The Exact Opposite of Okay(2)
But back to the issue at hand: my negative bank balance. “No, sir, for I am eighteen and unemployed.”
Patiently moving the feather duster to a more secure location in his desk drawer, he shoots me a sympathetic look. A waft of moldy apple stench floats out of the open drawer, and he hastily slams it shut again. This place must violate at least a dozen health codes. Is that the patter of tiny mouse feet I hear?
“I see. And have you tried to find a job?”
“Good God, that’s brilliant!” I gasp, faux-astounded. “I had not previously considered this course of action! Have you ever considered becoming a career counselor?”
In all seriousness, this is a sore point. For the third time this year, I just handed out my résumé to every retailer, restaurant and hotel in town. But there are too few jobs and too many people, and I’m never top of the pile.
He sighs. “I know it’s stating the obvious. But, well . . . have you?”
Grinding my teeth in mild irritation, I sigh back. “Yessir, but the problem is, even the most basic entry-level jobs now require at least three years’ experience, a degree in astrophysics and two Super Bowl trophies to even be considered for an interview. Unfortunately, due to my below-average IQ and complete lack of athletic prowess, I am thus fundamentally unemployable.”
So ultimately we both agree that jet-setting to South Africa to volunteer in an elephant sanctuary, while very noble and selfless, is not a viable option at present.
Rifling through my shockingly empty file, Mr Rosenqvist then tries another tactic. “What subjects do you most enjoy in school?” He tries to disguise the flinch as he spots my grade point average.
I think about this for a while, tugging at a loose thread on the cushioned metal chair I’m perched on. “Not math because I’m not a sociopath.”
He laughs his merry Swedish laugh.
“Or science. See above.”
Another endearing chuckle.
As a feminist I feel immediately guilty because everyone is trying to encourage girls into STEM subjects now, but to be honest I’m not dedicated enough to the Vagenda to force myself to become a computer programmer. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.
The thing is, I know exactly what career I’d like to pursue, but I’m kinda scared to vocalize it. Most career counselors are interested in one thing and one thing only: getting you into college. Schools are rated higher according to the percentage of alumni who go on to get a college education, and thus career guidance is dished out with this in mind. If the Ivy Leagues don’t teach it, it’s not worth doing. And, believe it or not, the Ivy Leagues do not teach comedy.
Plus, the chances of success in my dream job are not high. Especially for a girl like me.
Rosenqvist continues his gentle coaxing. “What about English?”
Nodding noncommittally, I say, “I like English, especially the creative writing components. And drama.” Before I can talk myself out of it, I add, “Sometimes I write and perform sketches with my friends. You know, just for fun. It’s not serious or anything.” Judging by the tingling heat in my cheeks, I’ve flushed bright red.
But despite my pathetic trailing off, he loves this development. His little blond-gray mustache jumps around his face like a ferret stuck in a combustion engine.
“FANTASTIC! FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS, MISS O’NEILL!” [Told you.]
So now, despite the fact that it’s not exactly a reliable career path, I have a backpack stuffed full of information on improvization troupes and drama school and theaters that accept script submissions. I’m actually pretty grateful to Rosenqvist for not immediately dismissing my unconventional career ambitions, as so many teachers have before.
He even told me about his friend who does reasonably priced headshots for high-school students. Granted, this sounds incredibly dodgy, but I am giving him the benefit of the doubt here because I would be quite upset to discover Mr Rosenqvist was earning commission by referring his students to a pedophilic photographer as a side hustle.
5.04 p.m.
On Mr Rosenqvist’s jolly recommendation, I find myself voluntarily staying behind after school to talk to Mrs Crannon, our drama teacher, about my career. Like, I am actually spending more time on campus than is absolutely necessary. Of my own free will. This is clear, unequivocal evidence that mind control is real, and that my lovely, albeit shouty, Scandinavian career advisor is in fact some sort of telepathic Dark Lord. It’s the only explanation. Well, not the only explanation. For those who do not believe in the supernatural, it is of course possible that Rosenqvist performed some sort of lobotomy on me during our session.
[For all my cynicism and wit, I do actually genuinely care about writing. But, as much as I would love to be, I’m not clever in the traditional bookish way – more in the “watches a lot of movies” and “is very talented at taking the piss out of everything” way. Which means academia is not exactly my preferred environment, due to the lack of emphasis on movies, and the general dissuasion of piss-taking. It’s almost like teachers don’t want to be told their subject of expertise is a cruel and unusual punishment for being born. Weird.]
Anyway, Mrs Crannon’s office is up a random back staircase behind the theater. I traipse up there once the final bell has rung and all other sound-of-mind students have evacuated the premises. I’m armed with a notepad, a sample script, and a metric crap-ton of peanut butter cups, since I assume talking to teachers in your spare time is much like getting a tattoo – you have to keep your blood sugar consistently high in order to survive the pain without passing out.