The Wild One (26 page)

I suddenly get a huge, painful lump in my throat.

Why would I cry about Joe?
I'm
the one who ended it.

Pushing thoughts of Joe aside, I don't think that preschool teaching was ever the right career for me, so of course I didn't enjoy the busy times. And maybe bar work wasn't either. But how do I know if I'd like to be active once I
find
that mythical perfect career?

How do I
know
?

Jessie stares at me, waiting. “Just a simple yes or no will do.”

“No,” I say finally.

“You enjoy having a wide circle of acquaintances.”

“No,” I say. “I like just a small group of friends.”

Even when we're not talking to each other, like right now. I miss my friends. I wonder if they're all okay. I hope Julia isn't working too hard, no matter how angry she is at me, I just want her to be safe and happy. And I hope Maddy forgives me for outing her without her permission.

“Coco!” snaps Jessie.

“Sorry! What? I mean, excuse me?”

“You feel involved watching TV soaps.”

“Like, emotionally involved? Yes,” I say. “Totally. Very involved. And reality TV shows.”

Jessie ignores my extra comments and asks more questions. And more. And more.

And then finally, we're finished.

I am exhausted from thinking about myself so much.

“Well, you're what we call an ISFJ,” Jessie says, without bothering to look up at me. “Pretty normal, about twelve percent of the population. You're defined by being supportive and caring, you value relationships and harmony in your relationships—”

Not recently,
I think to myself.

“You retain information well, you're imaginative, reliable, patient, warm, considerate, humble, modest, helpful, traditional…” Jessica is listing these personality traits like I'm the most boring person in the world. “… and you always, always put family first. You're the caregiver. We call you the Nurturer.”

“The
Nurturer
? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Jessie looks up in surprise. “What?”

I can't even answer.

I've spent all summer trying to be wild—trying to be like someone else, someone who has casual sex and gets drunk and dances on bars and steals education.

And I'm still exactly the goddamn same.

I'm the fucking
Nurturer.
I'm the good girl.

Jessie is still talking. “… what you're going to do with the rest of your life?”

“Um…” I pause. “Why are you asking me that? I don't know. I just, um, I don't know yet.”

“Well,” says Jessie, “I can tell you what you'd be good at. As Nurturer, your people skills—”

“Don't presume to know me,” I snap. “Fucking hell, I'm sick of people telling me what I should do—”

“There's no need to use language like that.”

“What does the list say, huh? For jobs for my personality type? Teacher? Librarian? Social worker?”

All the jobs my father and sister told me I was allowed to have. Literally.
Allowed.

Because I am so stupid I couldn't
possibly
choose for myself. Who gets told what she's allowed to do with her life? Who puts limits on other people like that? It's crazy!

“Actually, yes—”

“You can go to hell!” I'm shouting now. “You don't get to determine my life! You don't know me!
I
don't even know me! Who the fuck do you think you—”

The door to the room bangs open, and Samantha is standing there. “Coco! What is going on? Everyone can hear you!”

Jessie stands up, snapping shut her laptop. “She lost it before we were past the first round of questions. I'm out of here.”

She leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Samantha and I meet eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” says Samantha gently.

And suddenly, though it's the last thing I want to do, I burst into tears.

“I just … I still don't know,” I keep saying, after I tell Samantha everything. “I don't know. I don't know what I want, I don't know…”

“That's okay,” Samantha says, over and over again.

“I told everyone I was leaving, that I was moving home to Rochester, and I'd get another assistant job in a preschool. But I don't want that. At all. But I also don't know what I
do
want either…”

“That's okay, too,” says Samantha.

“No, it's not,” I say. “Everyone else knows. My sister has known she wanted to be an investment banker, like, since she was born. And my roommate, Madeleine, wants to be an accountant, and a singer, and I think maybe she wants to be a lesbian, but I'm not sure—”

“Okay—” Samantha looks confused.

“And my friend Pia? She lost her job, but she figured out what she was good at in just a couple of weeks! And even if she does quit, she'll be fine. She's just the kind of person who always figures it out. And Angie always wanted to work in fashion, and she made it happen. It's so easy for everybody else.”

“Do you think they'd say that?” says Samantha. “You don't know what it's like being in their shoes.”

“Yeah, but they all have … their
thing.
Their talent. And I don't. I have nothing. Except I know how to fucking
help people…”
I spit the words out. “I'm
pathetic.
”

“You're not,” says Samantha. “You're just figuring out what you want to do.”

“What if I never figure it out?” I say. “I'm twenty-one, I should know by now.”

“No, you shouldn't,” says Samantha. “And your sister and friends are what, twenty-two, twenty-three? They might think they know what they want to do, but they don't yet, not really. A few years, some more adventures, and they'll discover new talents and passions. Life is full of surprises like that.”

“But they're so good at their jobs—”

“Sure, but that doesn't mean that's
it
for them. Can you imagine how boring life would be if we all knew our destiny at twenty-one? It takes years to figure out what you really want. In fact, figuring it out, the process, that's the best part. You should enjoy it, Coco. This period you're in, the very start of adult life … it's fun.”

“
Fun?
” I almost laugh, but it comes out a sort of cry. “It's hell!”

“It's not. It's a blank slate, full of opportunities. You know what hell is? Not having any choices.”

I think about what she just said, and she's right. When I felt trapped in the preschool assistant job, in a life that didn't fit me, that was hell.

