“And are those your favorite courses?”
“They’re my best.”
Penelope squinted at her. “The way we approach course selection here is to start with your interests first. Once we know what you enjoy, then we consider your ability. We wouldn’t do well to have you doing things you loathe just because you excel at them. Why would you do something you’re good at if you don’t enjoy it?”
Erin didn’t have an answer for that. Penelope’s words repeated in her head.
“So, Erin, which courses do you like best?”
“Math, for sure. Science. I took astrophysics last summer and loved it.”
“We don’t have astrophysics, but we do offer physics. Do you enjoy other sciences?”
“Chemistry, yes. Biology, no.”
She wrote more. “And do you enjoy language and literature?”
“English classes, if it’s creative writing. Deconstructing literature trips me up.”
“And the arts?”
“Music. I play cello and used to play guitar.”
“And do you enjoy both of those?”
“Well, I love guitar—I started playing when I was five. I gave it up for cello in fifth grade.”
“And do you enjoy cello?”
“I play with the Chicago Youth Symphony Orchestra.”
“But do you enjoy it?”
No. No, she didn’t. But Erin was diplomatic. “I prefer the guitar, but that’s not available in American schools.”
“Would you enjoy our orchestra?”
Felicity had rented a cello for five months. Five months without playing cello would seriously derail seven years of intensive practice and lessons. Five months without cello would leave Erin with a lot more time holed up in a freezing bedroom all by herself.
Five months without cello might feel like vacation.
“Erin? Does playing in our orchestra sound like something that interests you?”
Almost imperceptibly, Erin shook her head.
Penelope smiled. “No orchestra then.”
Just like that, Erin was free. She glanced toward the cello case. “May I leave that cello here for the day?”
“Of course. Now, what about visual arts?”
“I couldn’t fit both music and art into my schedule in Wheaton and I always had to choose cello. I haven’t taken art since middle school, so I probably would be far behind everyone here. I’m not very good.”
Penelope pressed so hard with her pen that her paper bowed slightly around each loopy letter. “Foreign language?”
“Didn’t Wheaton forward my records?” Erin sighed loudly. “You should have all my grades.”
“I do have your marks, Erin. I’m trying to get to know you, which is easier in person than parsing how your teachers have rated your work. You study Spanish, you said?”
“It’s the most practical language.”
“You’ve had six years of Spanish, including some university courses, which surpasses our courses here, I’m afraid.”
“I did that to comp out of foreign language in college.”
Penelope smiled. “Of course. We do require students to enroll in foreign language every term. Would you prefer Italian, Mandarin, Japanese, Ma-ori or New Zealand Sign Language?”
“Wouldn’t I be starting with freshmen?”
“Many Ilam students dabble in foreign languages instead of pursuing proficiency, but yes. Some of your classmates would be quite young.”
Pippa was more than enough young person in Erin’s life.
“Which language most appeals?”
“Italian, I guess?”
Penelope beamed. “Italian it is then. Now, have you thought about careers that interest you?”
“I’m going to be a doctor.”
“So of course you plan to go to university.”
Obviously. She’d been raised to believe everyone went to college, unless they weren’t smart or driven enough. Or poor, she guessed. Erin had heard of a woman who applied for a job at McDonald’s, and wasn’t hired because other applicants had college degrees. Without a degree, Erin’s future was bleak. Without an Ivy degree, she believed her future was bland.
Penelope finished her notes. “Students from abroad are always special cases, aren’t they? Mathematics, foreign language, statistics, and English literature are compulsory. You will choose three other subjects. For university entrance, you will want science. I would recommend visual arts for you. For music, our ensembles do not accommodate guitar, but I can recommend some fine teachers in Christchurch. I’ll find you some names.”
Penelope passed Erin her schedule and a Pupil Handbook. “Read this tonight. The most pressing matter is that we don’t allow makeup. No jewelry. Wear your ring for today, but tomorrow you’ll need to leave it home. For now, remove all the makeup before your first class.”
“Is there a reason for that?”
“It’s unnecessary. And it’s a distraction. You should be focused on your studies. Your classmates should be focused on their studies. No jewelry, no makeup, no visible body art. Shoes are required.”
Erin stared. “So it’s not my imagination, right? Is bare feet a religious thing or … cultural?”
“Cultural, absolutely. Shoes are constraining. Some of us go barefoot year round. If I’m being honest, I wear them only at work, and if I’m the last in the office, they come off immediately.”
Instead of career advice, application strategies, or a long checklist, Penelope had given Erin only food for thought.
Wheaton’s head guidance counselor, Mrs. Brown, monitored the emotional ebb and flow of two thousand students. After Grandma Tea died, Mrs. Brown had left a little purple note with Erin’s first-period teacher. When Erin started fighting with her boyfriend freshman year, Mrs. Brown had sent a flurry of purple notes inviting her to talk.
Erin had ignored all the purple notes and visited the stuffy office only to discuss college strategy.
One of Mrs. Brown’s chairs housed a sloppy pile of paperwork in an array of colors. In the chair usually reserved for students, Claire sat pursing her lips and tapping on her phone.
Everything about Mrs. Brown—smile, eyes, arms, body—sagged in pity when she saw Erin. She caught herself and tried to smile. “Miss Cerise. I’m so glad you’re here.”
She closed the door behind Erin, and Claire stood so Erin would sit.
Claire crossed her arms and glared at her daughter. “I talked to Principal Drouin about cyberbullying and this weekend’s fiasco; she’s handling it. Mrs. Brown and I have a solution to the other problem. Getting into Columbia—or any Ivy,
