I Was Told It Would Get Easier(42)

“Uh, I’m not sure, Grandpa. I really don’t like school very much, not sure four more years of it is . . .”

“College is nothing like high school. You’ll love college.”

The food arrived, thank god. Grandpa always chills out after he eats and has some wine. He also has a strict rule never to discuss serious matters while eating, so we talked about baseball, which I happen to enjoy talking about more than most girls I know—not a sexist comment, just an observation. I wish I could talk about baseball for a living, but I can’t imagine that working out for me. When I went to the bathroom I googled it. As I suspected, I’d still need a bachelor’s degree in journalism or something.

Everyone tells you middle school is fun, and then you get there and it sucks. Then high school is going to be fun, but you get there and it both sucks and is really hard. Now, apparently, college is going to be fun, but it really seems like one more hurdle standing between me and actual happiness. Whatever that is.





JESSICA


So, Dad started grilling Emily about college, which is not the best way to get anything out of her. But I couldn’t exactly interrupt his flow to say, Dad, wait, you’re going about this all wrong. She won’t tell you anything if you come at her head-on; you have to approach her obliquely, sneak attack. Besides, she never tells me anything anyway, so my way isn’t exactly coming up trumps.

I remember the conversation my dad and I had about my decision to become a lawyer, like him. It went like this:


Me: I’ve decided to become a lawyer.

Him: Are your grades strong enough?

Me: Yes.

Him: Good choice.



That’s it. That was the whole thing. I finished my degree, I got into Columbia Law, which was a lot easier back then, especially for Columbia graduates, and was about to start my first job when I got pregnant with Emily. I remember that conversation, too:


Me: I’m pregnant.

Him: You’re about to start work.

Me: Yeah, I know.

Him: Are you going to have an abortion?

Me: No. I don’t think so.

Him: You’ll ruin your career.

Me: No, I won’t. I have it all figured out. I’ll work part-time. When she’s older I’ll work full-time. It’s fine.

Him: Good luck.



And again, that was it, the whole thing. The conversation with my mother was slightly different:


Me: I’m pregnant.

Her: Are you keeping it?

Me: I think so.

Her: Do you know who the father is?

Me: Of course, but he’s not interested. If I keep it, I’m doing it alone.

Her: Aren’t you worried you’ll end up a lonely single mother who no man will ever want?

(Pause)

Me: Well . . . I wasn’t.



And that was it, her version of the conversation. It wasn’t that they didn’t have any faith in me, it was that I was twenty-eight. I was an adult. I was expected to know my own mind, and I did.





EMILY


Dessert might even be my favorite thing about Harrisons. You can have Spotted Dick, lol, which is actually a super-yummy spongy cake thing with raisins, or cheesecake, or chocolate cake, or that thing where they cook the top with a tiny blowtorch right at the table. You’d think the sprinklers would go off, and I kind of always hope they will. I had cheesecake. Cherries are my go-to berry. Are they a berry? (Googles under table.) Go-to drupe, new word of the day.

Grandpa took a forkful of chocolate cake and said, “But really, Emily, what’s your plan for the next few years?”

I swallowed my cheesecake and shook my head. “I’m not sure, Grandpa. Go to college, I guess.”

Mom jumped in. “She doesn’t have to decide until the fall, Dad. Part of the point of this trip is for her to look around and see which colleges appeal to her.” The irony of the Great Questioner defending me from interrogation is not lost on me.

Grandpa pointed his fork at my face, which was rude. “If you’re not sure what to do, pick a major you can live with and go to the best school you can. The people you meet are far more important than what you study. You’ll make the connections that matter.”

I wanted to talk about how elitist that is, and how it perpetuates inequality (two semesters of sociology elective) but decided to nod thoughtfully and eat my cheesecake. Did I mention it had cherries?

After dessert I escaped to the bathroom again and ended up FaceTiming with Sienna for about ten minutes. She was over the Becca thing because something more serious has happened: She got a B on her test and thinks her life is over. She was literally in tears. She’s dramatic at the best of times, but now she really gave it her all.

“Cornell’s out of the question now,” she sobbed. “They haven’t taken anyone with less than a 4.2 in over twenty years. I might as well take Northwestern off the table, too, and UPenn isn’t happening.” She’s a madwoman, of course; one B isn’t going to make any difference in an otherwise perfect record. Sienna kept going but I kind of drifted off. Everyone wants to get into a “name” school, one that when you tell people you got in, they make that face, the face that says, You won the game, you’re set for life. Of course, only very few get in, which makes those schools even more special. They’re like the girl who turns everyone down, so everyone wants to date her and no one ever discovers she’s completely boring.