Page 65 of It Couldn't Be You
“Really?” he said, surprised. “What are you going to study? Journalism?”
“Business,” I said matter of factly.
“Wait, what?” His voice went from surprised to appalled. “Why?”
“It just makes sense for my future. It’d fit most jobs, you know. I know Katie is majoring in business. My dad runs his own business, so I feel like I kind of know it…” As I answered, I realized how lacking my reasoning was.
If I were honest and not stumbling around the truth, it was because Katie was studying business, I was afraid a real journalism professor would roll his eyes at me and tell me to change majors…and Katie was studying business.
Options first and last made me feel really comfortable knowing Katie and I could go to the same school, do our homework together, and I could just follow her to every class and all over campus. Like a high school do-over with higher stakes.
“Didn’t you hate math? You know business degrees require a ton of math, right?” Gabe asked as if some college major expert after one semester in school.
“Katie could help me.” I shrugged as if this conversation wasn’t deeply serious to me.
“Em, she can’t take the tests for you.”
I looked at my hands. “I just want…”
“Well, what do you want to do after school? With this business degree?” Gabe’s entire body was turned in his seat to face me now. He was leaning in toward me, which would usually thrill me. Instead, I was avoiding eye contact.
I had successfully put off thinking beyond college for months. I could write if I wanted with a business degree, like marketing or something. Or I could open a candy shop or something. I hadn’t decided yet. I thought college could help me decide.
“I don’t know. I thought college could help me decide.” I spoke down toward the blanket on my lap.
“Sure, that works. But what do you like to do? What are you good at?” He was bending his head near to mine, trying to look into my eyes.
“I’m not that good at anything.” I kept looking down.
“That’s bull. You know you’re good at writing. You run the school newspaper. You’ve won essay contests. You’re best friends with your English teacher.”
“I’m best friends with Katie,” I said defensively.
“But that doesn't mean you’re good at what she’s good at!” He was getting frustrated with me, and it was making me frustrated with him, and myself.
“You don’t get to decide things for me, you know,” I said, finally looking up at him. “I’m eighteen years old. I can choose my own major.”
“That’s fine, Em. You’re the only one who has to take the classes you enroll in for four years. The one who will take those tests and make those presentations. You’re the one who will miss out on writing classes, English clubs, and meeting people who get all of that passion in you.” He gestured toward my heart when he said that. Knowing better than most the passion and creativity I had living in my heart. “No one has to live with your choices but you.”
“I’m just trying to do what’s right!” I almost shouted, scooting to the edge of my seat like I might just get up. I saw Katie glance over to us. I dropped the blanket to the ground.
“What box are you trying to fit into, Emma?” he said, his voice deep.
“I don’t think anyone wants me to fit into any box.” My knees were knocking into his as we leaned out of our chairs toward each other.
“You’re right,” he said. He was thoughtful for a moment. And I’ve never forgotten what he said next, “No one has ever tried to make you fit into any box, except you.”
“That’s not it,” I said weakly.
I felt exposed, like he’d walked in on me changing or caught me going through his phone or something. What made him think that? And even worse, how did he know? It wasn’t necessarily me trying to fit into what I thought anyone wanted from me, but it was me trying to fit into whatever felt less scary, less demanding, or safest. What box could I hide away in? Or could squeeze Katie and my mom in there with me? Or came with instructions?
Even that English teacher, who was my “best friend,” as Gabriel said, was the reason I felt safe running that newspaper. I hadn’t even submitted my essay for the contest. The teacher had. But that teacher was staying in Sweet River, and I wasn’t.
“Emma,” Gabriel said kindly, waking me from my thoughts. He interlaced his fingers with mine loosely like a caring friend, I knew, but my heart raced anyway. “I just want you to do whatever makes you happy. What school would you be happiest at? Which school gets you the most excited to attend? What major has the coolest classes you can’t wait to take? Which assignments get you buzzing—and make you happy. That’s all.” What he was saying was decision making 101, but I felt what he said like a dose of strong medicine.
“If business makes you happy, you’d probably be great at it. If that’s what you really want, you should do it. Business majors are really cool. I mean, Katie is studying it, and I’m ecstatic for her. I have friends who are doing really cool stuff in their classes. I think I was just surprised. You know, I just thought you wanted to write. That’s all. I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry if I came across pushy.”
“You’ve never been pushy a day in your life, Gabe,” I joked softly, not moving a muscle from our two bodies turned toward each other like a funny little heart, knees on knees, hands in hands.
