Project 17 (2 page)

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"I know you did," he says, handing me a tissue. "But listen, it isn't like you won't get in to one of the other Ivies. You have other applications out there. And it's not like Harvard flat-out rejected you. Lots of people make it in from the waiting list."

"What could I have done differently?" I ask, wiping the run from my nose.

"Don't do that," he says, softening his voice like pressed powder. "Think about moving forward."

"I want to know," I insist. "You can say it. I can take it."

Mr. Trotter passes me another tissue. "Maybe some other time we can talk about it."

"Do
you
know? Did they tell you?"

He lets out another sigh. "It's what we talked about before. Your grades are flawless, no question. But as for your extracurricular activities ..."

I nod, already knowing where he's going. "They're pitiful."

"They're nonexistent," he corrects. "I mean, I don't want to be the one to say I told you so, but--"

"You told me so." I say it for him.

"Look," he says, leaning across the stack of folders on his desk, "get yourself involved in something nonacademic."

"Like what?"

"Like volunteer work. The Ivies really love that kind of thing ... a few hours a week helping out at a nursing home ..."

"I'm having a hard enough time keeping my grades up

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as it is. I don't think I could commit to something like that right now."

"Well then, how about debate? Or something athletic?"

"Debate scares me ... and sports and I don't exactly mix--you should see me play field hockey. Not a pretty sight." Last year in gym class, I kept raising my stick too high, accidentally tripping all my teammates.

"So what
do
you like?" He lets out a sigh.

"Studying ... you know--biology, math, health studies, physics--"

"How about something artistic?" he asks, cutting me off.

"Does doodling on my book covers count?"

Trotter shakes his head. "I'm serious, here. Think team player. They want to see you engaged with your peers, working toward a common goal."

"That stuff is hard for me," I say, feeling myself get teary all over again. "I'm not the most social individual."

"You don't have to be social. You just have to participate; you need to contribute to the fabric of your school ... show your team spirit." He punches the air for emphasis.

"What about stage crew?"

"For the drama department?"

I nod. "I could maybe help build stuff ... decorate sets."

Trotter leans back in his seat, unconvinced by the idea.

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"I'm not sure what they'd need right now, being so late in the year.
West Side Story
ended two weeks ago, but maybe Mr. Duncan might have some ideas."

I nod, knowing that I'm being difficult, that I'm acting like a spoiled brat. I absolutely hate this side of me. "I'm sorry," I say, trying to smile. "I'm not usually like this."

"Don't apologize, Liza. Just remember that you have options."

"I don't know. I mean, I've always just planned on going to Harvard. I haven't even told my parents yet."

"Don't you think you'll do great things wherever you go? Why not think of this as something positive? Think of it as an opportunity to figure out what you really want."

"I really want to go to Harvard. I mean, I had it all planned out. Harvard for pre-med, Stanford for med school. My parents have been putting tuition money away for me since birth. My mom helped me decorate my room with crimson and banners. She even bought me my first stethoscope."

"So your parents really want this."

I nod.

"Well,
that's
pressure."

"It's my life," I say, correcting him. I'm Elizabeth Blackwell Miller, for God's sake, named after the first American female doctor. "This is what I'm meant to do."

"This is what you're
meant
to do, or this is what you
want
to do?"

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I feel my face scrunch, taken aback by the question. "This is all I've ever dreamed for myself."

He studies me a few moments, as though trying to figure things out--when it seems so clear to me. "Okay," he says finally. "Get involved in some team activity and then come see me. Maybe I can make another phone call ... see if we can get you off that waiting list."

"For real?"

He nods.

"Oh my God, that would be amazing."

"But no promises, okay?"

"No promises," I say, suddenly feeling the proverbial weight float off my shoulders. I grab one last tissue and dash out of his office, making a point to smile extra wide at the guidance secretary, since I may not have been the most cordial before. I even take one of her sugarcoated lard ball offerings and eat it in front of her, surprised at how good it tastes.

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DERIK

AFTER MY TRIP
to the loony bin, I end up going in to school late, muttering something to the school secretary about having car trouble. It's not like it matters anyway. I mean, it's senior year. My grades suck. And I'm not going to college. People know this about me, my parents included, which is why every day after school I find myself elbow deep in tuna freakin' salad.

Today when I get to the diner, my mom's waiting tables. It was her idea that I go full time here on the weekends and come in every day after school. I've been doing food prep up the ass--
that
and working behind the grill, learning how to do the books, and how to run the place. She and my dad want me to take over the family business one day. This grease bucket is three generations old, and they'd sooner be found guilty of tax fraud than shame the family and let this place go.

Lucky me.

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I think my parents are actually happy about the suckage of my grades, that I have no prospects unless I find myself some sugar mama to take me away from all this burger grease. I'm their meal ticket, so to speak. It was either me or my brother, Paul, to keep this place going. But he's already three years through dental school. The guy's gonna be a freakin' dentist--like it wasn't enough that he's first generation college--so it doesn't take a rocket scientist to guess who the suckah is in this whole messed-up scenario.

"After the tuna," my dad hollers, "I'll show you how to make them blueberry scones." He's got this huge-ass grin on his face which only makes me feel worse. I know the old man's proud of this place, of the idea that one of his sons will be around to keep it going.

