In AP English, Sophie Schreiber raised her hand frequently, but not effectively. During the in-class viewing of Pride and Prejudice, she raised her hand five times, each time to declare, “I prefer the Colin Firth edition.” Did Sophie’s repetitive participation points count towards her or against her? In this meritocracy, what counted more: one stellar observation or several Colin Firths?

The bell rang, and Sophie continued beguiling Mr. McLaughlin, our instructor. I swiftly packed my backpack, when suddenly, Mr. McLaughlin pulled me aside and said, “You should see the movie Heathers.”

My heart raced. Maybe my hard work highlighting every page of every book finally paid off! I smiled and said, “Oh, um, cool! What about the movie relates to our class?”

Mr. McLaughlin shrugged and said, “Just…watch it.”

I watched the ’80s cult classic that night. I knew I didn’t belong in high school, so I worked harder. An A + meant I could leave my rural hometown and go to college out of state where I could be myself. I could be queer. I could be Veronica Sawyer…before she kills her classmates.

So I did the right thing, obeyed the law, and graduated from college Phi Beta Kappa. But after graduating, my pep became pet peeve. As I dabbled in despair, my mom cajoled me, “Please attend the new volunteer orientation for Boston Cares, the largest volunteer agency in New England.” I couldn’t strike back. I couldn’t be a failure. I hoped they serve pizza.

At the Boston Cares Volunteer Orientation, a vivacious woman named Kacey introduced herself. I suspected Kacey believed in pixie dust and mornings…I believed in Amy Winehouse.

Kacey asked the room, “What types of volunteer opportunities would you be interested in?” I put my hand in my jacket pocket and crinkled the twenty-dollar training fee. I glanced up at the clock and sighed: 7 PM and no free pizza, not even cheese. Kacey looked at me and said, “And you, with the black jean jacket, tell us what types of volunteer opportunities you’d be interested in joining.”

“I, uh, I recently graduated college,” I said, “so I’m, um, interested in anything that could possibly lead to something that could maybe help with, um, a career…hypothetically.” Kacey scribbled something in her notepad — a moment of silence where no one died, but dignity deflated.

Suddenly, a tiny teen entered with a bass guitar. He said, “My name’s Pat, and I’m open to all opportunities” as he winked his way to a chair in the back. Somehow, with an adolescent cackle and maybe some vape, volunteering conflated social justice with getting laid in the band room. All the moms named Sharon protested.

But before I could give a damn about how to make a difference, a pony-tailed tween raised her hand. “Hi, my name’s Micky. How do I add my hours from Girl Scouts to my Boston Cares points?” she asked.

“Yes, great question,” Kacey said. “We count prior excellence separately, so stick with us for the real brownie points,” she joked. “As a side note, there are distinct categories of volunteers. First, there are the volunteers who can commit what they can commit, meaning fewer than a hundred hours. They get nothing…except a hot spot on our mailing list!” The room sighed simultaneously, as if the bald guy from Florida lost his pension to a bad Wheel of Fortune spin.

Micky’s hand bolted to the ceiling — if only she could reach. She exclaimed, “How many hours do I need to get a bronze medal?” But before Kacey could answer, Micky’s mother whispered under her breath, “Mikayla Goldstein, you need to stop asking questions and let the moderator speak.”

I looked to the left to catch the window-view of urban architecture and maybe somewhere that sold pizza. As I turned my neck, I noticed Pat’s arm extend around the back of the chair of the tween girl next to me. Thank God his girl/friend wasn’t Micky. That kid still had potential.

Pat sat back and smiled. He burped before saying, “Hey, Volunteer Person, what do I gotta do to get a Gold Star?

I remembered Mr. McLaughlin’s AP English class and Sophie Schreiber’s feigned enthusiasm. Was there a difference between class participation points and medals for volunteering? Did anyone really care about caring? Who cares if they care? Meritocracy does not serve pizza.

I am a playwright, poet, and prose writer. Previously, my work has been featured in Invisible City Literary Journal, Wingless Dreamer Publisher, on Instagram at
@poetryforfreebyme. Poetry performances include Mass Poetry May Under 35 (Boston), Entropy Fest (Boston), and the Cantab (Cambridge, MA). As a playwright, credits include 'Dykes on Wheels' (The Tank, NYC), 'We Can Be Queeros’ (Hudson Guild Theatre, NYC), 'Moon Juice' (Manhattan Repertory Theatre, NYC), 'The Best of Bushwick' (Manhattan Repertory Theatre, NYC), 'Bunk' (Maine Playwrights' Festival, Portland, ME), and 'The Beef Stick Boys' (Michaelson Theatre, Worcester, MA). https://medium.com/@raechel.segal