Fiction friday

The pity in my high school counselor's eyes was almost laughable. Not because it was insincere, but because he felt sorry for the girl on paper, not the girl sitting in front of him. Could he not see through the bullshit either?

Granted, my school is colossal and underfunded, and overall just another shitty urban American high school. Which means that this guy, this Mr. Sherman, doesn't know me from Adam. And probably doesn't know Adam either.

It's true that some of my graduating class will somehow still get admitted to Stanford, or MIT, or one of those other shiny beacons of academia, but it will the tiny minority. Some others will go to a close-by state school, or maybe even  to a UC. But the majority? They're like me, they'll be trying to crash the intro courses at the local community colleges come fall.

So why is it that my mother, and this Mr. Sherman, are so distraught? What's the difference? Does their generation seriously think a degree from some big name school is going to get you anywhere? If you're lucky you'll meet the right people at said big name school, and they might be able to get you somewhere. But the diploma itself? I don't think so.

Yes, my mother is going to have to come to terms with the fact that her pleading with the pediatricians and various specialists over the years, her insistence on my having me secure a "diagnosis" and therefore access to an "individual education plan" was all for naught. (Although I did love how it allowed me to take my tests in a quiet room apart from the rest of the class. I did not miss watching Kevin Colberg pick his nose or Rebbecca Jennings sport cleavage for answers. And the one time my moderator got called away from the testing room I was even able to take a hit from my dugout.)

That's an angle my mother didn't plan on, I'm sure. I have my very own medical marijuana card  (surprise, mom!), all because she insisted that my introverted nature and ability to intensely focus on things was somehow a disadvantage....