Quilt, Balloon, Avocado

I don’t want to assume anything yet, but this lady isn’t making things easy. 

“Carolina?” she looks up from her clipboard.

I sigh.

“It’s Carolina,” I call from the back row, switching to my Spanish accent, my voice muffled through the backpack I had heaved onto my desk. Kah-ro-lee-na.

“Que-row-lee-nah,” she nods, scanning the back until she finds me. Her quilt-like cardigan picks up some air as she starts to pace the classroom again. A balloon. She stops. The balloon deflates.

“And where are you from?” she smiles in my direction.

“Me? Here,” I reply, focused on the avocado I’m about to have for breakfast. I pull out a plastic knife from my bag as the forty-something (“you can call me Grace”) lets out an “oh!” as she continues down the list, taking roll (“so I get to know you!”). I roll my eyes.

“Wanna split?” I turn to Alice, sliding half of the avocado towards her, searching my bag for a spoon. Alice was my only friend in the class. And this entire school.

“Shh,” she says, as Grace starts to talk about the importance of college or standardized testing or the like.

“What? It’s not like she actually cares about us. I mean, she might care. But not really.”

“Just shut up, will you?” she hisses, taking the avocado.

I rest my head back down and stare at the half that’s balancing on my knee. Since when did it become a trend to smear it on toast and sell it at brunch places for twelve dollars? I wonder if Grace ate at those boujee places. I prop myself up. An established alumna of the school, Grace had volunteered to talk to us about applying for college. How considerate.

This lady’s cardigan quilt is going crazy. I wonder if it was ethically made. Or if some kids were exploited for it to land on a sale rack and into her closet. I need to get out.

Grace drones on while clicking through her PowerPoint, a slideshow comprised of graphs and pictures of her at “workshops that help minorities apply to college.” She glances up at Alice and me before continuing.

“See, I told you!” I nudge Alice. She ignores me. Guess the downside of attending a private high school on a scholarship is having to represent an entire ethnic group with one other person.

I want to break something. The avocado on my knee seems perfect for mashing. Guacamole. I imagine taking the back of a fork and mashing it. I think of a pink brain turned to mush.

“Hey!” Grace is at our side. Her frame blocks the window beside me. Startled, I look around to see everyone filling some paper out. “The back few pages might be hard to fill out; I was told you two fill everything out for your parents,” she says, handing us a packet.

         “Our parents are actually perfectly competent,” I reply. “My mom was an electrical engineer before becoming a teacher herself.” This was true. Just not in the United States.

“Oh, I didn’t know they were so educated!” Grace exclaims.

Someone raises their hand before I can respond, and Grace makes her escape.

“Why do you keep acting like this? She’s trying to help us,” Alice turns to me.

“It’s like playing limbo,” I say through clenched teeth. “How low can you go. Besides, they just want us to write about our diversity and how we’re living the American Dream just because this school is paying for us to go here. They don’t care about helping us. They just want to look good.” I slice my avocado into slivers. I look at the window and think of Grace’s balloon-quilt-cardigan. Balloons were like dreams, right? Up, up, up they go. Too bad gravity applies to everything else.

Grace clears her throat, smiling in our direction before starting her presentation back up.

I’ve had it. We’re just on the second floor. There’re bushes below. Honestly, it’s not like I’ll die. I’ll go feet first, too. I was already halfway through Dante’s seven circles of hell listening to her talk. Might as well commit and get a thrill out of it too.

         “What are you doing?” Alice says as I stand up and walk towards the window.

         “Nothing,” I say, opening the window. The class turns at the sound.

         “Caroline, what in the—” Grace squeaks. I look at her, and all I can think about is that stupid quilt balloon and my avocado. I jump.

Ana Hoppert