“Oh my God, yes!” I exclaimed without thinking.
“Excellent.” He rose from his desk and escorted me to the door. For the first time I could see that he was wearing strange, goofy-looking pants, which ended at the knee.
“They’re called breeches,” he said, reading my mind. “Much more practical in this hot weather than trousers.”
“I bet,” I said, while thinking, Eww, freak.
“The essay will be key. Because, with these grades . . .” He held the door open for me and smiled. “Frankly, Mor gan, if you want to get into Oxford, your essay is going to have to kick ass.”
three
“oxford? oxford university? ”
My parents were staring at me with the most open-mouthed, what-the-fek expressions imaginable. Which was gross, because we were in the middle of eating dinner and their mouths were both full of half-chewed vegetable lasagna.
Since the dining table had been turned into college application central, my family now ate dinner on trays in the living room. TV trays, my mom called them. If she’d let us watch TV during dinner this might have made sense.
“Are you sure that’s what he said?” My mother put down her fork and reached over to feel my forehead. What else but a sudden case of malaria could explain this bizarre delusion about my own academic prospects?
“I feel fine.” I batted her hand away. Tammy took advantage of the sudden distraction to steal a buttered roll from my tray.
“I knew this counselor guy must be a rip-off.” Dad held the TV remote like he was itching to turn it on, but that would be the start of a whole other argument.
“Isn’t there another college called Oxford?” Mom carefully put down her tray. “Oxford Community College, perhaps? There must be! I’m almost positive there’s a town called Oxford in Connecticut somewhere.” She got up and speed-walked back to the kitchen, bypassing the piles of “safety school” literature and diving straight into the “loser school” brochures. These were stacked precariously on the countertop and weighed down with a large rock, which Tammy had hand-painted in kindergarten and was insanely proud of.
Dad was still griping through his food and longingly fingering the remote. “Two hundred dollars an hour . . . a cardiologist doesn’t make that much . . .”
“He was highly recommended. Esther Finley told me he was a genius.” Mom shuffled through the papers. “Here’s one: ‘Oxford Technical Academy.’ Hmmm.” She skimmed the brochure. “This can’t be right. This is for people who want to be X-ray technicians. Morgan, you didn’t tell Mr. Phineas you wanted to be an X-ray technician, did you?”
I struggled to power down my sarcasm reflex and speak normally, but it was a struggle I lost. “Mom. Dad. I told Mr. Phineas I was interested in mythology, and he said I should apply to Oxford University. The real one. In England.”
“Did he actually look at your grades?”
“Yes! He said I just needed to write a really good essay.”
Both of my parents were avoiding eye contact with me all of a sudden.
“What? What’s the problem?” I asked.
“It’s just—really, honey—I mean, Oxford . . .” Mom was never speechless, but at the moment she seemed close.
“Bill Clinton went to Oxford,” I argued. “So did some of the Monty Python guys. So did the guy who wrote Lord of the Rings. How cool is that?” I’d gleaned these tidbits from looking at the pictures in the brochure Mr. Phineas had given me. You can fake your way through a lot of home-work by skimming captions, I’d always found. Though maybe my over-reliance on that particular study technique helped explain the sorry state of my grades.
I tried to remember what else it said in the captions. “I mean, show some enthusiasm, people! We’re talking about Oxford. Home of Rhodes Scholars. The place is, like, practically a thousand years old or something.”
Now, my mom was a woman who could spot the label on a Prada bag or a Pucci blouse from a mile away. You’d think she’d be doing a major happy dance that her firstborn child was aiming for a university of global reputation. You’d think she would already be planning how to deploy the Ox ford bragging rights to maximum effect among her peers.
You’d think. But no. She stared at my dad with her hands on her hips and her lips pressed flat into a long straight line—the universal marital signal for say something, you doofus, I’m all alone out here.
“You don’t want me to go so far away?” I asked, lost. “Is that it?”
At last, a reaction from Dad. He burst out laughing.
