What I Wore to Save the World (3 page)

Mom sighed her heaviest, most exasperated mom-sigh and leaned back against the edge of the kitchen island. “If that's the case, then perhaps you should let me in on what you've been thinking. Then I can be sick of it too. Because right now, what I'm sick of is
not
knowing what you're thinking about college!”

Okay, that logic officially made my head hurt. But she wasn't finished.

“A lot of arrangements have to be made in preparation for your higher education, Morgan. A lot of planning and juggling of finances and all kinds of considerations that have to be, you know—”

“Considered?” I deadpanned. It was a dangerous moment to yank Mom's chain, but I couldn't resist.

“Right,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “My point is, it's not just about you.”

“Mom, I hate to tell you this.”

She started to say something else, then stopped. “What?”

“Me choosing a college? Me choosing a career? Me choosing what I want to do with my life?”

“Yes?”

“It
is
just about me.”

I liked the sound of that as soon as I'd said it, so I said it again. “It's about
me
. It really is.”

 

 

 

mom backed off after that little piece of insubordination, but she made me repeat the whole drill when my dad got home from work. With him I took a different approach.

“It's just that I don't know what I want to do, career wise,” I said, little-lost-girl style. That was usually the best strategy with him. “So I don't know what I want to study. And so I don't really have any, you know, whatayacallems—”

“Criteria,” my mom threw in, before I could think of the word.

“ ‘ Cry teary
ahhh!
' That is the saddest word ever!” My sister, Tammy, was lying on her belly on the rug, scribbling into a composition notebook. She was so worried that she'd forget how to spell over the summer that she'd decided to make her own book of spelling words to keep her sharp as a tack until September. For a kid who'd just finished second grade, she was showing a lot more concern for her academic future than I was showing for mine. “How do you spell that sad, sad word?”

“With a C,” my mom answered. “Now hush, Tammy, we're talking.”

“So like, there's no way to pick,” I went on, to my dad. “It just seems so random.”

My dad nodded and said nothing. It was hard to tell if he was listening.

“There's no shame in getting a liberal arts degree,” Mom offered.

“Oh my God, there so is,” I countered. “Liberal arts means you have no clue.”

“How about a gap year, then?” Mom was not going to give up. “If you can find something constructive to do, of course.”

“Please! Gap year means you
really
have no clue.”

Dad got up from the sofa and walked the full length of our oversized, no privacy, open-plan house. He marched across the living area to the dining area to the kitchen area and then to the refrigerator. He got himself a Diet Coke and popped it open. He even thought to pick up a coaster. Then he walked all the way back and sat back down on the sofa.

“Well, at least we all agree on something,” Dad announced.

“What?” my mom and I said at the same time.

“You, Morgan,” he said, raising the can to his lips, “have no clue.”

 

 

 

the two of them had one of their late-night kitchen conversations that night, the kind I could hear from my room without being able to make out any of the actual words. Like two anxious bees, buzzing and buzzing until well after midnight.

The buzzing must have been about me, because by ten o'clock the next morning my mom had booked an emergency appointment with Mr. Cornelius Phineas, private college counselor.

He was
very
expensive, my mom explained proudly after she'd hung up, and came highly recommended by her snootiest friends. As soon as she heard his name Tammy immediately added “Phineas” to her book of summer spelling words.

“ ‘ Phineas.' What does it mean?” she asked as she carefully wrote it in the PH section, on a page that already contained “phone” and “phyllo dough”—two of my mom's phavorite accessories, heh heh.

“It's an ancient word meaning ‘bad-smelling person who kidnaps obnoxious smarty-pants girls and gives them nothing but dictionaries to eat, forever,'” I explained with a sneer.

Mission accomplished.

Of course, what it really meant was one more person prying into my business and telling me what to do with my life, but I didn't say that to Tammy.

 

 

 

mr. phineas was one of those older men who hadn't gotten the memo about how balding guys should embrace the aging rock star look and keep their hair buzzed really short.

