This is a deleted chapter from Left Drowning. It was originally the second chapter in the book, and you’ll see that story information in this was trickled into what is the second chapter in the published version of the book. I really like this scene, but I wrote it so early in the process to help set tone, and it became unnecessary once I really had a handle on things.
It does sort of make me miss miserable, depressed Blythe… Weird, huh?
Make or Break
I examine the dirty carpet outside of my academic adviser’s office as though it’s the most fascinating material ever. The truth is that it’s hideous. But the swirls of burgundy, green, and mustard probably do wonders to hide collegiate filth. If I weren’t so hungover, there would be no way to justify sitting down. As it is, I am better off with my legs pulled into my body and my back against the wall. Support is crucial right now.
I drop my head onto my knees and close my eyes while I throw mental insults at the alcohol industry. There may be dry heaving later today. As terrible as I feel right now, though, I am glad to be sober again because drinking heightens everything I already detest about myself.
“Blythe?”
Lifting my head requires me to pause for a moment while my brains get off the tequila trampoline. “Yeah. I’m here.”
Professor Angelo smiles and beckons me into her office. “Come on, kiddo. I’m glad you’re here.”
It’s nice that one of us is.
Getting to standing hurts slightly less than I imagined, but I am relieved to reach the armchair in front of my adviser’s desk. This is the first time that I am meeting this fifth, and presumably final, adviser. The others all conveniently lost interest in me and this Professor Angelo must have ticked off the dean. It’s the only explanation for why she is stuck with me.
“Blythe McGuire? Am I correct?” My adviser looks down at an open file folder as she wheels her chair closer to the desk.
“That’s me.”
“Are you sure?” she asks with a smile. “You don’t look convinced.”
“Yes. I’m entirely sure.” I clear my throat and taste remnants of the night. Perfect.
The tiny office is jammed with metal file cabinets and floor-to-ceiling shelves. It seems clear that the voluminous reference books are sucking the air out of this already stuffy room.
“It’s your senior year at Matthews, and let’s see… Well, I only have some of your paperwork here. You’ve designed your own major?”
“Yes, Professor Angelo.” I clear my throat again and swallow back more of the night. There will be no drinking this evening. “It’s called, Psychology of Gender; Social Science and Literary Perspectives.”
“Call me Tracey, please.” My adviser lifts her reading glasses from her eyes and nestles them into her soft hair. She smiles. “Well, that is as useless a major as I’ve ever heard, isn’t it? Who let you come up with that mess?”
“Excuse me?” I am slightly more alert now.
Tracey waves the folder around wildly. “Looks to me like you’ve spent three years taking a rather random assortment of courses and then slapped a silly major title onto them.”
I am silent.
She glances over my current transcript. “These are some great classes here. And your grades are good. Good, but not great.” She looks at me and waits.
I cross my legs and scoot back into the hard seat. There really isn’t anything to say, so I say nothing.
“I’ve read over a number of papers that you’ve done for your English classes here. Last year’s midterm essay on John Updike was particularly good. You’re smart and your writing is beautiful.”
“Okay.”
“The work that you turn in is excellent, but your GPA is crummy because you have a propensity for handing in papers late and occasionally not handing them in at all.”
Tracey, it seems, is not a bullshitter. “OK,” I say again.
“Stop saying OK. There is nothing okay about this.” She taps my transcript. “Is this all true?”
“It sounds about right,” I agree.
“That sucks. Why are you pulling this garbage?”
I dislike Tracey more with each passing second. Partly because she’s pushy and intrusive, and partly because she’s too fucking right.
“This is not an inexpensive school. It’s costing over thirty thousand dollars a year for you to be here. You’re not on a scholarship, so I suspect that you have some mightily disappointed parents at home who would like for their intelligent daughter to be getting everything that she can out of her education rather than just eking by.”
I rub a hand over my forehead and let out a small laugh. “Yes. I can say for sure that I am a disappointment.”
“Do you want to be at Matthews?”
I look away and focus my gaze on a copy of Pride and Prejudice. It’s one of those books that I both love and hate. It cuts through me, and I refuse to read it ever again. Some books are too much.