“You don't need to rush,” Samantha says slowly. “You know, your generation of women experiences incredibly high levels of stress and anxiety. You all feel a huge pressure to succeed, without knowing what success even means for you, personally … And success
is
personal. There's no one-size-fits-all. And to make it worse, you've got all this information at your fingertips, you know? The Internet and social media mean you're overinformed, overfocused, and overpressured to achieve your goals. But it's not easy to achieve your goals. It's not even easy to decide what your goals are.”

“Exactly,” I say. “That's exactly how I feel.”

“That's okay,” she says softly. “It shouldn't be easy. It's too important.”

“But how do I even start? How do I know? What if I get it wrong?”

“Nothing you ever do will be wrong, because it's all part of your journey. It gives you perspective, experience, knowledge … everything you do creates
you.
This is the only life you're ever going to get, Coco. No one else can choose what you'll do with it; no one else can make you happy. You're in control.” She pauses, considering me. “Want to know what my Uncle Vic told me when I was your age and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, please.”

Samantha smiles. “He said, ‘Just think about what you truly love. What makes you smile. And after that … everything will be easy.'”

 

CHAPTER
32

I walk out of the building, Samantha's words echoing in my head.

Just think about what you truly love …

For a crazy, irrational second, I think about Joe. I'm hit by that same guilt and sadness and something else, something bigger and more important, something I didn't let myself feel before … I quickly squash those thoughts down. Joe and I are over. As friends and … whatever else we were. He thinks I'm an asshole. And he's probably right.

Then I think about books. About going to those summer classes with Topher, and how I felt that first day in Professor Guffey's class. About how much I enjoyed writing his assignment. How good it felt to put my thoughts into words. To have a voice. I truly loved that.

And suddenly I realize: that was what made my stomach wriggle with excitement every day. That was what made me feel excited beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. It was never Topher. It was
college.

And now I know what I have to do.

I walk straight over to Greenwich Village to find the one person who might understand.

Professor Guffey.

I knock tentatively on the door to her office. She answers the door, sees me, and smiles.

“Coco. I was hoping I'd see you again. Come in.”

Professor Guffey looks questioningly at me, her bright eyes staring so intently that I find it hard to meet her gaze.

I take a deep breath.

“I'm not a student at NYU.”

Professor Guffey doesn't say anything.

“I'm so sorry I lied. I mean, I didn't really
lie
because no one asked me, but I was coming to your class illegally, I guess, I just, you know, I loved it so much, and…” I trail off. Is she about to kick me out? Have me arrested?

“I know. I suspected from the start.”

I'm so stunned I'm not sure what to say. Professor Guffey goes back to her desk and sits down and indicates that I should sit in the worn little chair opposite her.

“You did? How?” I finally croak out.

Professor Guffey sighs. “I don't know, Coco. Call it thirty years in the trenches. I just knew. You were too green, too eager … You didn't fit in.”

My face falls. I wasn't as cool and as smart as her other students. That's what she means. I looked like some dumbass just stealing education.

“I mean … you stood out,” she quickly corrects herself. “You were actively listening. Obviously thinking and responding to the literature. Taking part in the discussion. It was like there was a spotlight shining on you. Summer classes aren't usually full of students like you.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Then you told me your name,” says Professor Guffey, “and I knew there wasn't a Coco in my class. It was my mother's name. I'd remember.”

“Oh,” I say again. “Um … I am so sorry that I misled you.”

Professor Guffey smiles. “Don't worry about that. It was nice having someone care enough about my class to fake it as a student.”

I grin. I guess that's true.

Her smile drops. “So why are you here now?”

“I loved your classes. I felt, for the first time in my life, that I was doing what I was meant to do. And I want … I want to go to NYU. I want to study literature. I don't even know if it's possible, but I was hoping that you might be able to help me figure something out…” As the words rush out of my mouth, I realize how stupid I must sound.

“Well, first things first, Coco. Can you afford it?”

“I have a college fund,” I say. “I don't know if it's enough, but I'm sure I can get by, get a job in a bar … It's not the money. It's my SAT scores. They're not high enough. And is it too late? Am I wasting my time even thinking about this?”

“NYU isn't all about SATs, Coco … You can retake the SATs and submit those scores. You can submit your ACP scores, or get predicted result scores and submit them. But truthfully, it's more about the essays, and I don't think you'll have any problems there, right?”

I chew my lip, thinking. “Really? It's not too late?”

“It's August, so it's late to apply, but it's not too late. There are always last-minute ways around the rules if you know where to look. I can help you fill out all the necessary forms and speak to the right people.”

This isn't what I was expecting. The word
no,
that's what I was expecting.

“Coco, if you really want something, you can make it happen. It's that simple.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” I choke out.

“Because … because you remind me of me when I started college.” Professor Guffey's face softens. “You're just waking up.”

“I want to go back to college,” I say clearly. “I want to go to NYU. And I'll do whatever it takes to make it happen.”

 

CHAPTER
33

On the walk from the subway to Union Street, I see a missed call from my dad. I sigh, ringing him back. I need to tell him I've changed my mind.

“Hey, Daddy, sorry I missed your call…”

“Fine.” My dad's at work: he's using his bullish business voice. “So your flight gets in at midday tomorrow. I'll pick you up from the airport and we'll get pizza for dinner.”

“Um…”

“Can't wait to see you, little one. I never thought you were cut out for New York City. You'll feel better as soon as you get back home.”

“I, um…” I take a deep breath. “I changed my mind. I want to stay. And I want to apply to NYU.”

I tell him all about Samantha, and Professor Guffey, and how I know, just
know,
that this is what I'm supposed to do. I reach Rookhaven and sit down on the stoop, staring at the street as I try to explain how life-changing my summer has been.