His look was more like aging mad scientist. The top of his head was a shiny dome of pink scalp. Halfway down, a fringe of long gray frizz erupted, sticking out at weird angles and drifting over his collar. And there were serious ear hair issues. Guh-ross, as Sarah would say.

“What's Morgan?” was his first question.

Huh?
I thought. Then I wondered if it was one of those
Inside the Actors Studio
questions, like, “If Morgan were a tree, what tree would Morgan be? If Morgan were a type of pasta, what type of pasta would Morgan be?”

“I don't get it,” I confessed. “Do you mean, like, what color is my parachute or something?”

“Who said anything about a parachute?” Now he looked as puzzled as I was. “A moment ago you said, ‘It's Morgan.'
What's
Morgan?”

“My
name's
Morgan,” I said, slouching in my chair. “You called me Morganne.”

And he had. My mom had tried to weasel her way into the appointment, but Mr. Phineas had blocked her at the office door. “It would be best for Morganne and I to speak privately,” he'd said firmly while closing the door in her face.
Whoosh.
Two points for Mr. Ear Hair.

Of course, in the faery world everybody called me Morganne. It was the mythical goddess-version of my name. But normal humans did it all the time too, just by mistake.

“It should be Morganne, but it's not,” I explained. “Personally I always thought Morgan was a boy's name. You can take it up with my mom when she comes back.”

“Morgan, of course! I do apologize.” He shuffled the papers around on his desk. “At my age it's far too easy to get things mixed up. I've met so very many people in my lifetime, you see. And I seem to be meeting new ones all the time!”

Then he leaned back in his swivel chair and folded his fingers into the
here is the church, here is the steeple
formation. “Now, before we begin, is there anything you'd like to tell me about these rather—let's call them ‘unfortunate'—documents?” My high school transcript was spread out in front of him, on the dark wood surface of his large antique desk.

“I'm an underachiever,” I explained helpfully.

“Wonderful! I'm thrilled to hear it.” Mr. Phineas smiled warmly. “I would hate to think these lackluster report cards are an accurate reflection of your abilities. Well! Now that we know
who
you are, and
what
you are capable of, the only question that really matters is: What is it that interests
you
?”

“If I knew
that
—”

But he kept talking, in a voice that was both calm and strangely hypnotic. “What puzzle would you most love to solve? What subject do you return to again and again—not because you have to for school, or because some parent or teacher or friend thinks you should, but because you simply can't stay away from it?”

“Mythology.” The word slipped out of my mouth without me even planning to say it.

He leaned forward, suddenly interested. “Really? I so rarely hear that from today's students. Which branch of mythology do you prefer? The tales of White Buffalo Woman, from Native American lore? The German
Nibelungenlied
? The Icelandic saga of Snorri Sturluson? There are some positively hair-raising tales from ancient China—”

“I guess I'm mostly interested in Irish myths. You know, faeries and stuff.” I thought of all the adventures I'd had last summer, in Ireland, where I'd first met Colin. And more recently, when I had to do some wee-folk matchmaking to help get Colin unenchanted in time for the junior prom. “And leprechauns, of course. And all those ancient goddesses and warrior-dude types.”

Morganne, the half-goddess daughter of a faery mother and a mortal father . . .
According to legend, it was the Queen of Mean, nasty Queen Titania herself, who was the source of my magical mojo. Luckily for me, the faery-human booty call that created my half-goddess DNA had taken place many millennia ago, where I didn't have to think about it. I mean, gag. I didn't even like seeing my parents kiss, and they were both human.

Mr. Phineas lifted his feet and did a slow 360 in his swivel chair, interlacing his fingers and muttering as he twirled. “Fascinating . . . Irish myths . . . faeries and leprechauns and ancient ‘warrior-dudes' . . .”

When he faced front again he stopped and pounded the desk in enthusiasm. “Brainstorm! Have you considered Ox ford University? In England?”

