Page 10 of Don't Hate the Player
“Mom! What are you doing here? I thought you had booster club.”
I know what she’s doing here. She knows what she’s doing here. The mice in the cafeteria kitchen know what she’s doing here.
“I bailed,” she says with a conspirator’s smile. “You know how those booster parents are. This is a much better use of our time.”
I learned a long time ago it’s a billion times easier to just give my mom what she wants. I could whine about taking too many AP classes, or I could shut up and take the tests. I could tell her I hate everything about field hockey, or I can practice for seven years straight and let her frame my varsity patches for the wall in her office. As long as she gets results, I’m free to handle the how. Mostly.
“That’s . . . great, Mom. Hi, Mr. Grimes. I’m guessing she’s already told you about my schools?”
Mr. Grimes doesn’t look like a “Mr. Grimes.” I was expecting a weird, tired-looking dude with a bald spot and dad glasses, but he’s young, with long brown hair pulled back in a man bun and a shiny beard that he clearly oils on the daily. I’m surprised the school lets him look as hip as he does. They probably wanted their new college advisor to look more accessible to the students, but he honestly looks like a drawing of White Jesus from a children’s illustrated Bible.
And Jesus said, let the little children manifest their latent anxiety disorders when they don’t get into NYU. Amen.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Romero.” He gestures to the chair next to my mom’s and—good lord—is he wearing a leather bracelet? “Your mom was just telling me about UPenn. Great school.”
Ah, she did beat me to it. I don’t think UPenn is a long shot, but if I had a choice I’d probably go to a different state for college. There’s only so much Pennsylvania a girl can take, and I’ve got a year and a half left in me, tops. My parents made it my number one choice on the strength of it being my dad’s alma mater.
“Right. UPenn.” I take the seat Grimes offers and smile up at my mom. I had hoped to get his opinion on what other schools he thought I might qualify for, but with her here, I can tell this entire conversation is going to be about green castles and free laundry. “Do you think it’s wor—”
“As I was saying, my husband is an alumnus, so we’re taking Emilia to visit with some of his old professors in the spring. Her grades are on par with the last five years’ accepted students list, her SATs are a little lower than their average, but we’re proactive in working on it.”
What’s it like, I wonder, to get a word in edgewise? I’ve given up on knowing. My SAT score is fine. I prep on the side when I can fit it in. Besides, for admissions it’s more useful to look at the median, not the average. See? I know how math works.
While I’m thinking about that particular layer of deception, Grimes is looking over the binder my mom brought. I have a sinking feeling he’s not going to get anywhere near mine, which is probably a good thing considering the colleges on my list aren’t something I’m ready to share with my mom.
“She’s a model student, that’s for sure. High grades, the right extracurriculars. I’d say she’s right on target for UPenn, but there’s obviously no promises.”
Sheis sitting right in front of you, but sure, talk to my mom instead of me. It’s only my future on the line here. Come on, Louis.
“Well, there’s my husband,” my mom repeats, as if Grimes missed the first time she name-dropped him, “and Emilia’s adding student government to her resume this year. She’s running for vice president with Penny Darwin.” She turns to smile at me, performing the proud mama act entirely for Grimes’s benefit. My mom is playing at something that I can’t put my finger on. She’s putting too much out there, acting overeager instead of exacting. I smile back at her. Better to play along.
“Oh, and she’s junior captain of the field hockey team. Emilia’s been playing since fifth grade,” Mom adds.
“Field hockey is perfect.” Grimes nods. “You know, my college roommate works in the athletics office at UPenn. He can get her on a preliminary recruitment list. If”—and for only the second time in this meeting, Grimes actually addresses me—“that’s something you would be interested in?”
“I—”
“Of course we’d be interested! Thank you so much, Louis.” My mom lowers her eyes and looks almost embarrassed to have brought it up. If Grimes believes this, he has an eggplant for a brain. “I was reluctant to reach out considering my conflict of interest; what do you think we should do going forward? Would your friend need a highlight reel or maybe want to organize a visit?”
There it is. My mom didn’t come to this meeting to impress Mr. Grimes or, god forbid, support me in my first advisor meeting. She’s here to talk Grimes in circles until he does what she can’t. It would look mega weird if the field hockey coach called up UPenn to advocate for her own daughter, but since parents aren’t supposed to be involved in advisor meetings, Grimes can bring me up with their coach without it looking nepotistic.
I’m mad at how smart she is sometimes. I mean I had to get it from somewhere, but still, damn.
“I’d be happy to ask him what other students have submitted. A reel would certainly give Emilia an edge. As for the other schools on this list, I’m sure we’ll have time to talk about them in our next meeting. I think you’ve laid wonderful groundwork for Emilia. I’d be surprised if she didn’t make an impression in early admissions.”
“That’s wonderful news,” my mom says, covering up my halfhearted attempt to ask about regular admission. With any luck, my mom will consider her job done after this meeting and not come to the next one, so I can actually ask Grimes the questions I have about college. I’ve lost this battle, though, so when Grimes stands up to shake my mom’s hand (and mine, which actually surprises me), I put on my happy face and let him usher both of us out. He seems like a nice guy, and by nice guy I mean an easy mark.
“So that was slick,” I say once the door to the advisors’ suite is closed behind my mom and me. My mom couldn’t look more pleased with herself if she had just pulled off a diamond heist. “Wait, let me figure it out. You . . . trawled his Facebook and found out his old roommate works for UPenn?”
“It’s called strategy,” she answers. “I hope you learned something from that.”
Because I know nothing of strategy. I’m just the girl who stays up all night memorizing five-person battle formations and competition videos from rivalGLOteams. Byunki has all of us looking over three of the teams we might run up against in the tournament. One of the teams I’m covering, Team Unity, doesn’t have any video online, though, so I only have to cover two. He told me not to worry about it; Unity doesn’t have a chance to make it into the finals.
But yeah, no, I’m dumb as hell. Never thought ahead a day in my life.
“Can I pick the soundtrack for my highlight reel? I’m thinking 100 gecs.”
“I have no idea what that is. Your father can edit the reel once we”—Mom reaches into her Trader Joe’s burlap tote bag and pulls out an expensive-looking DSLR that I’m sure is video capable and somehow written off as a business expense for my dad’s VPN company—“get enough footage from practices and games.”
