Ineffable

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Iris

The room is as any office should be. White walls with beige furniture and a dark-colored curtain over the window, just behind his desk. A whole shelf of colored files to the left while an open space with sofas and chairs to the left. Behind the desk, on the wall, there are framed pictures of various events, I guess, but the one that attracts my attention is the big one—the family portrait.

But before I can observe the picture more, Mr. Radcliffe grabs my attention as he sits on his chair. He gestures me to sit opposite him, giving me a calculated gaze.

I feel that I am going to be interviewed and if I fail in this, I fail in life.

Still, I move my feet towards the chair after trying not to be awkward and clumsy.

I drop the pen stand as I sit.

Why am I like this?

"I am so sorry," I say to him but he just looks at me and then, at dropped pen stand.

I really want to enclose myself in a box and try to compel someone to drown the box (and me) into the Pacific Ocean—really bad it is miles away and I can't compel anyone.

"Tell me about yourself," Mr. Radcliffe says, after I, very artistically, keep the pen stand properly on his desk. "Start with the basics."

I straighten myself. "Iris Cooper, daughter of Mia Harrington and Steve Cooper."

"Ah, Steve and Mia Cooper. I have not interacted with Steve Cooper much but Mia Cooper is... some woman." Mr. Radcliffe says in a way that seems a bit mockingly.

"Yeah, she is... great," I say, giving him a small smile (really not hoping that it melts him). "I am 17 and a senior in Seahome High School, actually."

"What are you and... Noah?"

"We are friends."

He hums, looking at me. "What kind of a student are you?"

I tell myself that this is normal; every parent asks their child's friend the same question. So, I answer, honestly, "Good, I guess?"

He puts his lips into a thin line, before asking again, "What's your grade point average?"

"About three point nine five."

"That's not good," He murmurs.

Honestly, I am not proud of my score but at least, I am not depressed about it. And it is not that bad. It is good.

"So," He starts, leaning back on the chair. "what do you plan to do in the future?"

"Dancer," I say with hesitation. "Or if I get the opportunity, a choreographer."

He tilts his face, his eyes sharp and piercing. "Dancer?" He repeats.

I nod, smiling.

"Are you going to directly jump to Hollywood?" Mr. Radcliffe asks and my smile drops. He has put up the face I have seen from a lot of people when I say I dance.

"No, I am deciding on colleges in states and one in England," I reply, politely, even though I feel a bit annoyed by the question.

"Which one in England?" He asks, almost robotically.

"Donella Estoile University in London." Though I shouldn't expect anything much, I do hope that this impresses him.

"So, you are going to major in Dance?" Mr. Radcliffe looks at me, doubting my capabilities.