Salva stammered. “I’m not passionate about anything,” which, really, on a scale of one to ten, was a zero on the list of things he should ever have said to Beth. She winced. The bell rang. They were both late for cit/gov. Salva ran. There’s nothing wrong with not knowing what I want to do, he told himself. Isn’t that kind of the point of my first year of college? Taking the stuff I don’t have a chance to take at Liberty? He could already hear Beth’s argument. And how are you going to do that if you tie yourself to an engineering program? “You’re late, counselor.” Coach Robson held up a penalty flag as Salva entered cit/gov, which had been transformed into a courtroom: Robson’s desk as the judge’s bench, the audience at the back, a chair for the witness stand, a desk and computer for the court reporter’s table, a row of seats for the jury box. And two sets of desks, separated by an aisle, for the lawyers. Salva hurried to the nearest one and dumped his stuff: four books, three folders, three notebooks, and his pen.
