"You're doing phenomenal in Chemistry," said my counselor for the umpteenth time.

"Uh-huh," I said.

"Your Algebra grade is okay, nothing bad. It's a hard class."

"Right." I snuck a peek at my watch. I was losing time for my luxurious study hall by the second.

"So, why do you want to drop out?"

I was taken aback. I'm sure my eyes were about to burst from their sockets. He sounded as if the phrase drop out was the same as death sentence.

"Well," my words played on a loop. "I'm more of a humanities type of person, I'm not into math or science. So, I think it's best if I get better on what I'm already good at, you know?"

He had his elbows on the desk and folded his hands under his chin.

"I read about how Ivy League colleges rather see someone who is focused on one area of study instead of a—" I was making my English teacher proud. "—a conglomerate of them."

My counselor's eyes bored into mine. "I've been a counselor for a little over ten years," he said. "And here's what colleges want like on your transcript. See, those honors classes, AP classes, and those extracurriculars filling up your friend's schedules are what prepare you for college. You know, the more challenging the workload, the better."

When he finished his monologue I was dozing off on, he said, "Now, are you sure you want to drop out of..." He squinted at the computer. "...Chemistry Honors and Algebra Honors?"

In other words, did I want a healthier sleep schedule for my teenage body? "Yes, please...and thank you!" I said as I was on my heels to dash back to study hall.

Before I left, he handed me a piece of paper. What I had to do to officially drop out was get my Chemistry teacher and Algebra teacher to sign on the dotted line.

My Algebra teacher was surprised as to why I would escape the clutches of Algebra. After I said the class was the very first to witness me fail multiple tests in a row, she signed and nodded her head dejectedly.

After her, I found my Chemistry teacher. She signed, shocked to see me go. What surprised me was when she said, "You know, I hate that they say that you're dropping out of a class." She pointed at the title of the permission slip. "They should just say that you're just transferring to another class."

Aren't those words warm drops of honey? I felt a boost of confidence despite being enrolled in a school run by my zombified classmates. The majority spoke of the language of more honors classes; more AP's; more extracurricular activities; do good things so that your college application looks good—why have sleep when you can have coffee?

You could feel the toxicity in the air. And I began flat-out avoiding people. I was a loner, yes, but I rather have no one than have these so-called friends. I cut ties with rivals I didn't even know were my rivals. That's how much they drooled on destroying the competition.

Luckily for this new school year, I moved out of that small town of breeding zombies into a bustling grand city.

I applied to a high school where you would think I was applying to college already. This school is famous for the intensity of its college readiness program. And I was pulling rabbits out of a hat trying to impress them. And according to my old counselor, I was not enough. I had B's on every final exam except for French. I was a couple of points away from a perfect score. My mom helped me create a portfolio of medals I won from French contests, the artwork I won an honorable mention in, how I wanted to be a writer or something in linguistics. 

Even after moving, my counselor's words bled into my thoughts. I'm not ready for college, am I? I'm not ready for Ivy League, am I? They're probably looking for smarties going more left brain than right brain. I should have stayed in that Computer Science class.

On a Monday, my mom got a call from the school. I got in. No, I was not accepted into an Ivy League as I dreamed of—yet—but it felt that way. I was one of twelve to get accepted out of more than one hundred who applied. And you bet your rabbits I was ecstatic and relieved. It felt like I was being freed from the chains of being told what I would become.

And walking around this large city, seeing the busy college students rushing to class, they seemed to focus on themselves and no one else. Not on crushing competition, but on being the best of themselves.

Tell you what, I have zero clue of what kind of job I'll have. Probably someone well-versed in French or someone preaching her know-how of the English language. I will prove to the world, college applications, and most importantly, myself, that I am ready to find my art, my craft. There is no formula on finding that, no many how many counselors say there is.

I have a question for the seekers of trying to be perfect in everything. Do you enjoy being a talented ballet dancer falling over their toes every practice, the physics lover tirelessly erasing and piercing their brain for the right theory, and catch yourself staring into the depths of a major plot hole in your novel you worked so diligently on? Would you do these activities throughout your high school career—would you even do them beyond that?

I rather just stick to fixing that plot hole, please and thank you.