Page 33

TWENTY-SIX

ruby

After class on Tuesday, I approach Wythe with a little flutter of nerves in my stomach.

Until receiving her response last night—which was short but not unfriendly—I’d almost forgotten I’d emailed her. I’m worried I was too forward. As a mediocre student, I’m not sure I’m entitled to answers about her career history. But she asked me to speak in person, so here I am.

“Professor Wythe? Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Of course. I was hoping you’d come to me today. Walk down to my office, and we’ll chat.” She sweeps her belongings into a chic leather satchel, and we head out of the lecture hall together.

“Thanks for making time for me. I hope I wasn’t being nosy, but your interview got me thinking.”

“Had I known anyone read those things, I might have tried to make my life sound a little more interesting!”

“I think it is, actually. Between what you said to me and that interview, I’ve started to think quality assurance isn’t where I want to land after graduation.”

“Pause there, Ruby. To be clear, I wasn’t discouraging you from going into QA. It’s a highly respected field with plenty of opportunity for advancement.”

“I understand, but the truth is, I didn’t put much thought into choosing it. I just knew it was an easy job to get for a food science grad.” When she raises an eyebrow, I add, “Not easy easy, just relatively easy. Compared to other branches.”

“Okay, so tell me why you’ve soured on it.” Her round eyes flash with a playfulness I don’t expect. “Food pun.”

“Good one. If you’ll allow it, I was never sweet on it to begin with.”

Wythe chuckles and gives an eye roll.

“Thinking long-term just doesn’t come naturally to me, and I couldn’t really tell you why I chose food science to begin with. I like food and two of my friends were in the program and it was sophomore year and I had to choose, so here I am.”

Embarrassment comes over me at the disapproving look that crosses Wythe’s face, confirming what I already knew.

She’s one of them: ambitious, confident, sure of what they want.

Goal setters. High achievers. Unable to comprehend how anyone can be anything but.

This is the point where I usually find an excuse to end the conversation.

But I asked for her time. And, more importantly, I’m not here to impress her. I’m here for help.

“Anyway, I’m not actually interested in QA, and you’re right. I probably wouldn’t last there. And when I read that you started in QA but ended up pivoting to teaching, I thought you might have some advice on a better fit for me.”

We stop at Wythe’s door and she swipes her key card, her expression now sympathetic.

Her office is small, windowless, and overstuffed, not at all in line with her cosmopolitan, elegant vibe.

She’s silent until the door has closed behind us and she’s set down her bag and her overflowing desk stands between us.

“Wouldn’t I love to be able to tell you? Unfortunately, Ruby, if you don’t know what you want to do with your life, I can’t possibly know either.”

“Right,” I say slowly. I need to rephrase this. “But just a general direction? I hear research and development can be exciting. Do you think I’d fit there?”

Wythe sighs, somewhere between frustration and sympathy. “I don’t know you. It’s that simple: I don’t know if you’d fit.”

Shame hits me in a fresh wave. I sound ridiculous asking this accomplished woman who’s conversed with me exactly twice to sketch out my life for me. This is what desperation looks like. “Okay,” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment with a confident nod. “That makes sense.”

I prepare to exit, but Wythe plops down in her desk chair and crosses her legs. “Go ahead and sit.” At the same time, we glance around the room for a chair. “Ugh,” she groans. “I don’t know where the hell my other chair disappeared to. It’s okay, just stand. I’ll be quick.”

I find myself crossing my hands behind my back, posing uncomfortably like I’m getting ready to hear my sentence.

“Let me ask you something: Why did you email me in the first place?”

I’m starting to sweat. “I read your interview and I realized you started out in QA and that you’ve worked in a few different sectors of food science. I thought your experience might be able to steer me in one direction or another.”

“Okay, but why did you read my interview?” She smiles knowingly. “Nobody reads those things.”

I hesitate. Why did I? “I guess ... I happened to be thinking about you. Because the comment you left on my paper—the one about finding what you’re good at?—stuck in my head.”

“Ah. I like hearing that. So what are you good at?”

“Related to food science? I don’t know. Cooking? I have no idea.”

She nods like she knew I’d say that. “I can’t tell you what to do with your life, but I can tell you what to do in the here and now to answer that question yourself.

You’re enrolled at a wealthy university, which means you have access to resources that go far beyond your classes.

So get an internship, volunteer at the lab, go to networking events, ask people in the field about their jobs—you can start with our faculty directory.

Read up on different food science careers, talk to your advisor, try things out.

Then you’ll know what you’re good at. It’s the only way. ”

“So do my own research.”

“It’s pretty much the answer to all of life’s questions, don’t you think?” She smiles.

Yeah, but where’s the magic bullet I was banking on this woman having?

“And start now.” She slides her glasses on and picks up her phone.

“Seriously. I’m sending you a few links about different career paths.

It’s not too late to figure this out, but I’m not going to lie and say you aren’t behind.

You should have an internship and work experience under your belt by now. ”

This I already knew. “Behind” is my natural state.

I thank her profusely and say goodbye, trying not to behave as pathetically as I feel.

My legs are heavy as I walk down the stairs.

I expected some kind of brilliant insight from Wythe, something that would light a fire in me, open up a path I didn’t even know existed.

I know her advice is solid. Why would I think someone else holds the key to my personal happiness? But I don’t like it.

I call Lorenzo, longing for the soothing sound of his voice.

“Hey. What’s up?” he answers.

“Nothing. Just got out of class.”

He pauses. “What’s wrong?”

It’s then I realize I’m on the verge of crying. “I don’t know.” My voice is shaky. “I talked to Wythe like I planned. And she was so nice, but—” I choke back tears. “But I feel so stupid.”

“Why, Ruby?” His voice is low and soft. I wish he was here.

“Because everything she said was so obvious. It’s my job to figure out what to do with my life, and I’m supposed to have been working on that for years. Why am I the only person who needs to be told this?”

“You have been working on it. So you don’t do things the way the manual instructs. You’re never going to be like that.”

“What if I want to be? It’s not cute and quirky to be a fuckup at this age.”

“You’re not?—”

“That’s how I feel.”

Lorenzo sighs. “Okay. So Wythe didn’t lay out your life’s path, but she gave you advice, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So follow it. No one’s better than you at starting something new. You’re fearless.”

If only I could be everything Lorenzo sees in me.

“You want to meet up on campus?” he asks. “Let’s get coffee or something.”

All I want is to be near him, but I know what lies at the root of it: wanting to run and hide, beat myself up, and ignore Wythe’s advice in favor of letting Lorenzo patch over my broken self-esteem.

But I refuse to wallow. Despair is already snowballing inside me, threatening to pull me under, and I’m not having that.

I take a deep breath and let myself cling to the word fearless .

“I should go to the library and read up on the career stuff Wythe sent me.”

“Good. I’ll come over tonight, and you can tell me what else she said. Maybe I’ll even let you make me a nice baked ziti.”

Defeat still hangs heavy over me as I head for the library, but there’s a small sense of hope poking up underneath it.

Lorenzo is right. Wythe’s advice is a literal to-do list, new and shiny things to try.

I can get excited about that. In fact, I have to get excited about it, because suddenly the idea of settling for the easiest job I can find sounds like a disastrous plan.

A job that leaves me miserable and broke is a job that might leave me needing my parents’ help, and that’s the one thing I can’t let happen.

I may have wasted three years of college, but it’s not over yet.