remember correctly—comes scampering into the room. He stops short when he sees me, giving me an evil glare and growling under his breath.
“Klaus!” Watts says, patting her lap. “Leave the nice girl alone. I’m sorry. He’s not very good with strangers. He only speaks German so—”
“Was für ein süsser Hund!” I exclaim, trying desperately to remember the handful of useful German phrases I Googled today. I pat my shins to call the dog to me. “Komm her, Klaus!”
The dog tilts his head curiously, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m for real or not. For a second I panic, thinking he’s not going to come. Thinking I misremembered the phrase and actually told him he was a disgusting dog who licks himself too much. But then I remember the treats I hid in my bag. Watts said she got them at the farmers’ market, so I made a special trip on the way over here. I had to zigzag frantically through all the stalls, asking each vendor if they sold organic duck treats for dogs, but eventually I found them.
I reach into my bag and pull out a long strip of dried meat. Klaus’s ears immediately perk up when he smells it.
“Willst du ein Leckerli?” I ask the dog if he wants a treat.
Klaus lets out a small whimper of excitement and darts toward me, leaping onto my lap and devouring the treat. I hesitantly reach out and pat his head. He seems to be okay with this. Actually, he leans into my hand and starts rubbing his head against it like a cat.
Meanwhile, Watts is sitting in the chair across from me, looking stunned.
“My best friend has a dog,” I lie. “She loves these organic duck treats so I always have a few on hand.”
“I … I,” Watts stutters. “I’ve never seen him do that with anyone. He’s normally so averse to new people.”
I smile and try to act like this kind of thing happens all the time. Like I’m just a natural German-speaking dog whisperer. “Well, what can you do? I’m a dog person!” I turn to Klaus. “Sitz!”
He sits. I give him another treat and he lies down next to me and goes to work on it.
Watts continues to stare. “And you speak German? I didn’t see that on your application.”
I tilt my head, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Oh? I must have forgotten to include it. It feels like such second nature to me sometimes, I almost forget that not everyone speaks it.”
Okay, scale it back a notch, Kennedy.
That might be taking things a bit far. The last thing I need is for her to want to conduct the entire interview in …
“Wo haben Sie Deutsch gelernt?” Watts asks.
Crap.
Time to change the subject. Fast. I glance around the living room, looking for something else to talk about. Something to get her mind off the German thing. My eyes light up when they fall upon the potted plant next to me.
“Wow!” I exclaim, pointing to it. “Is that a Ceropegia woodii?”
Watts’s mouth falls open and a strangled, shocked gasp gurgles out. “It is,” she finally manages to utter. “I can’t believe you knew that. Hardly anyone outside of South Africa knows what that is.”
I wave my hand at this, as if to say, Well, everyone is stupid. Except for us. “I’m just fascinated by Swaziland horticulture.”
She balks at this. “You are?”
“Oh, sure. All horticulture, actually. But especially the Swaziland kind.”
“Have you ever been?”
I sigh. “Unfortunately, no. Not yet anyway. But you know, journalists get to travel all over the world, so maybe one day I’ll get to cover a story in South Africa.”
She gives me a strange look, like now I’m the one speaking a foreign language. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she grabs the folder from the coffee table and flips it open. I watch anxiously as her eyes graze over my application.
“Journalist? But I thought you were applying to be an economics major.”
Economics major?
That can’t be right. She must have the wrong application. It must be someone else’s. Without thinking, I reach out and grab the folder from her, turning it around so I can read the name on top.
My entire body goes numb and the folder nearly slips from my grasp.
There it is. My name.
“B-b-but…” I stammer, my eyes whizzing over the rest of the page. Everything else is correct. My birthday. My address. My phone number. But on the line that reads “Intended Major,” someone has typed …
“Economics,” I read aloud, the word feeling fat and awkward on my lips.
Why would I write that? I hate economics. I had to take Intro to Micro-Economics last year and I almost failed. Okay, I almost got a B, but still. I despised every second of that class.
