Quentin and Dahlia...interview for graduate school? - tyrians and storms in the Magicians
« Previous Post
Permalink

Quentin Coldwater was not good at much. If you asked his elementary school teachers, they might say Quentin was good at reading. If you asked his mother, she might say that Quentin was good at breaking precious things. If you asked his therapist- well, Quentin didn't have one of those at the moment, and he wouldn't have thanked you for trying to talk to them anyway. It's hardly anyone else's business what his therapist thinks of him. They probably all pity and despise him in equal measure. The things that Quentin wasn't good at outnumbered the stars in the sky. He's not good at talking to people. He's not good at dressing himself. He's not good at turning his assignments in on time. He's not good at being the son his dad deserves.

If you asked Quentin what he was good at, he could scrounge up a few: he's good at remembering minute details that others forget, he's good at close-up magic, and he's good at pretending to be okay. Today is a day that will challenge all of those skills. Okay, admittedly, he doubts that Yale cares much about close-up magic, for all that his essay about it netted him this interview. No, today is about impressing an alumnus with facts and figures that he's memorized about their philosophy program, and not showing any signs that he's as crazy as he feels right now. He's Quentin Coldwater, which means he's a talented, ambitious, promising applicant, and not any of the other things that being Quentin Coldwater means.

"It's only the alumni interview. It's only Yale."

He's aiming for flippancy; it doesn't land.

Total: 9
Posts Per Page:
Permalink

"Only the first step into the rest of our lives." She doesn't really try for flippancy at all. She needs him to be serious about this, anyway. Get his head together. "If you're going to freak out we should stop and do it right here. Then you'll have it out of your system and you'll get this shit done."

Permalink

“I’m not freaking out.”

He’s not.

“Do I seem like I’m freaking out, to you? That’s a little availability heuristic of you, Wicker, I thought we’d graduated past Psych 101. It’s just the one thing standing between me and grad school on the one hand, and me and abject poverty on the other.”

Both ways lies financial instability, obviously. A Bachelor’s in Comp Lit and a PhD in Philosophy won’t do him any favors on the job market. He probably shouldn’t say that during the interview.

Permalink

"Oh, no. You seem very calm. The most amount of calm a person can be. And, please, you're as far away to living in the gutter as I am. It's not in my mom's interest to have me hanging around with the lower class. She'll keep shelling out money for as long as she's in the public eye. And then some."

Permalink

“...thanks, Jules. I’m glad to know I can mooch of your mother’s boundless compassion for useless layabouts.”

Despite himself, he feels better. Jules always knows how to get him out of his head- half the time, because she can’t see why anyone would want to be in there. He’s long since given hope that they’ll be anything other than friends- or not, since he keeps thinking about it- but he’s glad they have this.

”They’ll probably take anyone halfway conscious for philosophy. I’m as good as in,” he asserts, trying to will it true. He doesn’t need another failure under his belt; he’s running out of notches.

Permalink

She straightens his jacket and brushes the hair out of his eyes. "That's the spirit. You'll run circles around them. You've been preparing for this since you could string a sentence together."

Permalink

He closes his eyes. The wind is biting, his shirt itches, but he is going to ace this interview.

Permalink

He takes a sip of his coffee, and knocks on the door to his future.

Permalink

After a respectful pause, the future does not answer. He knocks again, more tentatively.

"It's Quentin Coldwater, for the grad school interview?"

Calling out through a closed door doesn't much help. Maybe he went out to do something more fun than interview two nerds. Maybe he's having an orgy and can't come to the door. Maybe he's died of a sudden and rare condition-

Permalink

The door opens.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," says the woman, in a crisp British accent. "Come in, have a seat."

This Thread Is On Hiatus
Total: 9
Posts Per Page: