The Question
I shift uncomfortably in the back seat as all eyes in the car suddenly turn to me. An awkward, quiet giggle lingers on my lips as I play with my hands, struggling for the right words for The Question. Ah yes, The Question. That Question. “So Rachel, what would you like to do?” Every teenager in the car has answered it flawlessly so far, as if they have stood in front of the mirror rehearsing it a dozen times. Of course, there’s the noble and intelligent Doctor. Then there’s the sophisticated and witty Lawyer. And let’s not forget that charming and charismatic Politician-in-the-making. What do I want to do? What do I want to be? Where do I want to go? I don’t know. Not only do I not know, I don’t have the slightest idea. I used to be terrified of The Question. Why couldn’t I be one of the people who seems to “just know,” you know? The idea of that impending unknown slo...