Eventually I nod. “I do want to be here.”
Tracey leans forward and plops her chin into the cup of her hands. “So what are you going to do? I hate seeing someone like you blow her college experience. You have a year left here. And a year can change your life. A year can make you or break you.”
“An hour can make you or break you,” I say stonily.
She takes a deep breath. “Yes. It can. So what will you do with each of your hours?” It makes me uncomfortable when people look at me the way I know that she is. I cannot be helped right now, and I do not want her trying. I want to be left alone, on my own. My only concern is my brother James because he can be saved, while I am pretty sure that this is as good as it gets for me. Tracey cannot see that, but I can. “Right now you’re in a safe place. A small college like this is a great place to hide out, but soon enough you’ll have graduated. Then what?”
I shake my head slightly. “I don’t… I haven’t decided.” God, I want to get out of here. It is hard to breathe.
“You’ve racked up a solid number of courses that have taught you how to think, how to examine the world and those around you. Psychology does that, literature does that. Philosophy. What are you going to do with these skills?”
“I’ll get some sort of a job. I don’t know.” I shrug.
“Doing what?”
I blatantly roll my eyes. “Why does it matter? Nothing. I am going to do nothing. How’s that? Are we done?” I know that I’m behaving abominably, but I can’t seem to shut up.
“No.” My adviser squints pointedly at me, her inquisitive stare tearing through me. I hate her eye contact and her direct manner. “There is a reason that a bright, capable young woman with a bang-up high school record suddenly drops out of life. Your high school grades were solid until your senior year, and then . . . not so much.”
I correct her. “I’d hardly say solid. I have an average record, markedly devoid of anything outstanding.”
“I disagree. That’s an inaccurate representation.” She skims my old transcript. “Plenty of extracurriculars, a few honors classes, strong in both the arts and the sciences. You wouldn’t have gotten into Matthews with anything less. You must know that. You’re a damn smart kid and you’re blowing it. What are you going to do when you graduate? What do you want?”
My thoughts are scrambled, but it does occur to me that a bout of mental health would be interesting. Based on what I’ve learned in my psych classes, however, I suspect that I may have already careened off the spectrum of normal. “Nothing comes to mind.”
“You’re a strong thinker. When you choose to be, that is. I see something outstanding in your writing. There’s emotion. And much of what you have to say is significantly less indifferent than what I’m getting from you today. Maybe you’re not aware of it, but part of you seeps into your writing and flavors your work.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I reach down for my bag. This is enough. I don’t need someone else reminding me of how little I do.
“Have you written much before? I mean, besides papers for school. Creative writing? Short stories? Articles for a school paper?”
It was easy to see where this was going. Sure, I would become the next great novelist. Brilliant idea. I stand up and reach to the desk to steady myself. Tracey raises an eyebrow. “No, I haven’t written anything else. I don’t write anything else.” The door is only a few feet away. I can probably make it without retching. I turn slowly so as not to disrupt my precariously placated stomach.
“I think you should. Write, that is. It’s pretty clear that you have something to say.” She slides smoothly through the short space between us. “As someone who has the word psychology in your major, you should be able to appreciate the therapeutic nature of writing and expressing oneself. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing about yourself, breaking down social issues, analyzing political structures. Anything. It’s giving part of yourself so that you get something back.”
There’s hardly anything left in me to give, I scream silently. And whatever is still there is nothing anyone would want. Even I don’t want it.
I can feel the imagined yet eternal, unrelenting chokehold tighten its grip. I am damn sick of crying, and I’m certainly not going to fall apart in this office.
“Blythe, look at me.” Tracy’s voice is soft now. I know that sound of pity. She puts a hand on my arm, turning me gently to her. “You can make yourself into whoever you want to be. You’ve got a story that I don’t know about. I’m missing something, but I don’t need to know what. You know, and you’re in charge. This is your life.”
“No,” I say and finally meet her eyes. “It was my life.”
She frowns. “Take it back. You are twenty-one years old. Take it the hell back.”
