Interviews, Take Three

What happened to "take two"? We do not speak of this "take two." It does not exist. I mean, what are you talking about?

Okay, fine. Take two was my Penn interview, in which my interviewer said, "I have to write a paragraph or two about you to give to the school, so what do you want to talk about that you haven't mentioned in your application?"

Quite literally.

It's almost as bad as McGill's major scholarship's essay prompt #3, namely, "Write a letter of recommendation about yourself in 3rd person."

Ginny is a good student. Ginny does not like talking in 3rd person. Ginny thinks this is enough fooling around.

So onwards to take three, my MIT interview. Courtesy of MIT's "please contact your interviewer before Dec. 10th if you are applying regular decision," or something along those lines, I had a nice surprise when my interviewer contacted me in mid-October.

But anyway. We met at Starbucks, and luckily it was not as awkward as Ariadne had described it, namely because there was this group next to us who was talking animatedly and thus did not really notice us. We talked while my interviewer took notes, and then I waited while he took multiple phone calls (one in some language that I was pretty sure was not English, and two from his daughter who I think was close to missing some sort of deadline for applying to med school and was panicking—also, Gretchen, you should've gotten my interviewer, you could've talked so much more about med school and stuff).

All good stuff. I mean, what could go wrong during an interview? (Cue lots of little kids running up and down the cupcake display, screaming in delight every 20 seconds. Yes, this really happened.)

I had also asked Yuma to meet me at Starbucks (some time after my interview), so when I was done I looked around for him, but he wasn't there yet. So I went downstairs, bought a cup of hot chocolate, and went upstairs again to see if I had somehow not seen him.

Now imagine interviewer guy staring at me oddly. And me awkwardly going downstairs again, where, thank goodness, I found Yuma coming up the stairs (apparently he had gotten lost while biking down some street I have never even heard of before).

Later on, we (mostly Yuma) discovered that another guy was up there being interviewed. By my (well, I guess he's not mine anymore) interviewer. What fun.

To make up for the week of weird (I use the term loosely) interviewing, Yuma and I sat outside Starbucks for an hour actively confusing Brian, who was asking for senior write-up help. Which, by the way, I have decided I am not going to write. But I do need to order the yearbook soon.

Hindsight Is A Spiteful Kid

The main problem with wanting to prop up your vanity (or just being over-eager in general) is, well, sometimes you wish you hadn't. Really. Not that, I, uh, have any experience in this field or anything. Uh-huh.

But I would like to take this opportunity to note that my ankle does not like me. I was walking from the dining counter to the kitchen counter when my left ankle decided to writhe in pain, and naturally I almost toppled over. Needless to say, it was not fun and resulted in me hobbling on the other leg for a long time (because I was afraid to see if my ankle was okay afterwards).

I have weird joint problems (as Tea nicely pointed out). That I will admit. This ankle thing could be related to my habit of sitting on my ankles, although it does not explain the relative lack of pain in my other ankle, unless I usually only sit on one ankle. I don't know—and I don't want to find out, because that would mean more ankle-sitting and possibly more pain.

Anyway. My mom and I went to Crumbs today, because two of my interviews to come (the early decision/action ones) will occur there. My mom's theory was that we should have a "mock interview" there and see how things go, since I am generally not good around strangers. Instead, the entire journey turned into a "What do you want to do in the future?" talk, but this time with a delicious apple pie cupcake, as opposed to the ordinary talks. My mom's idea of my future (and probably my dad's too, since they think remarkably alike) is that I have three choices: financial whatever, engineer, or doctor. (Okay, so I could have expanded upon the "financial whatever," but then it wouldn't rhyme.)

She is leaning towards doctor. Something about stability and lack of need for aggression.

We are going to Starbucks tomorrow (did you know I have never been to Starbucks, ever?) and figuring out what the second floor will mean for awkwardness in terms of interviews (Ariadne said it was pretty awkward since no one else was talking). I think I will get a hot chocolate tomorrow. Or whatever looks good. Any recommendations?

