Handwritten ✓

01 | question

THE WORST QUESTION YOU COULD possibly ask a sixteen-year-old boy was: "What do you want to do with your life?"

Like, uh, preferably not die.

Pad my wallet with enough cash to travel, sleep-in, and eat whatever I wanted.

And, again, not die.

"That's all I got," I shrugged, spreading my hands nonchalantly in front of the career counsellor.

Mrs. Ackerman scrunched up her nose in distaste.

I sensed she was at her wit's end with me. Understandably so. We'd been doing this tiresome back-and-forth about my study options for ten minutes already, but I had the boundless energy of a teenager, and she—

Well, perhaps this meeting had given Mrs. Ackerman a few more grey hairs than she had when I walked in.

Her office was one of the best-ventilated rooms in the school. Bishop was not a high-tech town. It was small, surrounded by hills. The only building in Bishop High School that had a central heating system — and therefore a central air conditioning system — was the admin building, where the principal, department heads and career counsellor had their offices.

As such, I kind of wanted to stay here as long as possible, even if it meant exacerbating poor Mrs. Ackerman's temper, who looked about to throw a fit because of me. She pushed her glasses further up her spindly nose and took a deep breath.

"Alright," Mrs. Ackerman said congenially. I was impressed by her composure. My twin brother and I had a knack for getting on our teachers' nerves without explicitly breaking any rules, such that they didn't really know how to tell us to stop without being unfair. "That's a start, Jake. That's a start. From this, I gather that material things matter to you. You'd like to travel, and indulge in cuisine—"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Only career counsellors could take my base desires and turn that into materialism. I mean, I wanted food, sleep, sex like everyone else. Preferably the food would be tasty, the sleep would be prolonged, and the sex would not be with my right hand. Simple.

Those urges said next to nothing about the sort of career pathway I was looking — or, rather, not looking — for. My eyes scanned lazily around the career office, perusing the advertising posters for several in-state colleges plastered on the walls.

I didn't even know if I want to go to college. One the one hand, I would get to finally leave California, which I'd never ever done before. On the other, I'd have to leave California, which I'd never ever done before.

See my dilemma?

"—so we need to start thinking about viable options for you to get there. Hmm?"

I met Mrs. Ackerman's bespectacled gaze and gave her a winning smile. "Okay."

She slid my academic transcript closer to her and skimmed down the top page. "Your grades are doing well. You're on track to sit the December SAT, which gives you plenty of time to get the score you want..."

I nodded dutifully, wondering if Lacey Hosseini was going to skip her lunch break to see me.

"—do any of your subjects call to you? Which do you enjoy most?"

"I enjoy Gym class most," I answered truthfully. "As for my other classes, my grades are good because they have to be. Coach said we need a 3.2 GPA to stay on the team, and I want to stay on the team."

"Okay. How about Chemistry? That's your strongest subject at the moment."

"I hate Chemistry."

"Okay," Mrs. Ackerman said again, a vein throbbing at her temple. "Is football what you want to do with your life?"