Pathways - Jeri Taylor [50]
Harry stared at the screen, reading the message over and over, as though it might change on the fourth or fifth reading. Beside him, his mother was silent, and he realized he would have to give some response to this devastating news.
“I guess . . . I guess that’s it,” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking. He felt his eyes begin to sting and he willed the moisture away, refusing to compound this awful moment by crying in front of his mother.
He felt her hand on his arm, and he covered it with his own. She had been his friend, his confidante, his strongest advocate since he was a baby. He derived strength from her, and he needed that strength now. He clutched at her hand, trying to feel the succor that flowed from her.
“I’ve been accepted at a couple of other schools. It’s not like I have no place to go.”
“Will you reapply next year?”
“I don’t think so. If I couldn’t make it with all the effort I put into it, there’s not much point in trying again.”
To his surprise, his mother stood up suddenly, her eyes flashing. “You will not quit,” she said with greater firmness than he’d ever heard. “I won’t allow that. You’ve worked too hard, put too much into this. You will apply next year.”
Harry was speechless. His mother had never insisted on anything. She had never imposed on him, never demanded anything of him. But there was no mistaking the steel in her voice.
“I don’t even know why they turned me down.”
“Then you have to find out.”
“How do I do that?”
“However you can.”
And with that she left the room, leaving Harry absolutely dumbfounded.
It was perhaps not the most orthodox way to investigate, and Harry wasn’t entirely certain why he was doing it. But a week later he was on the grounds of Starfleet Academy once more, looking for the gardener. He wandered for several hours, but the grizzled old man wasn’t to be seen. For a few moments he had an eerie feeling that the man didn’t really exist, but was some kind of supernatural phenomenon that had appeared only as a dark omen foretelling Harry’s doom.
If he perpetrated the same crime as before, maybe the wraith would appear. So Harry finally walked into the azalea beds and began plucking at the fading blooms. He had been doing that for only about four minutes when he heard the grumpy voice.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Deadheading,” replied Harry instantly. “Can’t let the plant go to seed—it’ll think its work is done and stop blooming.” This was a process Harry was intimate with, a litany he had heard from his mother since he was a toddler.
The old man cocked his head sideways and regarded Harry with faint curiosity. “You’re the one who was here a few weeks ago. Took your oral.”
“That’s right. And failed. Just like you thought.”
The man snorted, but made no further comment. Harry walked closer to him. “What’s your name?”
“Boothby. What’s yours?”
“Harry Kim.”
“Not many young folks know diddly about flowers. Much less deadheading.”
“I know a lot of things. But that didn’t get me into the Academy.” Harry felt foolish now that he was here. Was he really concerned with this gardener’s opinion? On the other hand, it couldn’t hurt to ask.
“Mr. Boothby, you seemed to know I wasn’t going to get in. Why was that? What was it about me that told you I wasn’t going to make it?”
Boothby squinted at him, gnarled face screwing up like a wrinkled prune. “Cocky,” he spat. “Arrogant. Too sure of yourself.”
“Me?” This description was so at odds with Harry’s view of himself that he found it hard to accommodate.
“They always ask why you want to be in Starfleet. What’d you answer to that?” asked Boothby.
Harry launched into his carefully prepared answer, but he was barely into it when Boothby waved a hand, stopping him. “You think that’s what they want to hear?” he asked contemptuously. “A lot of empty flattery about how great Starfleet is?”
“I wanted them to know I value the organization. Respect