"I got a date tonight," I tell him, trying to get the image of that psycho security guy out of my head--of that stupid finger-drill joke of his. "I gotta leave early." It's not entirely a lie. I do have plans. I'm going to the gym and, let's face it, there's bound to be a decent helping of datable girls there.

"Who's the girl?"

"You don't know her," I say, sticking a glove-covered finger into the tuna for a taste. Way too much mayo--this crap is heinous. I add in a few squirts of horseradish mustard--my parents' secret ingredient--to see if that does the trick. But it only makes it worse.

"Everything okay?" my dad asks, noticing how I look like I'm gonna heave.

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"Just freakin' dandy," I tell him.

"Why don't you go along. I'll finish up here."

"You sure?"

My dad nods, taking a good look at the tuna--a soupy white mess that reminds me of bird crap. He dips his finger in to take a taste. "Like shit," he says.

"Yeah," I laugh, passing him the jar of mustard.

He lets out a growl, mutters something in Canuck-- something about me, brains, and a baby pea--and then shakes his head since this means he has to whip up a brand-new batch.

"Sorry, Dad."

He gives me a pat on the back and moves over to his special drawer that's reserved for old diner relics. He pulls out the sacred spatula--the one passed down by his grandfather, and then by his father; the same one he's gonna give to me on graduation day.

Joy-

"You'll get it right one of these days," he tells me, turning the spatula over and over in his hand. The stainless steel shines. My dad knows every nick on the thing-- from the time it got stuck in a pop-up toaster (who's talking brains the size of a pea?), to the time my granddad bent the handle while using it to fix the overhead fan.

"It was hard for me in the beginning, too," my dad continues. "I screwed everything up. I'm not just talking tuna, either: menus, bills, grease fires, food prep. Wait'll I teach you how to make corton; you'll be beggin' me to go

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back to tuna then." (Note: corton = ugly pig-fat spread.)

"I don't know," I say. "Maybe this isn't for me."

"Nonsense," he says, forcing the spatula into my hand. I can see the glint in his eye--like he just rubbed off a hundred-dollar scratch ticket. "Looks good on you," he says.

"I don't know," I repeat.

"
I
know," he says. "Just give it time. You'll settle in to it. We all do."

"Thanks, Dad," I say, handing him back the spatula. Part of me wants to do this ... for him, anyway. The guy's so goddamned proud.

"Hey, have fun tonight," he says with a wink. "Who is it, the redhead?"

"Which redhead?" I smile.

"That's my boy," he says. "Have fun while you can, because before you know it, it's all over." He motions to my mom.

"What?" she squawks, catching his drift--the woman's a mind reader.

Dad comes from behind the grill to grope her butt and nuzzle her neck. "Still feisty after all these years, aren't you, Barbie?"

My mom lets out a giggle and smacks his butt.

My mom's real name isn't Barbara--it's Janet--but my dad likes to call her Barbie because she used to look just like the doll. Everybody says so. To me, they just look like parents, my dad a much older version of me--dark

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hair, blue eyes, buff body (for a forty-something-year-old, that is). They've been sweethearts ever since high school, but their families knew each other even way before that. I've seen the pictures--the two of them at prom, graduation, holiday parties at my grandparents' houses--big-ass grins across their faces like they shared some wicked secret.

Instead of watching them fool around behind the counter--a regular occurrence despite the customers--I pull off my apron and head for the door, knowing that in their own way, they
have
made a good life together. And they expect no less from me. They expect me to graduate high school and accept my post behind the grill with the sacred spatula in hand. They want me to marry the girl next door. She'll wait tables like my mom. Together we'll pop out a few kids. They'll grow up. One will suck at school like me. And then the cycle will repeat itself.

But it's not going to happen. It
can't.
I can't let it. Which is why I took a trip to that mental hospital this morning. When I saw the headlines that it was going to be torn down, I thought it was the perfect idea--to make my movie, capture a bit of history, and win my ticket out of the burger business once and for all.

I've decided to enter a contest I saw recently on RTV, the Reality TV network. They're offering a summer internship to a soon-to-be high school grad interested in pursuing a career in the TV biz. The idea of it--of
me
--as one of them TV producer guys, driving around in my brand-new tricked-out Porsche, coming up with all these

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cool ideas for reality TV shows, with girls galore hangin' all over me--is too good to ignore.

If the summer gig goes well, who knows what can happen? Maybe they'll hire me full time. Maybe my parents will stop comparing me to my walks-on-water brother, Paul.

All I need to do to win myself the gig is get my hands on a video camera, find myself a full cast of characters, and get our asses in there for one night--and without security guards to screw it all up.

And I have less than one week to do it.

Easy, right?

Not easy. Probably not even possible. A long shot, to say the least. But as corny as it sounds, I believe there's a reason I saw that contest ad. There's a reason that girl brought me up there this summer--in the daylight, when I could really see everything, when I could see things through her eyes. And there's a reason I saw the headline that the place was going to be torn down for condos and apartments.

So I have to give it a try--at least so I can just say I tried something. Or else I'll be smellin' like tuna fish for the rest of my natural life.