I’m applying to Columbia for journalism. That’s what I’ve been working so hard for. Ever since …
My thoughts trail off as the reality of the situation sinks in.
I never went to Southwest High.
I never stumbled into that newspaper office.
I never became the editor in chief of the Southwest Star.
I never applied to be a journalism major.
I stare vacantly at the application in my hands. At the line that says, quite clearly, “economics.”
I typed that. I inserted that into the application. That was my choice.
It’s all been my choice.
My gaze flickers farther down the page to the line that says “Name of High School” and the very crisp black letters that follow it.
The Windsor Academy
Also my choice.
It was the better choice. I’m sure of it. I’m still sure of it.
Except, suddenly, I feel a strange anxiety bloom in my stomach. That gross, sticky feeling that something isn’t right. That something is off.
Doubt.
I recognize it almost immediately. It fueled me for so long. It became part of my daily existence. Part of my identity.
And now it’s back.
“Excuse me,” Watts says, looking slightly confused as she reaches out and removes the folder from my death grip. “I’m just gonna take that back now.”
I blink and focus on her. On the room. On the dog. On my purpose here at this very moment.
Stop, I command myself. This is your chance to make things right. To redeem yourself. Don’t blow it on a feeling that will probably go away in a few hours.
So what if I wrote economics on my application? It’s still the same school. It’s still the same dream. I can just change my major after I get in.
If I get in.
I straighten up in my seat and refresh my composed smile.
“Sorry about that,” I say professionally, feeding Klaus another duck treat from my bag. “Where were we?”
Watts gives me another inquisitive look but then eases back into interviewer mode. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you want to go to Columbia?”
I take a deep breath, trying to ooze confidence and togetherness. I’m going to have to work extra hard to make up for that mini-cuckoo breakdown.
I clear my throat. “Well, I want to be a journalist—” I stop, quickly amending my answer. “An economics … um … person. And Columbia has one of the best economics programs in the country. Plus, I’m a huge fan of the East Coast and the significance that the city of New York has played in our nation’s history.”
I watch Watts’s reaction carefully. She nods and makes a note in my file.
So far, so good.
“Well, it’s obvious you’re quite accomplished. I mean, top of your class at Windsor, Robotics Club, Investment Club, French Club, Young Entrepreneurs Club, student fund-raising captain.” She pauses to take a dramatic breath.
I chuckle modestly. “Yes, I’ve been a little busy.”
“You must have had to make some sacrifices in order to do all of that. What would you say is your biggest regret thus far?”
I take a deep breath. That’s right. The regret question. It’s what sent me off the deep end the last time around.
Well, not this time.
This is my moment. It’s time to get my life back on track.
I clear my throat and infuse my voice with a cool, calm confidence, accessing the pre-scripted answer I spent so long writing and perfecting.
“My biggest regret is probably working too hard and not taking enough time for myself. You see, I’m the editor—” I stop and restart. “I mean, I’m a member of all those clubs you mentioned, plus the student fund-raising captain for the school. And although I’m very proud of these accomplishments, success comes at a price, and I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of free time to do fun things. But I hear they have this great new invention called television now.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. I made it. I did it. I finished the answer without going psycho. Watts even laughs at the last part.
See? This is what happens when you don’t let your cheating ex-boyfriend and backstabbing ex–best friend get in the way.
You can actually succeed at your college alumni interview.
Ten minutes later after I’ve knocked five more questions out of the park, Watts closes the folder on her lap and returns it to the coffee table. “Well, that was terrific. Just terrific. You clearly have Columbia written all over you.”
Butterflies start flapping eagerly in my stomach. “Really? Thank you!”
“And Klaus certainly agrees,” she adds with a laugh, nodding to the sleeping white lump of fur curled up against my leg. “With credentials like yours, you’re practically a shoo-in. I can’t see any reason why you wouldn’t get in. I’ll be submitting my passionate recommendation for acceptance to the admissions office.”