My Legal Name

“Hello,” my voice comes through the line in one of those fake ways, like the person on the other end could never know me. I have secrets, I don’t have any secrets.

“Hello, may I speak with Jannet?”

“Speaking,” I say. This is what people in movies say.

“Hello, Jannet, how are you?”

I know this woman doesn’t know me. No one uses my legal name unless they’re trying to sell me something. I’m my middle name to most people, Scout. Yes, like from To Kill a Mockingbird, no, I’ve never read it, stop asking. “Fine, how’re you?” The nervousness I felt picking up this unknown number has subsided into the soothing woman’s voice.

“I’m doing well. I’m Nancy Cooglar with USC, in Denver, I see you are interested in attending our college, I’m calling to answer any questions you might have.”

“You know what? I don’t think I have any at the moment, thanks though.” I didn’t remember looking into USC anyway.

“Of course.” she says, “we’d love to have you at our school.” And I can feel her smile traveling over the miles of wire, or satellite, or whatever, right to my ear.

“Thank you,”

“Of course, call me back on this number if you need anything.”

And before we hang up, “why would you like me?”

She hesitates for a moment and I know I’ve cast my line in a pond full of fake fish, but she’s here and I’m listening, and her voice feels good in my ear.

“Well, Jannet” she hesitates, “here, at USC, we’re always looking for the most upstanding students, you’ve clearly proven yourself to be just that.”

A wind up my line to find a shiny, plastic piece of uniform response hanging from my hook. But I’m Jannet to this woman, I am not Scout, the average grade student who pretends not to be overly sensitive. I’m not Scout, who never cleans her room and sits on her couch watching TV on the weekends. I’m not aimless, or pointless, or “lacking a structure” as my dad would put it. I’m not Scout, who’s going to community college down the road next fall despite my parents' sighs. I’m Jannet, I’m upstanding, valuable, and I mean something to this woman.

“Really?”

“Of course,” she says, “again, if you need any questions answered, I’m happy to help.”

“Could you tell me about the campus?”

“What would you like to know?”

I think, “what does it look like?”

She laughs a bit, “well, we have a website with full access to photos of the building, if you give me your email I can send you the link.”

“Big library?” I say.

“Yes, we have a large library, with so many valuable resources. Our librarians are top notch.”

“Is the food any good?”

She laughs, “I eat it every day, and I bring my kids to enjoy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, “and you know how picky kids are, but they love it.”

I nod to myself, and slowly the academic buildings, the large ceilinged cafeteria, the long library, old professors standing in front of white boards, small dorm rooms, loud with the age of college, sketch themselves onto my brain. But along with this thrill comes the enormity of the slanting classrooms, the guilt that will eat me alive when I get my grades, the expense of the vast campus, yellow in the fall, the judging eyes of my unknown roommate. Suddenly I’m back in the cloistered restriction of my room with the phone pressed against my ear.

“Anything else I can help you with, Jannet? Would you like to give me your email so I can send you that link?”

“Scout,” I say.

“Pardan?”

“I go by Scout.”