Also, in light of all the issues going on (primarily mine, but also everyone else's), I have decided that I need to take on a more optimistic, plan-oriented way of approaching things. Of course, I know it's not going to work out that way (I should know, the last few times I tried planning something always just happened), but I am setting some basic guidelines and then letting things roam. I have a December plan (if it ever will happen, that is). And plans are at least something to go by, when everything else is just so chaotic.

. . .

Allie's All About Apathy (part III)

"You are Rena," he said, without any charm. Charm was not needed for those who were desperate enough to see him. "Changed, no doubt. How is the family?"

"Good," I replied. "Everyone who is alive is good."

"You mean yourself?"

So he knew. It should not have been surprising—after all, Allison Saint-Cross knew everything—but a part of me still wished he had not known, that I would be able to bring some shock into his hardened composure. I took his outstretched hand and allowed him to guide me inside the house out of habit. I knew the house better than he did, I had in owned this place with my childhood dreams. But habits, too ingrained in the mind, were hard to break.

"I thought I saw him the other day," he continued. "In a silver robe so characteristically his style. I thought, for once, I was wrong."

The unspoken words stung. Allison was never wrong. It could not have been Ciel. Ciel was—he was—I stared into Allison's eyes. "He came to you last, he must have wanted something from you."

"If he did, he did not tell me."

"Liar! You know very well what he wanted, you probably even gave it to him!"

"No," Allison said. "I meant, he did not come to see me. Not on that day."

"But he said he would," I said. "He told me that was where he was going. And everyone saw him in town, on Bayon Street, and everyone knows that if he was on Bayon Street then he must be—"

"Fate is here too, why don't you ask him?"

He was angry now. He had to be. Allison never mentioned Fate unless he was upset—he always preferred to ignore Fate's existence, as much as possible. I took my hand from his and leaned against the wall. "Fate. Is that why? Because you think Fate has to do with this?"

My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn

About trying to figure out what I want anymore. The past few days has gotten me thinking, I suppose, and suddenly I'm tired of thinking. Instead, I want to write. Mindlessly, because heaven knows how much thinking I've been doing lately (especially since some of it concerns heaven).

. . .

"I don't really talk to the old people anymore," Nora told me over the phone.

I nodded, but she couldn't see anyway. I knew who she was talking about. JJ and Clover, and maybe even Stella, although she and Stella were never really close anyway. My most vivid memory of them was the time they fought over who I should follow. I went with Stella that time, and Nora had been mad at me for weeks.

"I've got my boyfriend," she went on to say. "That's all I need now."

Clover told me later that Nora was a "changed girl." I mentioned the boyfriend. Clover had scoffed and asked, "Which one?"

"It's more than I can say," I said. Nora had changed, but so had Clover. So had the city.

But that was later. Right then, all I said was, "I'll call you later, Nora. When I get the time."

Which I never did, rather unfortunately.

But that was all later.

. . .

I did not know her, although my mom did, and that was all that mattered these days. She swirled her coffee-flavoured bubbled tea, just as I sipped on my taro one, and for a moment I could not imagine why anyone would drink anything other than taro-flavoured bubble tea. That it was an acquired taste, even for me.

The small things. The God of Small Things.

"If you don't find a boyfriend before you're out of college," she was saying to my mom, "you'll be doomed to be single for the rest of your life."

"It can't be that bad," my mom said.

"Yes, it is, for the girls it is. In Canada, anyway. Everywhere you go, you see single ladies. Even the ugly guys get snatched up like candy."

I would not have described him as candy. Sunshine, maybe. Not candy. Candy was for other things, things boys had no right to.

Sunshine and skies and marbles and metal posts and oh, yes, the Small Things, they were his. Things I would not—could not let go, because everything else I had to.

. . .

The green I knew well. Too well. It was bitter. I hated it because it was bitter.

Almost as much as I hated pain, as much as I hated raw tomatoes without sugar because they were so unforgivingly sour despite their intentions.

"You're going to Harvard, aren't you?" The man my mom knew as well asked me. I imagined it in a Boston drawl, although he did not know Bostonians had a separate accent. As far as he was concerned, there were only two accents of English. Proper English, and improper English. Foreigner English.

