The girl who saves werewolves

3. High hopes girl

The senior year spring was a stormy season in my life. Maybe storm is a wrong word, but let's use that for a lack of a better one. 

I had applied to 12 colleges. My parents were excited; the apple of their eye was about to give them something to brag about. They had high hopes. My grades gave them a reason for that. I got good grades, not because I was very talented or worked my butt off, but because I listened and was awake in class.

I noticed I had inherited the sleep gene from my mom. Meaning, I found it hard to fall asleep and every little noise woke me up. The sleep-deprived mind of mine was a perfect playing ground for the storm. Little by little, it started to grow. But because it was only in my mind, it came as a shock to everyone when it finally was too much of a hurricane to stay there.

My ears still ring with my mother's high pitch "What!?" as I told them, during one of our traditional Sunday breakfast.  My dad remained silent like he always does when emotions overtake him. His breathing was getting faster and I noticed my own was matching his.

"I don't want to-" I didn't get to finish my sentence.

"Shut your mouth!" my mother shouted. When she got angry her Thai accent surfaced. "Do not speak such nonsense."

Under the table, I clenched my hands into tight fists. My nails dug into my skin. "This is really happening," I thought. I must be going crazy!

"You are just tired," my mother said and nodded with determination.

She was right. I was tired. One shouldn't make life-determinating decisions when tired. Like what does one want to do when one grows up especially when that decision comes with a four-five-figure student loan.

Mom took my silence as an inner realization of the insanity of my words. Her shoulders relaxed a bit and I could hear her sighing. Dad was still silent but he stared at me under his brows.

"We've been talking about this since middle school. We went through options. This is what you want," mom said.

Dad leaned back. He made a big deal out of it like reminding me I had to face his silent presence.

"Has someone said something?" he asked. His voice came from somewhere deep from his chest.

I shook my head.

"Then what's going on?"

"I-," I mimicked my dad and leaned back. "I just..."

I just hate the idea! I hate the idea of me sitting in a lecture hall learning about something that doesn't really interest me. I hate the idea of a career that I only chose because it was okay or less uninteresting than something else. I hate the idea that there's a paper sheet on my desk upstairs that has over 20 cons and only one pro on it: good salary. I hate the idea of working in a world where my boss would by a middle-aged rich white guy. A fifty-year-old Alex Montgomery. I hate it! I hate it!

I didn't say any of that out loud. Instead, I said: "I just don't find it interesting anymore."

Mom and dad's high hopes girl turned out to be what should we do with her girl.

If you look at the dictionary, you will find my school counselor's photo next to the word empathy. Though I had decided not to confide in her, it took 10 minutes in her office for me to open up about the college ordeal. She let me speak without interrupting me, something I had not experienced in a long while.

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. She slid a box of tissues across her desk. Other people cry here too, I thought and chuckled. That made her give me a questioning look.