I appreciate what she is trying to do. I really do. I just don’t have the fight in me. Not now, maybe not ever. I am not strong, but I will keep going for James. “Thank you. I’m sorry for having been rude. But I have tried. And now it’s time to stop trying.”
It does sort of make me miss miserable, depressed Blythe… Weird, huh?
Make or Break
I examine the dirty carpet outside of my academic adviser’s office as though it’s the most fascinating material ever. The truth is that it’s hideous. But the swirls of burgundy, green, and mustard probably do wonders to hide collegiate filth. If I weren’t so hungover, there would be no way to justify sitting down. As it is, I am better off with my legs pulled into my body and my back against the wall. Support is crucial right now.
I drop my head onto my knees and close my eyes while I throw mental insults at the alcohol industry. There may be dry heaving later today. As terrible as I feel right now, though, I am glad to be sober again because drinking heightens everything I already detest about myself.
“Blythe?”
Lifting my head requires me to pause for a moment while my brains get off the tequila trampoline. “Yeah. I’m here.”
Professor Angelo smiles and beckons me into her office. “Come on, kiddo. I’m glad you’re here.”
It’s nice that one of us is.
Getting to standing hurts slightly less than I imagined, but I am relieved to reach the armchair in front of my adviser’s desk. This is the first time that I am meeting this fifth, and presumably final, adviser. The others all conveniently lost interest in me and this Professor Angelo must have ticked off the dean. It’s the only explanation for why she is stuck with me.
“Blythe McGuire? Am I correct?” My adviser looks down at an open file folder as she wheels her chair closer to the desk.
“That’s me.”
“Are you sure?” she asks with a smile. “You don’t look convinced.”
“Yes. I’m entirely sure.” I clear my throat and taste remnants of the night. Perfect.
The tiny office is jammed with metal file cabinets and floor-to-ceiling shelves. It seems clear that the voluminous reference books are sucking the air out of this already stuffy room.
“It’s your senior year at Matthews, and let’s see… Well, I only have some of your paperwork here. You’ve designed your own major?”
“Yes, Professor Angelo.” I clear my throat again and swallow back more of the night. There will be no drinking this evening. “It’s called, Psychology of Gender; Social Science and Literary Perspectives.”
“Call me Tracey, please.” My adviser lifts her reading glasses from her eyes and nestles them into her soft hair. She smiles. “Well, that is as useless a major as I’ve ever heard, isn’t it? Who let you come up with that mess?”
“Excuse me?” I am slightly more alert now.
Tracey waves the folder around wildly. “Looks to me like you’ve spent three years taking a rather random assortment of courses and then slapped a silly major title onto them.”
I am silent.
She glances over my current transcript. “These are some great classes here. And your grades are good. Good, but not great.” She looks at me and waits.
I cross my legs and scoot back into the hard seat. There really isn’t anything to say, so I say nothing.
“I’ve read over a number of papers that you’ve done for your English classes here. Last year’s midterm essay on John Updike was particularly good. You’re smart and your writing is beautiful.”
“Okay.”
“The work that you turn in is excellent, but your GPA is crummy because you have a propensity for handing in papers late and occasionally not handing them in at all.”
Tracey, it seems, is not a bullshitter. “OK,” I say again.
“Stop saying OK. There is nothing okay about this.” She taps my transcript. “Is this all true?”
“It sounds about right,” I agree.
“That sucks. Why are you pulling this garbage?”
I dislike Tracey more with each passing second. Partly because she’s pushy and intrusive, and partly because she’s too fucking right.
“This is not an inexpensive school. It’s costing over thirty thousand dollars a year for you to be here. You’re not on a scholarship, so I suspect that you have some mightily disappointed parents at home who would like for their intelligent daughter to be getting everything that she can out of her education rather than just eking by.”
I rub a hand over my forehead and let out a small laugh. “Yes. I can say for sure that I am a disappointment.”
“Do you want to be at Matthews?”
I look away and focus my gaze on a copy of Pride and Prejudice. It’s one of those books that I both love and hate. It cuts through me, and I refuse to read it ever again. Some books are too much.
Eventually I nod. “I do want to be here.”
