I sob even harder because that’s not true either.
“I’m so sorry, Olivia. Sometimes parents really suck. Ask me how I know this.”
When I finally can control my breathing again, I say, “How do you know this?”
“Olivia, I live with my grandmother. What do you think?” Mack leads me to Table #1, and we plop down side by side on the bench seat. “Our downward spiral started the day I finally had the guts to say no to them.”
“Huh?” I sniff and wipe my eyes.
“From the day I was born, my parents informed me I was going to go to Stanford University, my father’s alma mater. I was going to go to Stanford to be either a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer, my choice. And I toed the party line from preschool until senior year. Well, guess what? Just because you’re valedictorian of your class and student council president. Just because you stand in the outfield for four seasons of softball and pray that nobody hits the ball your way. Just because you give up any free time you might have to volunteer at places you don’t even care about. Just because you dot every i and cross every t, you STILL might not get into Stanford University. You know why? Because all the other applicants were valedictorians and student council presidents and played sports and were the lead in the school musical and volunteered for their local congressperson and cured cancer in their free time and never slept and lived off coffee and occasionally snuck into their parents’ medicine cabinet to take a Xanax or two because their anxiety was off the charts. And then the day comes when you get your rejection letter from Stanford, when life tells you that you aren’t the little sparkle pony your parents have always told you that you are. You’re not special. In fact, you’re not even average. You’re just … extra. But the time is already gone, and you can never get it back.”
Mack finally stops to take a long, ragged breath. She looks at me with a raw, deep hurt like I’ve never seen in her before.
“They lied.” Mack’s voice is tight. “They said Stanford was the gold medal. I spent my entire high school career completely miserable, and what do I have to show for it now? But it gets even better. Not only was I rejected by Stanford, I also got rejected by MIT and UC Berkeley and wait-listed at a bunch more top-notch schools. And my parents couldn’t just buy my way in like the one percent do. ‘But you got into ASU,’ my guidance counselor said after I cried in her office after my last rejection letter. That’s like…” Mack waves her hands around, trying to find a comparison.
“Skating in the corps for Olympians on Ice after being US Junior Pairs champions?”
“Yes! No. Okay, yes, but don’t tell Stuart that. So, I said I’d rather take a gap year than go to ASU. That I would work for my dad’s friend’s engineering firm and become fluent in Mandarin Chinese and work at a homeless shelter every weekend and prove to Stanford that I was good enough. That they were wrong.”
“And then you got pregnant?”
“Yes, but my heart wasn’t in any of the other stuff anyway. I had already quit my job and not made any forward movement on the other goals when my parents kicked me out. I’d only planned on staying with Granny for a few weeks until I could get another job. This job. Then I realized I was pregnant, and here we are.”
“Oh, wow.” I tip my head until it rests on Mack’s shoulder. “I’m glad you took this job.”
“Me too. It’s not—as my father would say—a career move, but I like it here. Scraping gum off the bottom of tables and cleaning toilets is a pain in my ass, but the rest of it isn’t so bad. I know eventually I’ll have to move on, but for right now, this is my home. And there’s no other place I’d rather be.”
Mack and I sit in silence, waiting for our worlds to stop spinning out of control and find balance again. For all of thirty seconds, that is.
“Okay, enough with the drama llamas.” Mack pushes me away from her. “Go change. We need to skate.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Mack and I come off the ice, sweaty and groaning.
“Thanks. I needed that,” Mack says as I fall onto the bench at Table #1, panting. “Want some water?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I slide off my skates and lie back on the bench. Sweat drips down the sides of my face, pooling in my ears. I’m about two seconds from dozing off when Mack lets out an impressive stream of profanity.
“Do I need to call nine-one-one?” I yell from the bench.
“Stu says to turn the TV to channel twelve.”
Thankfully, the rarely used TV monitor in the snack bar decides to cooperate with us. Mostly. Mack changes channels until we get a grainy, but audible, reception. The reporter is mid-story already, but I recognize my high school on the screen. My stomach clenches.
“The school was in lockdown for about thirty minutes earlier today while law enforcement agents contained the situation,” the woman on the screen says without any emotion. “Principal Warren Green insists the students were never in any danger, but that in light of other recent school shootings, going into lockdown is now the standard procedure. Principal Green declined our request for an on-camera interview, but sources say this man was involved in the verbal altercation which sent the school into lockdown.”
On the screen appears the mug shot of a white, middle-aged man in a polo shirt. He looks like the kind of dad you see at band concerts and National Honor Society inductions. Or the guy standing in front of you at Starbucks ordering a two-pump soy latte. Or the guy who waves at you when you rollerblade in front of his house at 8:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
“Randall Collins, age forty-four, was arrested shortly after police responded to the school’s intruder call,” the newscaster’s voice continues. “Sources tell us the lockdown was in response to an angry exchange by phone between Collins and administrators at the school.”
Collins. Collins. Collins. Jeremiah Collins? The kid who sits in front of me in English class? The only one who might—according to Erika—beat her for the valedictorian spot?
“Hey, I know that guy’s son,” I say, but Mack shushes me.
The newscaster appears back on the screen. “Collins, upset at a test score, was reportedly on his way to the school to disenroll his child. Official police reports say that Collins was arrested on school property for disorderly conduct after a confrontation with Principal Green and one of the school’s resource officers. Despite rumors, police report there was no weapon at the scene. That news wasn’t of much comfort to parents.…”
My throat closes up again as the scene changes to a mom running toward her basketball jersey–wearing son and grabbing him in a rib-crushing embrace.
“Hey, that’s Mr. Choi in the background,” Mack says.
He’s a little obscured, but you can see Mr. Choi grab Jonah’s arm, drag him across the parking lot, and push him into the passenger side of the BMW like they are avoiding the paparazzi. The on-scene newscaster interviews the basketball mom, but I watch the background scene instead. Inside the car, Mr. Choi cups his hand around the back of Jonah’s neck and pulls him in tight. Though Jonah’s forehead rests on his dad’s shoulder, I can see his back moving. Heaving. Sobbing.