“England isn’t that far, compared to some places,” he said, once he regained control of himself. “Anyway, your mother and I are the ones who sent you to Ireland last summer, remember?”
“So what is it, then?” I was running out of patience. “You’re worried it’ll be too expensive? You’re afraid I’ll come back with a funny accent? What?”
Dad shook his head. Mom just hmmmed and mmmmed.
“They don’t think you’re smart enough to get in,” Tammy said cheerfully. “Can I have more bread?”
But then even Tammy shut up, so we could all inhale the pungent stink bomb of truth the kid had lobbed into the living area.
Major. Awkward. Silence.
Mom was the first to crack. “Morgan. Honey. The thing is, your grades have not been stellar.”
“Grades aren’t everything,” I protested weakly. “There’s the application essay, like Mr. Phineas said. And, you know. Extracurricular activities and stuff.”
“Name one,” Dad shot back.
Whoosh. Two points for Dad.
“If only she’d run for some kind of office,” my mom said to him, like I wasn’t even there. “Treasurer. Secretary, even.”
“Why not class president?” I snapped, pushing away my lasagna. “Or don’t you think I could do that, either?”
“It’s not that we think you couldn’t,” Dad said, as he wiped the tomato sauce off his mouth and defiantly clicked on the TV. “It’s that you didn’t.”
fek. i hated it when my parents were right.
Morgan Rawlinson, senior class president. That would have sounded so much better on my Oxford application than Morgan Whatshername, third junior from the left. “One of the more nondescript students in her class.” How’s that for a yearbook caption? But it was true. Hardly anyone at East Norwich High School even knew who I was before I hacked off all my hair in a fit of heartbreak when Raph ditched me. Then I went from being “Raph’s girlfriend” to “crazy buzz-cut girl.”
Even then, a lot of kids assumed I was going through chemo. Come graduation, I fully expected a significant percentage of my classmates to sign my yearbook, Congrats on finally beating leukemia!
But it’s not like I didn’t do any extracurricular activities. It’s just that none of it was stuff I could put on my college application without sounding like a nutcase. I started to make a list:• Can talk to horses and swim with mermaids.
• Has a very special relationship with her dad’s garden gnome collection.
• Magically finds prom dates for lonely leprechauns.
Clearly, writing that kick-ass application essay was going to be a tad more complicated than I’d let on to Mr. Phineas. On the other hand, I could still be an X-ray technician.
But that wasn’t going to get me on the same side of the Atlantic as Colin, would it?
No, it would not. I wasn’t ready to give up on Oxford, not without at least giving it a try. But I did need advice. Getting into college was a competition, and I had to learn to think like a winner.
What I needed was a coach.
Whoosh.
“can you even get a job doing that?” sarah panted, as she passed the ball at light speed between her legs, under and around until her hands were a blur. “The mythology thing, I mean?”
Getting on Sarah’s calendar for a BFF coaching session meant that I had to meet her at the basketball courts at eight in the morning. Normal people slid into summer vacation mode the minute
school let out. Sarah slid into summer training mode. After warming up for an hour at the YMCA, she’d be spending the rest of the day in a training camp for “hot prospects” at UConn.
That was one difference between Sarah and me. Not only did she know what she wanted, she was willing to work her ass off to get it.
“I guess so.” I hadn’t thought about a job, to be honest. “Teaching or something.”
“Oh my God!” She snorted with laughter. “Sorry. I’m imagining you teaching college.”
First my parents, now Sarah. Among the people who knew me best there seemed to be a consensus that whatever I tried to do with my life, I would suck at it.
“Mythology interests me.” I tried to sound firm. “I want to study something interesting. I’ll figure out the job thing later.”
Sarah put down the ball, loped to the side of the court and grabbed a big, pee-yellow Gatorade out of her duffel bag. Watching her guzzle it so early in the morning made me feel like I might as well skip breakfast.
“Morgan, if that’s what you want to do, fine. It’s just like, so out of the blue.” She wiped her mouth on the hem of her shirt and picked up the ball again. “Some weird guy in knickers—”
“Breeches,” I corrected.
