Chapter Seventeen Max
Chapter Seventeen
Max
“Your essay is flawless,” Dr. Goff commended.
“It’s one of the best I’ve ever read, application or otherwise.
I don’t think you need to touch it.” His stapled essay fluttered to the desk, landing next to another that was covered in red writing.
Ouch. He strained to read the name, but Dr. Goff straightened it into a stack and it slipped out of view.
A clear sign to keep his eyes on his own paper.
“Really?” Max shifted lower in the chair. He was still getting used to coming to the career center. Everything was decked out in school colors, down to the free pencils waiting in a cup by the door like the condoms at the student health center.
After he’d spoken with Tricia on Sunday to tell her he’d be heading home for spring break, he realized he needed to stop in at Dr. Goff’s, too. Mostly to see if he needed to stress about the scholarship while he was home, or if he could worry about something else instead.
Like his father. No one would tell him how bad things were, and Max had gotten so good at catastrophizing as of late that his mind wouldn’t be able to settle until he saw it for himself.
“Really.” Dr. Goff nodded. “And your track season is looking okay.”
Okay was generous. His times were still sub-PR, and while he didn’t subscribe to the harmful notion of needing to shave milliseconds with every race, he would have liked to be running faster than he was in freshman year.
But the team overall was ranked well, upper middle of the pack, and Coach was pleased for now.
“Let’s talk about your grades,” she continued.
Max swallowed a groan. “What about them?”
One of Dr. Goff’s silver-tinged eyebrows tipped upward. “You know I can see your grades, right?”
“Have they gotten any better since the last time I looked?” he asked wryly.
Her mouth pressed into a line, which Max took to mean no. He ran a hand over his hair. His mom would probably make him get a haircut while he was home.
“It’s frustrating.” He hooked a hand over the back of his neck and squeezed out some honesty. “I’m doing my best, but it doesn’t feel like enough.”
“Did you look into tutoring like I suggested?”
“That’s not for me.” This time, both of her brows went up, and he found himself continuing practically against his will. “I’m not morally opposed to it or anything. My little brother has dyslexia, and his tutors keep him afloat. It just. . . I don’t know. It always felt like cheating or something.”
“Tutors don’t just help you memorize the material, Max.” She dug around in her desk and produced a pamphlet. “They provide study methods you haven’t been exposed to before and help find what works best for you. ‘Teach a man to fish,’ that kind of thing.”
She hovered it over his essay.
“I’ll start after break,” he said, and she made a happy little noise as she dropped it on top of the others and smoothed them into a pile.
And he meant it. If this was his only shot at the scholarship, and therefore fulfilling his dad’s dreams, he would do whatever he needed to.
This way, when he saw his father in a few short days, Max could tell him the truth:
He was doing his very fucking best.
“Why wait?” Dr. Goff slid a paperclip in the shape of an airplane onto the stack. “They probably have some slots left today.”
“I have practice,” Max said. “Last one before break.”
“Are you heading home?”
He nodded, his chest squeezing. He still had evening practice, the four-hours-and-change drive home, but clearly his heart was already there.