As soon as he said “in England,” I perked up. England wasn't Ireland, but it was a whole lot closer than Connecticut.

“Not really.” I tried to remember anything I knew about Oxford, and came up blank. “Is it hard to get into?”

“Quite competitive, in fact! But for someone of your unique qualifications, it should be possible. And it would be ever so much closer to your boyfriend.”

Wait—had my mother coached this guy in advance? I scooted to the edge of my chair and looked him in the eye. “Why did you just say that? About my boyfriend?”

“You have a boyfriend?” he murmured innocently, staring at his fingers. “How nice. Is he applying for colleges too?”

Okay, my weirdo radar was starting to bleep. In the past I'd sometimes had this same feeling when an encounter with the faery realm was about to happen. But other times it just meant that I was talking to a weirdo. I was pretty sure this was one of those times.

“You just said,” I replied slowly, “that Oxford was a lot closer to my boyfriend.”

Mr. Phineas unfolded his hands and looked at me quizzically.

“If I'm not mistaken, Morgan, you and I have just met. And our conversation has consisted solely of a discussion of your professional and educational aspirations.” He leaned forward until his chair squeaked for mercy. “So how would I know if you have a boyfriend?”

We sat there, stymied. Or at least I was. He just looked at me calmly, with his big watery brown eyes. I had the sense that he was trying not to laugh. It was annoying, frankly.

After a moment, he sat back and resumed our meeting as if nothing freaky had just happened.

“All right then! I have your transcripts here, and I am quite familiar with the admissions requirements at Oxford. I have some personal contacts there, in fact. Let me review the situation, and I will send you my specific recommendations as to how to proceed.”

He reached inside one of the file drawers of his desk and pulled out a large white envelope with an emblem printed on it—a circle containing a picture of a heavy book, surrounded by three crowns. The words UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD ran around the edge of the circle in capital letters.

“Here's some background information, which you might find of interest.” He slid the envelope across the desk to me. “Do you think you would be capable of writing a particularly strong application essay? It would have to explain your special interest in Irish mythology in some detail.”

“Oh my God, yes!” I exclaimed without thinking.

“Excellent.” He rose from his desk and escorted me to the door. For the first time I could see that he was wearing strange, goofy-looking pants, which ended at the knee.

“They're called breeches,” he said, reading my mind. “Much more practical in this hot weather than trousers.”

“I bet,” I said, while thinking,
Eww, freak.

“The essay will be key. Because, with these grades . . .” He held the door open for me and smiled. “Frankly, Mor gan, if you want to get into Oxford, your essay is going to have to
kick ass.
”

three

“oxford? oxford university? ”

My parents were staring at me with the most open-mouthed,
what-the-fek
expressions imaginable. Which was gross, because we were in the middle of eating dinner and their mouths were both full of half-chewed vegetable lasagna.

Since the dining table had been turned into college application central, my family now ate dinner on trays in the living room. TV trays, my mom called them. If she'd let us watch TV during dinner this might have made sense.

“Are you sure that's what he said?” My mother put down her fork and reached over to feel my forehead. What else but a sudden case of malaria could explain this bizarre delusion about my own academic prospects?

“I feel fine.” I batted her hand away. Tammy took advantage of the sudden distraction to steal a buttered roll from my tray.

“I knew this counselor guy must be a rip-off.” Dad held the TV remote like he was itching to turn it on, but that would be the start of a whole other argument.

“Isn't there another college called Oxford?” Mom carefully put down her tray. “Oxford Community College, perhaps? There must be! I'm almost positive there's a town called Oxford in Connecticut somewhere.” She got up and speed-walked back to the kitchen, bypassing the piles of “safety school” literature and diving straight into the “loser school” brochures. These were stacked precariously on the countertop and weighed down with a large rock, which Tammy had hand-painted in kindergarten and was insanely proud of.