“Whatever, tells you to study ‘mythology at Oxford’ and suddenly you’re all over it, like it’s your life’s dream or something. I mean, I’ve never even heard you mention it.”
“I know. But trust me, it’s not just because this guy said so. The subject has been on my mind for a while. Ever since I went to Ireland, really.” It felt good to share a tiny piece of the truth, even though I had to leave most of it out. “Anyway, I know my grades are bad and all, but this counselor says he knows people at Oxford. It sounds like he can pull some strings.”
“Ever since you went to Ireland, huh?” Sarah spun the ball idly on the tip of her index finger. “And Oxford is in England.”
It was obvious where she was going with that geographic news flash, but “stubborn as a mule” was both my best and worst quality. I glared at her with an I-dare-you-to-say-it expression that would melt an ordinary person into slush.
“Yeah, so?” I challenged, in the world’s least witty come-back.
Sarah tucked the ball under her long arm. “In my personal opinion, this mythology-at-Oxford obsession is just a ruse to get you to England so you can be closer to Colin.”
“England is not Ireland, ding-dong,” I countered.
“England is way closer to Ireland than Connecticut, doodlehead.”
“Close is irrelevant. It’s still a different country.” Our voices echoed strangely in the empty gymnasium. “Why are you always so snarky about Colin?”
“Colin, Colin, Colin.” She dribbled the ball to emphasize each word. “You know what? The whole two weeks he was in Connecticut, I never even met him. And I’m your best friend. So that kind of makes me think there might be something dubious about the you-and-him thing, in the first place. And in the second place—”
“That wasn’t his fault,” I blurted. Though how could I explain that Colin had been under an enchantment the entire time he’d been here?
“In the second place,” she went on, “I really don’t care if he’s the reason you’re suddenly interested in planning your future. Because if the Colin factor is what makes you finally pick a school and get your act together to apply, then that’s all that matters. It’s your life.”
“I know it’s my life!” I sounded like Tammy at her whin iest, but I couldn’t stop. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
Sarah ignored my question. “Listen. You asked for my advice, and I’m going to give it to you. Bad grades, bad SAT scores, no sports or extracurriculars. Two words for you, Morgan: Community. Service.”
I made a face. “Really? You think that would help?”
“Help? It’s your only hope.” She wheeled and nailed another layup before turning back to me. “And it has to be something major. It would be awesome if you could cure cancer or achieve world peace or something. That’s pretty much all that can save you now.”
Whoosh.
four
fine. i admit it. the colin factor was, you know, a factor.
A major factor.
Colin, of the overwhelming Irish adorableness, the strawberry-blond hair, the cornflower blue eyes. Colin, with the soccer-star bod and just the right amount of freckles, like a big connect-the-dot puzzle you wanted to trace with your fingertips, over and over again.
But Colin was way more than the sum of his cute parts. He was funny in a way that no one else was. He got me in a way no one else ever had. When he kissed me, which he’d really only ever done twice (once in Ireland on a moonlit beach, and once on the night of the infamous junior prom, at my magic faery birthday ball with Gene Simmons looking on—trust me, you had to be there), it was beyond magic.
It was like a million leprechaun rainbows covered with little MySpace glitter hearts, and silver unicorns with flowers sprouting out of their horns dancing underneath, and a zillion helium birthday balloons floating up into a perfectly blue sky, all crammed in a blender and frappéed into a delicious milk shake of happiness. With two straws.
Sarah had no way of knowing all this, of course, because she’d never met him. But what could I say? Colin made me feel one hundred percent goddess, one hundred percent of the time. Wasn’t that worth crossing an ocean for?
Or, to be more specific—wasn’t that worth spending the summer volunteer-tutoring a bunch of hyperactive third-graders for? It wasn’t going to cure cancer or bring world peace, but it was all I could find on such short notice.
Two words, Morgan: Community. Service.
Oh, fek.
