“You know, Columbia is big and important and lovely. . . .” She waves her hand a bit in the air as if looking for the right word. “But it’s also just thirty-six acres. That’s all the space it occupies, in the grand scheme of things. Thirty-six acres in the world. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“I think I do.” I Smile.

I emphatically do not know.

“Thank you for your time, Donielle. I appreciate it.”

With that, she turns to walk away, leaving me to wonder only one thing.

What the hell just happened?

I ride the train home, barely paying attention to the podcast Ming recommended.

You’ll end up exactly where you’re supposed to be.

She might as well have told me that I smell like Trump University’s annex. This was bad. An upside of being on the debate team is that you develop self-awareness of your oratory performance. The judges’ faces might remain stoic, but you can generally tell when a point lands or when the audience is collectively shaking its head in disagreement. Donielle might have been polite, but this was, by all accounts, really bad.

Where did I go wrong?

I need to go online and check the college boards for exactly how much sway an underwhelming interview has on your overall profile.

I need to send an email to Mr. Vu and beg him to find me another local Columbia alum to interview with as soon as possible.

I need Dad to be fully passed out in front of some international soccer game because I don’t think I can handle a “So, how did it go?” conversation right now.

I exit the subway and walk to the Wyatt. I’ve been to enough nice buildings around the city to know that our lobby is fairly unimpressive by comparison. There are no fluffy couches, artificial fireplaces, or impossibly high ceilings like in Ming’s building. The Wyatt’s ground floor is clean, well lit, with the left wall comprised of three rows of brass mailboxes that Dad polishes once a month.

“Jeez,” I hear through my headphones as I approach our doorstep. “What happened to you?”

Of course Corinne Troy is sitting outside my apartment. As if this day couldn’t get any worse.

“I’ve never seen you not smiling,” she notes, closing her binder and capping a yellow highlighter.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk,” Corinne says, gathering her study materials.

“Evening dog walks are extra.” I sigh, cracking my back. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be up to—”

“Palm Tree has been walked, peed out, fed, and is in a pillow fort on my bed right now, thank you very much.” She next pulls out a phone and swiftly begins to tap and swipe.