Harvard was a sharp edge on the borders of my carefully constructed dream world. It was too real, too out of reach to be real. It was what everyone wanted but me. Or was it?

I hated pain, hated sourness and bitterness, because they were sharp, cutting, unforgiving of anything soft and surreal. By definition, I should have hated Harvard too. I couldn't.

It is far from love, though.

. . .

University of Toronto, however, is not love, but close. I would not have said it without buildings like those of Trinity, but there are so many of them that I can only, in my analogies, describe it as lust.

I had Brent as an excuse for McGill, and buildings and grounds and pure beauty as excuses for the others. They were not the "legitimate" reasons, no. What about their research facilities? What about their teachers? What about their policies? What about their affordability?

The "proper" reasons. They were the ones that did not matter, it seemed.

University of Toronto was, for my purposes, anyway, just as good as Harvard. As one of the best schools (for the most part) in Canada, it had everything any other school could offer.

So then came the trivial reasons.

What is the campus like? Is it large? Urban? Can I get intoxicated in its buzzing aura?

How is the reputation?

What will the others say? Those back home?

Small Things. How could I forget?

. . .

We stood under the blaring white lights, fixated on even more flashing lights. The scene was oddly familiar. Like ghosts that came back to haunt old roosts. Like déjà vu, although technically the expression is missing a verb.

Clover is to one side. Sandy and Carren on the other end. We lift up our iPads, waving them furiously around. Plants vs. Zombies. It is nighttime. No more sunflowers. The mushrooms will have to do. How many mines can you plant? What about the big walnuts? Spikes? You can only choose six.

We left to watch Despicable Me (not The Sorcerer's Apprentice, because "those movies you can watch on Tuesdays, for half price"). It had me laughing and crying, hiding my tears in the darkness. The 3D glasses over my own was dizzying, but it was worth it. I should have brought a water bottle.

I thought I heard Tea there, and Bryant, and Tybalt, but not the Egg. I thought about him when I mentioned that Ariadne had an iPad. He was definitely there.

. . .

No, I would rather not have a smoothie, I thought. I hate smoothies. I don't know why.

"I'd like a peach and strawberry smoothie, please," I told the person behind the counter. She scooped the fruit into a cup, added a dollop of yoghurt, and put them in the blender. With apple juice.

I now knew why I hated smoothies. Maybe. I hate apple juice. I only like two fruits anyway. Peaches and strawberries.

I took the smoothie. "And a chocolate ice cream, please? In a cup."

The ice cream was for another friend of my mom's. I just took the smoothie. Peach and strawberry and yoghurt and apple juice.

Not taro.

. . .

The Apple reminds me of Möhre's hair, bright, blood red. We passed by the Apple every time. Commented on it. Said we'd go there.

We did.

They don't sell apples. They sell candied apples, and apple candy, and apple bread, but mostly they sold pies. Apple crumble pies and traditional pies and cherry and blueberry pies. Strawberry pies.

We took the maple apple pie. Maple, laughable. We were leaving and we took the one thing that could tie us back.

I had never tasted a maple apple pie before. It tastes just like any other pie. Better crust, I suppose. The Apple crust.

Red as the bloody mountain sunset red. Möhre's hair.

. . .

She did not hear anything he said, except that he loved her, but not anymore. Rhett loved her. Waited out for her. So afraid of being hurt that he destroyed himself. But it was Scarlett he dealt with. Perhaps he had reason. Ashley was attractive. Well-bred.

Created a suit, and he fit the model.

Ashley and his sunshine hair. His stormy-colored eyes, although he would never be stormy. He was too calm, too well-bred for that.

A suit.

After all, tomorrow was another day. I may not be here anymore, I once said. He was a suit.

Suits have parts. Coats. Lapels. Pants. Shirts. Fake shirts, in Johnny's case. Ties. Maybe a hat.

Big, intangible, but with parts. Small Things. But it ends there.

. . .

I never did call Nora. Later.

. . .

