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“It’s okay,” I finally say.

“Okay?”

“Perfect!” I lie. My throat squeezes around every letter. “We’re on track for greatness.”

“Are you sure?”

No. I don’t have the heart to tell her. “I’m going to pass.”

Mrs. Scott nods once, preening. She turns her unnecessarily large flat-screen monitor in my direction. Multiple tabs are open across the browser, all for colleges. Sometimes, that’s how my life feels: like twenty open tabs in a web browser that I peruse, but never fully commit to. My stomach drops as I sink lower into the chair.

“It’s the only class you have as a legitimate argument to get into Emory. President of Maplewood’s celebrated GSA and perfectly acceptable grades in standard classes is a fine talking point, but not enough,” Mrs. Scott says.

“I know.”

“Well, just in case, I’ve been looking at alternatives. There is no Plan A without a Plan B, C, D, and so forth.” What page ofCounselors Monthlydid she get that one from? “We have so many wonderful choices for you! Prestigious universities; great support systems. All customized for you, Mr. Cameron.”

All customized for me. How much is Mrs. Scott being paid to sound like an ad for an online university?

She clicks on a tab. “First, there’s Morehouse.” She goes into a calculated speech that sounds as if it belongs on the front page of a brochure.Rich history! Location! Culture!

“And then we have Morris Brown…”

I squint at her. There’s a theme happening here.

“And if those two aren’t in your wheelhouse, and you’re willing to travel,” Mrs. Scott clicks the next tab, “we have the University of Pennsylvania.” Really? “Maybe San Diego State University?” Next tab. “Look at that campus! Glorious.”

Yes, because I’ve incessantly voiced my need to move to the west coast.

“Or Ithaca.”Click. “All these colleges rate high as institutions that have wonderful ties to the LGBTQIA…” She lists every letter on a finger, as if she’s trying to make sure she doesn’t miss one. “…community!”

Click click click. “Excellent academic institutions that have environments created to support students whose identity falls under the LGBT umbrella.”

“Umbrella? Is it raining queerness?”

Mrs. Scott laughs in that movie version of Dolores Umbridge way—quick and uneasy. “These are great places to consider, Remy.”

Whenever Mrs. Scott starts using student’s first names, it means she’s trying to calm a storm. The thunderclouds are already hovering over my brow.

“Friendly environments. Top colleges for you because—”

“I’m black? Gay?”

Meticulously, Mrs. Scott fixes a stray bobblehead. Her plastic smile is pasted on her rouge lips. “Smart. Creative. Courageous.”

“Courageous? For being black? Gay? Or both?”

“Remy.” She exhales through her teeth. Crinkled eyebrows pinch the skin just above her nose. Folding her hands, she says, eerily calm, “College isn’t easy. Movies makes it look that way. All the parties and friends and relationships; but being out on your own is tough. New environments take adjusting.”

“Adjusting,” I repeat.

Mrs. Scott straightens her shoulders. “You’ll need a support system. People like you with similar backgrounds. Who know who they are.”

I want to laugh—or scream. “Mrs. Scott, I’m black. I’m adopted. My parents are white. I came out when I was fourteen and still don’t understand why that’s supposed to be a big fucking deal.”

“I’m sure, as someone pursuing a school for creative writing, you can find more inspired language to use other thanthatword, Mr. Cameron.”

And there it is. The change in tone. Suddenly, we’re not a “team” anymore. Mrs. Scott is the adult and I’m the… the kid.