At the beginning of my junior year, I went to see my counselor, Mr. Kinkade, to go over my class schedule. On my way to his office, I thought about the first day of my freshman year when I met him. This time I felt much more confident. I walked in his office. He was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. He motioned for me to sit down across from him. He wore the same dark gray suit that he wore two years before. It sagged around his shoulders, and its color matched his hair. The piles of paper on his desk and the top of his file cabinet had grown. I glanced out the window to the left. The garden in the courtyard looked the same as it did my freshman year. He hung up the phone, picked up my file from his desk, and glanced at it. “You did very well last year,” he said, “except in driver education. You made the California Scholarship Federation. Congratulations.”
“I had trouble parallel parking,” I said, feeling embarrassed.
Everyone had told me that driver education was an easy A, but not for me. Every time I got behind the steering wheel I got nervous because I remembered the time our Carcachita was hit from behind by a drunk driver in Selma. None of us was hurt, but it scared me. If it had not been for Roberto and those driving lessons in the van behind the gas company, I would have done worse, and I would not have gotten my driver’s license.
“Don’t worry about it. Just don’t park next to my car,” Mr. Kinkade said, laughing. “The important thing is that you’re on the right track for college,” he added.
“I hear college is really hard,” I said, remembering how anxious I felt when Mrs. Taylor, my social studies teacher, told the class how difficult college was compared to high school. She reminded us whenever someone grumbled about homework or grades, which was at least once every class. Mr. Kinkade stared at me briefly, then looked out the window.
“It all depends,” he said. “If you’re well prepared in high school, you shouldn’t have trouble in college.”
“But what’s the difference?” I asked.
“Difference?” he responded, looking puzzled.
“What’s the difference between college and high school?”
Mr. Kinkade grinned, took off his glasses, leaned forward, and said, “Rather than my telling you, why don’t you visit one of our local colleges and find out for yourself? In a few weeks we’re taking California Scholarship Federation students by bus to Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo to visit the campus. I’ll sign you up for it.”
I was the first one on the bus the day of the field trip to Cal Poly. I sat toward the front with Ernie and Bob, two of my friends whom I had met in the Squires Club. On our way to Cal Poly we talked about classes and the dance coming up that Saturday night. As soon as they began discussing sports, I tuned out. I looked out the window. The highway snaked through green rolling hills past Nipomo, Arroyo Grande, and Pismo Beach until we reached San Luis Obispo. The bus went up a grade, onto the campus, and parked in front of the administration building. A tall, thin young man greeted us and gave us a walking tour, pointing out buildings and explaining different programs. He talked about majors, semesters, units, and many other things I did not understand. Maybe this is what my teacher meant when she said college was difficult, I thought. Surrounded by eucalyptus and pepper trees, the buildings were far apart and scattered throughout the campus. The air smelled fresh and sweet. I kept eyeing students who walked by, trying to see if they looked smart. They appeared to be like many of the older students at Santa Maria High School, but none looked like my friends from Bonetti Ranch or friends I made in other labor camps, and that made me feel uncomfortable.
In the afternoon we visited one of the dormitories that was far away from the administration building. It was a long concrete building with windows in every room. It looked like a fancy army barrack. We went into the lounge to look around and rest for a few minutes. I saw a student sitting on a light brown couch, reading. He had on a gray sweatshirt that read CAL POLY. I wondered if he felt lonely, like Roberto and I did when we lived alone. The student seemed annoyed by the noise we were making. He looked up, made a bad face, and left in a hurry, leaving one of his books behind on the couch. He was gone before I had a chance to tell him. I assumed it was a college book and wondered if I would be able to read it. Just as I was about to move toward the couch, I heard the guide say, “Time to head back.” Everyone followed him out the door, but I stayed behind and waited until everyone had left before picking it up. It was an American history textbook. I looked at the table of contents, turned the page, and started reading. “I can read this!” I exclaimed under my breath. Maybe college isn’t as hard as my teacher said it is, I thought. That evening at work I thought about our visit to Cal Poly. I imagined myself in college and living in the dorm, away from home. I felt excited and sad at the same time.