Rover was fine. "What's her name?" I asked. "Lavender," she said, tugging on the leash. "L-A-V-E-N-D-E-R."

I went back to Luke and told him of my findings. We now knew all the names of the dogs.

I wonder what it would be like if I had known Luke in Paperclip. He was in my grade. Home-schooled, though. Would he know me as me? Would he have some sort of preconception? How would I have reacted, seeing someone I knew? Silly me. I might not have known him.

He might not have been with Rover if he went to Paperclip.

Never question Fate, that's what Allison always says. Fate is a grand master. Allison is his queen. It makes Prescott a king. Dark or light? I'm tempted to say light. But he loves the dark queen.

Never tempt Fate. That's another thing Allison would say.

Now Or Never

I don't believe in fairy tales, too cynical . . . I'm not gonna live forever, said I'm not gonna live forever—gotta make it now or never.—Forever or Never, Cinema Bizarre

Matt and I decided upon a project where we would interview various period 7 classes (because that was when we had stat, and when we could be around the school interviewing people in other classes) and ask them about their opinions on the increase of various department budgets. So we tried to follow a statistical approach, and randomly chose five classes out of every group (we had separated them by AP/honors, A-, and B-levels). This process was much flawed by the senior interns, whom I have not talked about extensively yet but I may get to in the future.

Anyway, for our AP/honors classes, we had chosen notoriously senior-infested classes such as AP environmental and AP Spanish. This posed a problem, because we needed at least six people from each class, so Matt said we could just, uh, choose another class that fitted our needs. It was not random, but, hey, it was the best we could do without physically tracking down the seniors in their intern positions.

(Later on, I asked Reese how many people were in his AP Spanish class, and he said two, including him. So Spanish was definitely out.)

Also, speaking of internships, the Paperclip Job Shadow "event" is coming up soon, and apparently my name was called on Friday, but I did not hear because I was in the hallway at the time (trying to navigate from one end of the school to the other in under five minutes). So I was informed this morning that there would be a workshop for job shadow participants during lunch, which I promptly forgot (until lunch was almost over, and I was in the library with Argon, who informed me that he wrote his elemental symbol on his tests for his chem class now). Luckily, I was able to schedule another appointment during the first half of period 7 to make it up. And, hopefully, I won't forget the second workshop (résumé writing, what fun) tomorrow.

(Clara and Ariadne and I looked over some of those mock-résumés, and they were ridiculous. Varsity basketball captain, founder of the Ultimate Frisbee club, various trips around the world to volunteer—with everything funded by scholarship money, high honors, 3.8/4.0 GPAs, NHS, various other academic clubs and activities, various other community service clubs and activities. Ridiculous, I say. I thought mock-résumés were supposed to be average content-wise so we could feel good about ourselves and be confident with the résumés we came up with.)

Today was also my English class' designated reading period (for the week). I brought in Gone with the Wind, as I mentioned yesterday, and this book has well over 1000 pages. We had around 45 minutes to read, and after those 45 minutes, I accomplished 26 pages. Only 1000 or so pages more to go. Yippee. (Can you believe "yippee" is a word, but "yay" is not, according to spellcheck?)

Non sequitur (a word I learned from Reese earlier today, as we were discussing his Spanish class, Spanish in general, how little I know of the Spanish language, and typing Spanish using a Spanish keyboard), I was bored yesterday, so I typed "forever" in my Google search bar. Then I decided to add "or never" to it, and searched the result, and came up with Cinema Bizarre's song, Forever or Never, which I found fascinating. So I searched the band up, and discovered the Eurovision contest, and last year's winner, who is absolutely the most adorable violinist I have ever seen (the most adorable human being I reserve for someone else who happens to not be a violinist).

I spent over two hours on various Eurovision finalist songs, including this Ukraine one, which is bizarre (the refrain is apparently "I want to see Russia goodbye"?), to put it mildly, and this Russian one, which features a girl popping out of a piano.

I feel it everyday, it's all the same. It brings me down all the time but I'm the one to blame.—Over and Over, Three Days Grace

MID—
Scarlett: 0
Rhett: 0.5