“morgan. it is the summer. i do not have to learn over the summer.” Tammy looked at me with eyes as round and cold as two Ping-Pong balls that had spent a year in the freezer. “It’s against the law, I’m almost sure.”
She stretched back on the chaise longue and let out a little ahhhhh of contentment. The regular babysitter was sick and I was on duty, which normally would have been a fairly tragic development. But today I had my own agenda, and I was acting my magical-big-sister chummiest.
I’d grabbed some chips and lemonade from the kitchen and pulled the chaise longues to the shady side of the back-yard, since I was still peeling from the commencement on Saturday. We were hanging out in style: I was wearing my favorite bikini top, the one with the polka dots, and a pair of cutoffs. I’d even streaked some lemon juice in my hair to see if I could get a few highlights going. Tammy had dressed for the occasion too, and was accessorized with scuba flippers, movie-star sunglasses and a hot-pink feather boa from her extensive Disney-inspired costume collection.
“Tammy, come on,” I pleaded. “You’re my guinea pig. Let me try to teach you something. It doesn’t matter what. I just want to practice before I have to face all those kids at camp next week.”
“Pay me.” She held out a hand.
My first instinct was to squirt her with a hose, but I resisted. “Tammy, get this through your head: I’m volunteering for the Y day camp. It’s community service. That means I’m not getting paid.” I smiled my most reasonable smile. “Now, I shouldn’t have to pay you to practice doing work that I’m not going to get paid for, right? That wouldn’t make sense.”
“‘The East Norwich Y’s “SmartYCamp” helps kids maintain academic skills over the summer, while having fun, fun, fun!’ ” she chanted. “I’ve read the posters too. Do you know what Daddy says they charge for that camp?”
“A lot, but that has nothing to do with—”
“You bet a lot! It has the S word in it, that’s how much. Daddy says it’s an s-load of money.” She stuck her hand in my face. “If you want to maintain my academic skills, you have to pay, pay, pay!”
“Fine,” I said, digging in the pocket of my shorts for change. “How much?”
“Enough for a box of Tic Tacs. The orange ones. You shouldn’t give me potato
chips for breakfast, you know,” she added, shoving a handful into her mouth. “Pay me extra and I won’t tell Mom.”
“All Tic Tacs cost the same—never mind.” I plopped a couple of quarters into her salty fist and waited while she tucked the change in her special Pocahontas purse, which already contained an empty ChapStick, some crayons, a plastic toy cell phone and her broken zipper collection.
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you.” She crossed her arms. “Teach away.”
“Um.” I realized that I hadn’t remembered to bring a pencil or paper outside with me. “Okay. What do you want to do first? Math, or spelling, or—”
“I want to learn about photosynthesis.” She unfolded her arms and swung her legs over the side of the chaise longue. “It’s about how plants turn green and make air for us to breathe. And it’s a P-H word! I already put it in my spelling book. P-H-O-T-”
“Cool,” I interrupted. The summer was too short to listen to Tammy spell every stupid word that crossed her mind. “Photosynthesis. There’s this stuff in plants that’s green, see, called chlorophyll—”
“I just told you what it was,” she said impatiently. “The plants turn green and make air. What’s next?”
Already I was feeling cranky. “Let’s do the times table,” I suggested.
“Bo-ring!” she sang out, but obliged. “Zero times one is zero. Zero times two is zero . . .”
Then Tammy and I recited the times table together. It went pretty well until we got to the eights. I kept getting eight times seven mixed up with six times nine, but she knew it all like the back of her grubby little hand.
“Fifty-six,” she corrected, “fifty-six, fifty-six! Say it, Morgan!”
“Fifty-six,” I mumbled. Then, to save face, I tried to show her the cool thing about how the answers in the nine times table always added up to nine.
“See? That’s like, magical, right?” I said, faking enthusiasm.
“So what? Everybody knows that. I can do two-digit multiplication.” She waggled her scuba flippers with pride. “I’ll show you. Say two numbers.”
What I Wore to Save the World Page 3