“But—we graduate in, like, six weeks. You’ll be eighteen in three months. How can you not—”

“Sean,” I said, hard. “I am the one aging out. I have thought about it; it’s all I ever think about, every minute of every day for the past ten years, but no amount of thinking will change the fact that it’s happening—this is how it happens. I’ve done what I can to make it easier, and now I just have to let the clock run out, so please can you let me, for just this one afternoon, think about how happy I am for my friends? How happy I am for me. That I have a job I love that I might be able to keep if I can find another one to support it? Please.”

“There has to be another—”

“Okay, now I’m begging you. Stop.” I kissed him goodbye, and he walked down the road, and home.

—

Back in the kitchen Francine sat with Terry Johnson on her lap at the table, a new habit since Easter. “Everything okay?”

I sat down. “I get impatient with people,” I said.

“Do you? I haven’t seen a lot of that.”

“I did just now.”

“Well.”

“I will never understand why people think they know my life better than I do. I get tired of explaining things over and over.”

She nodded.

“Am I stupid?”

“Of course you’re not.”

“I don’t know what else I can do. I’ve tried so hard to do everything right. I move forward constantly; it’s all I do.”

“I know.”

“I’m not lazy; I don’t just sit around waiting for the world to be good to me, I don’t depend on anyone else, I have to take care of myself; I know that.” My eyes were burning. “What was I thinking? I can’t take this job.” I sat at the table, head in my hands. I felt Francine sit beside me.

“Yes, you can! You love it; you have to take it.”

“I can’t be in two places at once. The ferry is too expensive to be commuting every day.”

“Then stay. Stay here.”

“Francine, come on.” Terry Johnson jumped off her lap and clicked across the linoleum floor to ask for a treat. “He needs his nails trimmed,” I said. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Muiriel. Do you want to go to school?”

I pulled Terry Johnson up on my lap. He growled.

“I have five hundred dollars in a checking account and a part-time job with no benefits. I have no insurance, no credit, no permanent address, no car, and a phone you pay for with the money the state gives you, which ends the moment I turn eighteen.”

“That’s not an answer. Are there things you think you want to do for work that might need a college degree?”