“The native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought…”
—HAMLET, ACT 3, SCENE 1
I’ve spread out the college brochures on Mick’s coffee table. Every one is plastered with photos of happy teenagers who have no trouble making decisions. It’s as if there are thirty faces smirking at me from the glossy sheets, all asking the same question: What’s wrong with you, Iris Wagner?
I have to decide which college I’m going to apply to for next September and what program I want to go into. I’ve got brochures from four colleges—one private, three public. I’ll have to pay tuition at the private college, but the classes are smaller and the school has a good reputation. One of the public colleges is on the metro line, so that’d make it easier to get to school for early classes. As for programs, I need to choose between Arts and Science, Arts or Science, Creative Arts or Social Science. My head hurts from trying to keep track of all the options.
Like Hamlet, I’m terrible at making decisions. I think it’s because I worry I’ll end up regretting whatever I decide. When I was little, I used to take forever to choose a chocolate bar or a flavor of ice cream. If I chose butterscotch, I’d wonder as soon as I took the first lick if maybe the double fudge would’ve tasted even better. I know a person is supposed to be able to make a decision and live with it, but that’s not how it works for me. I come close to making a decision, then change my mind, then wonder if the first decision would’ve been the better one.
I wish I could be more like Katie. I’ve never seen her hesitate when it comes to choosing chocolate bars or ice cream. Katie’s already been accepted into the Artistic Makeup program at Inter-Dec College.
Our guidance counselor, Ms. Odette, isn’t much help. Besides handing me a packet of brochures, she gave me an online aptitude test that showed I had a talent for languages and communication but that I was also good with numbers. “What about accounting, Iris?” she’d asked me, which made me want to strangle her. Me? An accountant? I don’t think so.
When I told Ms. Odette I want to be an actor, she said I should follow my heart. But in the next breath she advised me to be practical. “In this day and age, Iris, a woman needs to be independent and able to support herself.” I nodded my head, but all the while I was thinking that I didn’t want to end up like Ms. Odette. She might be independent and self-supporting, but she wears way too much perfume and has a permanently sour look on her face—as if she thinks life should have treated her better than it has.
Of course, Mom’s all for being practical. I still haven’t found a way to talk to her about my father; talking to her about school is easier. “I’m not saying you’re not talented,” she told me over dinner last night, “but in my opinion, acting is more a hobby than a career.”
“What about Meryl Streep?” I asked, knowing she’s Mom’s all-time favorite actor.
Mom sighed. “Meryl Streep is Meryl Streep,” she said, as if that explained everything. “How about a little more pasta?”
I try writing a list of pros and cons. That was Ms. Odette’s suggestion. But it doesn’t work. When I start with a list of pros and cons about the private college, both sides have the exact same number of points. Rather than helping me clarify my thoughts, the way Ms. Odette said it would, the list only makes me feel more distressed. I hate myself for being so indecisive!
William Shakespeare is sitting next to me on the couch. I wish he’d tell me what to do. I scratch the orange triangle over his nose and he makes a contented purr. Sometimes I wish I were a cat. Then my biggest decision would be whether to sit on the couch or by the window. Knowing me, I’d have trouble with that too.
“At least I didn’t have trouble choosing you,” I tell him. And then I remember the afternoon we got him and how Mick pointed out that William Shakespeare chose me. It’s a wonder, I think, that I was able to choose Mick. But then again, I didn’t have much choice about that either. Mick’s right: we were destined to be together.
But what college am I destined for? And what program? Why shouldn’t I follow my dream? Then again, what if I don’t make it as an actor? Most people don’t. What then? I feel dizzy from thinking so hard. Where is destiny now that I need it?
I am rereading the brochures—it must be the fifteenth time—when Mick comes in. “What’s for supper?” he calls out. “I could eat a horse.”
“I forgot all about supper. Sorry,” I add, not because I really am sorry (why do I have to be in charge of supper?) but because I don’t want to set Mick off. The negotiations with Nial’s mother haven’t been going well, and Mick’s been on edge. When I try asking him about it, figuring he’ll feel better if he talks about what’s bothering him, he shuts down like a department store on a Sunday night. “I don’t want to talk about it, Iris,” he says, and his dark eyes narrow as if he thinks I’m somehow part of the problem.
“I guess I’ll make an omelette,” Mick says. He doesn’t sound like he wants to.
“That’d be great.” I’m starting to like cooking—especially for Mick—but I don’t always feel like it. “I’m kind of stressed about the college applications. I need to get it all done by next week. Katie’s already finished.”
“Katie’s an idiot.”
I know Mick’s saying that because I told him how all Katie cares about is doing makeup and going clubbing. I’ve decided it’s okay if I complain about Katie but not okay when Mick does it. It’s one more thing I don’t say. I could keep a list of all the things I’ve stopped saying around Mick. That list would be longer than the pros and cons I was working on before.
Mick’s in the kitchen. I watch him crack six eggs into a plastic bowl, then whisk them together. I love his shoulders. He must feel me admiring him because he pauses as if he’s posing for a photo.
“I hate making big decisions.”
Mick turns away from the egg bowl. “It’s clear to me what you should do.”
“It is?” For the first time all afternoon, I feel my body begin to relax.
“Absolutely.” I love the certainty in Mick’s voice. If only I could be more like him. Confident, certain about things, in charge of my own life. Strong. “You should go to that private college you’ve been talking about. In Creative Arts.”
“Ms. Odette thinks I should be an accountant.”
“Ms. Odette should have her head examined.”
I laugh when Mick says that.
“If you’re determined, Joey, and if you put in the time to hone your craft—really hone it—then I know you’ll make it as an actor. In fact, I guarantee it.”
“You do?” I know Mick can’t really guarantee I’ll make it as an actor, but I also know he’s right about being determined and putting in the time to hone my craft. I’m so lucky I’ve got him to talk to. And that he believes in me. I don’t know how I’d manage without him. But I don’t want to think about that. I don’t ever plan—not ever—to be without Mick.
I recycle the other brochures, keeping only the one for the private college and the Creative Arts program. I’ll fill out the application form after we have Mick’s omelette. The whole apartment smells delicious.
I feel as light as a fairy in one of Shakespeare’s comedies. My decision is made. So what if I didn’t make it myself?