Free An Off Year by Claire Zulkey

made special breakfasts for us while we were all on break. Of course I wasn’t really on Christmas break, but I was happy to enjoy the benefits of Dad’s and Josh’s. I wandered downstairs in my sweatpants and T-shirt and found the table set, with the dreaded college guide on my plate. Cute.
    â€œWhat is this?” I asked. “Where are my waffles?”
    â€œThis is a trap,” Dad said, talking above the radio set to NPR, which he always listened to too loudly. “To get you to look at schools again. You need to at least start thinking about what’s going to happen this summer.”
    â€œThis summer,” I said, “it’s going to be hot. Perhaps a thunderstorm or two.”
    â€œYou’re going back to school,” he said, pointing his spatula at me. “We just have to face facts and get to it, unless you want to have a big fight over it.”
    â€œDon’t point that thing at me,” I said. He poked me with it instead and put down a plate of waffles with whipped cream and strawberries.
    â€œEnjoy!”
    I sat down and flipped through the book while I ate my fancy waffles. The kitchen had seemed so bright and clean and happy and welcoming, especially the sunshine bouncing off the fresh snow in the yard, but it was all a horrible mirage.
    These college guides are supposed to help you make an educated decision about what schools you are interested in based on several factors, such as size, location, and academic strengths and weaknesses. But in reality everybody just reads them to find out how the food is or what the party scene is like. I read a description of one school that called the town it was located in “One of the Seven Gates of Hell.” If that’s not intriguing, I don’t know what is.
    My vision began to blur as I stared at the book. It described colleges in the most boring way possible:
    The “Christian Path” is considered an essential component of the university’s curriculum. . . .
    Too religious. I hadn’t been in a church since the last time my mom pulled me into one in Europe to look at the frescoes.
    Inherently, the student body is issue-oriented. Students spend a good deal of time in the library. It’s also joked that each professor believes that you’re majoring in his or her subject. Approximately 70 percent of each graduating class moves into the job market after matriculation. . . . Too boring. And with lame jokes.
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    There are no core requirements: students are encouraged to create their own majors, with mandatory enrollment in at least four areas of study at all times. All students must take classes in the fine arts, social sciences, natural sciences, and humanities.
    Too intimidatingly brainy.
    The student body eagerly looks forward to key social events each year that attract swarms of men.
    Too many women.
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    Dedicated environmentalists abound. . . .
    Too good. Too many hippies.
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    Approximately 75 percent of the student body go Greek, and those who avoid the Greek system tend to feel excluded from the social scene.
    Too horrible to even consider.
    After about fifteen minutes, I put my head on the kitchen table, wondering how bad Dad would feel if I were found dead like that. The book was giving me a headache. I groaned.
    â€œNice try,” Dad said, taking my plate from me. “But you’re not going to get off the hook anymore. I want you to think about this, Cecily. Fun time is over.”
    â€œWhen was fun time?” I asked. “I must have missed that.” I started heading up the stairs.
    â€œI’m serious,” he said. “Come here.” And I walked halfway back down the stairs.
    â€œWhat?” I said snottily. “I have to go upstairs and research schools.”
    â€œCome here ,” he repeated, pointing to the floor. I rolled my eyes. I hated feeling like this, like I was ten.
    â€œYou’re going back to school. If it’s not going to