Page 62 of All These Beautiful Strangers

“Well, don’t.”

I picked myself up and dusted off my knees, which were covered in sand.

“You okay, Dalton?” Zachery asked. “Did she hurt you?”

“Hey, he’s the one who ran into me,” I said.

“When Dalton says he’s got it, you get out of the way,” Zachery said. “He’s our LeBron James. You always let LeBron James take the winning shot.”

“You really don’t want to take another step toward me right now, Zachery,” I said.

“Control your girl, Dalton,” Zachery said.

“What did you just say?” I asked, but Dalton held out his arm and caught me around the waist.

“Just ignore him,” he said.

At that point I didn’t really have much of a choice, because the next ball was coming over the net. This ball wasn’t coming remotely toward me; it was going to fall just over the net. But I didn’t care. I launched myself across the court. Right before I leapt into the air and pulled back my hand to spike the ball over, I saw her. There, on the other side of the net, waiting, was Harper Cartwright. As I my palm made contact with the ball, all I could think was, Dive, bitch. Dive. I hit that ball like it was Zachery’s face.

Harper did dive, but she wasn’t quick enough. The ball smacked the floor of the court. Score.

I hollered in a very unsportsmanlike manner that I’m sure thoroughly horrified Counselor Kirk. Meanwhile, Dalton picked me up and threw me over his shoulder and spun around in a victory dance.

“What now, Zachery? What now?” I yelled.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the revelry,” came a voice. Dalton slowed and set me down. That’s when I saw her—my guidance counselor, Mariah.

Every student was assigned a guidance counselor when they entered Knollwood, and Mariah was mine. We were required to meet with our counselors at least once a semester to go over our class schedules and talk about our “goals” and what we “wanted to accomplish,” which would have been annoying enough as it was, but Mariah felt her guidance should extend beyond the academic and extracurricular realm. She was always asking me about my family, and how I was holding up, and—I swear I’m not just imagining this—elbowing the tissue box across her desk in my direction, as if at any moment I might explode in a torrential downpour of tears. I’d seen the undeniable twinkle of glee in her eye the last time I was in her office and asked for a tissue, and then the sheer disappointment when I used it to blot my lipstick.

Mariah was middle-aged and always dressed business casual—chinos and loafers, a blazer over a collared shirt. She was the type of person who insisted on all the students’ calling her by her first name, and she liked to put her hands in her front pants pockets and nod when she was deep in thought. People who put their hands in their front pants pockets bugged me.

“I’m scheduled to meet with Charlie next,” she said. “Is it okay if I steal her for a bit?”

“Please, take her,” Zachery said.

“I got us that last point if you didn’t notice,” I said.

“Yeah, congratulations. You also cost us several and almost injured our star player. So you’re still in the negative, if you hadn’t noticed,” Zachery said.

“Oh, Zachery, I’m really going to miss this very special time we’ve shared together,” I said. And I reached up and patted him on the head as I walked past him.

On the sidelines, Mariah hugged me.

“So good to see you, Charlie,” she said. “I’m so glad we have a chance to talk. I feel like we didn’t get to accomplish all that we could in our last visit.”

Give it up, lady, I wanted to say. I’m not going to cry.

We started walking toward the lake. Mariah buried her hands in her front pockets and started to nod.

“So, regardless of what you might have heard from your peers, the real purpose of this session is not to scare you, but to help you get where you want to go,” Mariah said. “I think the best place for us to start is for you to tell me where you’d like to end up in a year and a half. For most Knollwood Augustus Prep students, that means college, but some seek out other opportunities for personal or intellectual growth—such as Outward Bound, or a year of travel, or a year of volunteer service.”

“My plans haven’t changed,” I said. “I’m going to UPenn. To the Wharton School.”

Mariah smiled at me. “I hope we can be honest with each other right now, Charlie. Don’t feel pressured by what your peers might think, or what your family might think of your choices. I’m here to get a sense of where you want to see yourself.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I just told you what I wanted. UPenn. The Wharton School.”

“That’s a tough school to get into,” Mariah said. “And the acceptance rate is less than twelve percent.”