Tracey leans forward and plops her chin into the cup of her hands. “So what are you going to do? I hate seeing someone like you blow her college experience. You have a year left here. And a year can change your life. A year can make you or break you.”
“An hour can make you or break you,” I say stonily.
She takes a deep breath. “Yes. It can. So what will you do with each of your hours?” It makes me uncomfortable when people look at me the way I know that she is. I cannot be helped right now, and I do not want her trying. I want to be left alone, on my own. My only concern is my brother James because he can be saved, while I am pretty sure that this is as good as it gets for me. Tracey cannot see that, but I can. “Right now you’re in a safe place. A small college like this is a great place to hide out, but soon enough you’ll have graduated. Then what?”
I shake my head slightly. “I don’t… I haven’t decided.” God, I want to get out of here. It is hard to breathe.
“You’ve racked up a solid number of courses that have taught you how to think, how to examine the world and those around you. Psychology does that, literature does that. Philosophy. What are you going to do with these skills?”
“I’ll get some sort of a job. I don’t know.” I shrug.
“Doing what?”
I blatantly roll my eyes. “Why does it matter? Nothing. I am going to do nothing. How’s that? Are we done?” I know that I’m behaving abominably, but I can’t seem to shut up.
“No.” My adviser squints pointedly at me, her inquisitive stare tearing through me. I hate her eye contact and her direct manner. “There is a reason that a bright, capable young woman with a bang-up high school record suddenly drops out of life. Your high school grades were solid until your senior year, and then . . . not so much.”
I correct her. “I’d hardly say solid. I have an average record, markedly devoid of anything outstanding.”
“I disagree. That’s an inaccurate representation.” She skims my old transcript. “Plenty of extracurriculars, a few honors classes, strong in both the arts and the sciences. You wouldn’t have gotten into Matthews with anything less. You must know that. You’re a damn smart kid and you’re blowing it. What are you going to do when you graduate? What do you want?”
My thoughts are scrambled, but it does occur to me that a bout of mental health would be interesting. Based on what I’ve learned in my psych classes, however, I suspect that I may have already careened off the spectrum of normal. “Nothing comes to mind.”
“You’re a strong thinker. When you choose to be, that is. I see something outstanding in your writing. There’s emotion. And much of what you have to say is significantly less indifferent than what I’m getting from you today. Maybe you’re not aware of it, but part of you seeps into your writing and flavors your work.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I reach down for my bag. This is enough. I don’t need someone else reminding me of how little I do.
“Have you written much before? I mean, besides papers for school. Creative writing? Short stories? Articles for a school paper?”
It was easy to see where this was going. Sure, I would become the next great novelist. Brilliant idea. I stand up and reach to the desk to steady myself. Tracey raises an eyebrow. “No, I haven’t written anything else. I don’t write anything else.” The door is only a few feet away. I can probably make it without retching. I turn slowly so as not to disrupt my precariously placated stomach.
“I think you should. Write, that is. It’s pretty clear that you have something to say.” She slides smoothly through the short space between us. “As someone who has the word psychology in your major, you should be able to appreciate the therapeutic nature of writing and expressing oneself. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing about yourself, breaking down social issues, analyzing political structures. Anything. It’s giving part of yourself so that you get something back.”
There’s hardly anything left in me to give, I scream silently. And whatever is still there is nothing anyone would want. Even I don’t want it.
I can feel the imagined yet eternal, unrelenting chokehold tighten its grip. I am damn sick of crying, and I’m certainly not going to fall apart in this office.
“Blythe, look at me.” Tracy’s voice is soft now. I know that sound of pity. She puts a hand on my arm, turning me gently to her. “You can make yourself into whoever you want to be. You’ve got a story that I don’t know about. I’m missing something, but I don’t need to know what. You know, and you’re in charge. This is your life.”
“No,” I say and finally meet her eyes. “It was my life.”
She frowns. “Take it back. You are twenty-one years old. Take it the hell back.”
I appreciate what she is trying to do. I really do. I just don’t have the fight in me. Not now, maybe not ever. I am not strong, but I will keep going for James. “Thank you. I’m sorry for having been rude. But I have tried. And now it’s time to stop trying.”