Page 9 of Don't Hate the Player
shineedancer: you sound like my dad
MUDD: hbd jake
[Team Unity is Queued for Battle]
CHAPTER THREE
Emilia, Thursday
MY CONSULTATION BINDERis, if I may say so myself, a thing of beauty. I’m talking table of contents, color coded, transcripts printed on extra-thick paper, and a fully signed list of teachers who have already agreed to write letters of recommendation for me. My mom made me promise to tell whichever college counselor I get that I plan on applying early admission so he or she has a better idea of what the numbers game will look like for me, because that was definitely something I was going to forget after putting all of this together for the past, oh,seven years.
I hope I get Mr. Grimes. He’s supposed to be the nice one. Also he’s new, so he hasn’t had two exhausting years of my mother hounding him about my college prospects, two years in which I’m sure he would grow to despise me as a spoiled overachiever whose parents will make his life a living hell unless I go straight to the Ivy League. Without that, there’s a chance he might like me. I actually love it when authority figures like me.
It helps that the guy going before me is Matt Pearson, one of Connor’s junior teammates on the varsity soccer team. He’s never been the brightest bulb in the chandelier. Don’t get me wrong; I like him a lot more than I like most of Connor’s hangers-on. Matt started out as kind of a prick, but the regulating mechanism of middle school reforged him into the kind of jock teddy bear who chooses kindness more often than not. I’m not sure if he does that because of some innate goodness or if he’s genuinely not smart enough to be mean. Either way, I don’t mind sitting with him at Connor’s lunch table.
Also, he playsGLO. I can’t actually connect with him on that front because showing a single iota of familiarity with the game would raise too many questions, but hearing him talk about it reminds me the gaming landscape is a normal place to be and not, as my parents assume, a Hieronymus Bosch painting full of deadbeats.
The door to the admissions suite opens up, and I look over to see Matt emerge with a short stack of papers in his hand and “I just saw a naked ghost” eyes.
“Whoa, dude, you okay? Did you get Grimes? Is he the worst? You can tell me if he sucks.”
Matt looks startled to see me sitting in the chair next to the door. He might have thought he was the last person in for advising since it’s almost time for the school day to end, but I had my reasons for booking my appointment this late.
“Hey, Emilia! Um, nah, I got Butler. She’s scary. Apparently, I’m really behind on this stuff? She gave me homework.”
“Homework from an advising session, that sucks.”
“I’m supposed to look up the schools on this list she gave me.” He waves the papers in his hand. I can’t get a good look at whatever he’s holding, but for Matt’s sake, I hope it’s a short list.
“Um, by the way,” Matt continues, “you know your mom’s in there, right?”
She iswhat? I specifically picked Thursday for my advisor meeting because I knew she had booster club before field hockey this afternoon. Come on, Matt, be wrong. You’re wrong so much; do it again, please. For me.
“Wait, are you sure? My mom? Mrs. Romero, Coach Romero, is in there right now?”
Matt looks back at the door like that’s going to help him clarify if the woman he saw in the office was in fact my own mother. “Pretty sure. She’s kinda hot, right?”
“You’re gross.”
“Everyone says it.”
“Everyone’s gross!”
Here lies another one of the downsides of having my mom be the field hockey coach at my school. Ever since she took over the job when I was in ninth grade, there’s always someone who thinks I need to know what they think about her. And what they think is that she’s a MILF. No, I didn’t develop any issues around that. Why would anyone ask me that? It’s just another way my mom dazzles the world with no effort and I have to live up to every day of my life.
“She’s with Grimes, so you probably got him, if that makes you feel any better. He looks cool.” Matt looks at the papers in his hand again. “Butler’s not cool.”
Poor baby. It’s not his fault his primary talents are kicking a ball and being sweet.
“You’re gonna be fine, Matt. I’m serious. There’s a website where you can compare your grades with target schools. I’ll text it to you tonight.”
“Thanks, Lia. Good luck in there.”
The admissions suite is one very big office chopped up with glass walls to create three clear boxes, like weird, little fish tanks that house frustrated adult mentor figures instead of blue tangs. When I walk in, I immediately see my mom in the tank on the left, chatting up a guy I assume is Mr. Grimes. On the desk in front of her is a black binder that is suspiciously identical to mine. If I had to guess, it’s also color coded and packed with fancy thick paper. She spots me before Grimes does and waves me in.
“Emilia! Come in, I want you to meet Louis Grimes.”
I should have expected this. Sure, it would have been nice to get a text or a call, but my mother’s strategy when it comes to my college process (and everything else in life) is to always stay two steps ahead of me.
