Piecing Me Together(4)

I give the almost empty tin to Glamour Girl and thank her. I am regretting that we aren’t friends. Maybe if we were friends, she would have offered the mints to me first and I would have a perfectly round one.

When the lunch bell rings, I don’t even stop at my locker. I go straight to Mrs. Parker’s office, where she offers me candy from the jar on her desk. I take a cherry Jolly Rancher. Like most of the adults in this school, Mrs. Parker is white. I imagine her to be a fun grandmother to the three boys in the pictures that decorate her office.

There’s a picture of her skating with them at Oaks Amusement Park. “Aren’t they just the cutest little boys you’ve ever laid eyes on?” she says. “Okay, well, I’m biased, but still.” The three boys have copper skin and tight dark-brown curls. I look at the rest of the framed photos in her room. There’s a photo of a girl, who must be her daughter, standing with a brown man, the three little boys gathered around their legs, at the bottom of Multnomah Falls. Mrs. Parker picks up the photo. “My youngest and her husband,” she tells me. Then she picks up a framed photo of her and her grandsons at a Winterhawks hockey game. They are all dressed in Winterhawks jerseys, and the logo in the center of their shirts is a Native American with four feathers in his hair and paint on his face. I wonder how a people’s culture, a people’s history, becomes a mascot. I wonder how this school counselor and her three grandsons can wear a stereotype on their shirts and hats and not care.

“Are you a Winterhawks fan?” Mrs. Parker asks.

“No, not really.”

“Oh, too bad. I get free tickets all the time. Let me know if you ever want to check them out.”

“Thank you,” I say. Why do people who can afford anything they want get stuff for free all the time?

“Now let’s get to business,” Mrs. Parker says.

I take a deep breath and prepare to act surprised when she tells me she’s nominating me for the study abroad program. She picks up a folder, looks at it, and like an orator who decides to improv instead of using her notes, tosses the folder back onto her desk and asks, “Jade, what do you want?”

To eat.

To travel with the study abroad program. Maybe go to Argentina.

To taste asado hot off the fire.

To lick my fingers after enjoying sweet alfajores—the dulce de leche dancing on my tongue.

To eat and speak Spanish in Argentina, in Costa Rica. In New York, California. In job interviews where knowing more than one language moves your application to the top of the pile.

To give myself a way out. A way in. Because language can take you places.

Mrs. Parker clears her throat. “It’s okay if you don’t have an answer yet,” she says. “That’s why I’m here. To help you figure it out. To help you get it once you know what it is.” She picks the folder back up and hands it to me.

The front of the folder shows a group of black women—adults and teens—smiling and embracing one another. Woman to Woman: A Mentorship Program for African American Girls. Mrs. Parker is smiling like what she’s about to tell me is that she found the cure for cancer. But really, what she has to tell me sounds more like a honking horn that’s stuck, a favorite glass shattering into countless pieces on the floor.

Mrs. Parker tells me that twelve girls from high schools throughout the city have been selected to participate in Woman to Woman. Each of us will be paired with a mentor. “Look at all the great activities that are planned for you,” she says. She takes the folder from my hand and opens it, pulling out a sheet titled Monthly Outings: A Night at Oregon Symphony

Museum Visit at Portland Art Museum

Fun Day at Oaks Amusement Park

“Do you have any questions?” Mrs. Parker asks.

I want to speak up, ask, What about the nomination for the study abroad program? I want to ask about that day she looked into my eyes and said, “St. Francis provides opportunities for our students to travel the world,” but instead I ask, “Why was I chosen for this?”

Mrs. Parker clears her throat. “Well, uh, selection was based on, uh, gender, grade, and, well, several other things.”

“Like?”

“Well, uh, several things. Teacher nominations . . . uh, need.”

“Mrs. Parker, I don’t need a mentor,” I tell her.

“Every young person could use a caring adult in her life.”

“I have my mother.” And my uncle, and my dad. “You think I don’t have anyone who cares about me?”

“No, no. That’s not what I said.” Mrs. Parker clears her throat. “We want to be as proactive as possible, and you know, well, statistics tell us that young people with your set of circumstances are, well, at risk for certain things, and we’d like to help you navigate through those circumstances.” Mrs. Parker takes a candy out of her jar and pops it into her mouth. “I’d like you to thoroughly look over the information and consider it. This is a good opportunity for you.”

That word shadows me. Follows me like a stray cat.

I stand up. “What happens if I don’t participate?” I ask.

“If you do participate and complete the two-year program—keeping your grade point average at a three point five or above—you are awarded a scholarship to any Oregon college,” Mrs. Parker tells me.

A scholarship to college?