I'll Be Here (26 page)

Brooke is on Lance’s other side stuffing the envelopes with a pre-folded Xeroxed letter.  She smiles at me when she catches me looking at her.  Alex only came up once—when Deb ignorantly asked Brooke how he was doing.  My ears burned with the heat of a thousand suns as I dumbly tried
not
to listen as Brooke said that he was doing fine and glad that the semester was almost over. 

I wanted Deb to ask if he was coming home for the summer.  Or if he’d mentioned that he was madly in love with some girl and couldn’t believe that a silly misunderstanding had led to so much emotional decimation.  But of course, Deb asked none of those things.  She smiled a satisfied smile and asked if anyone knew a reliable plumber she could call to look at a drain in her second bathroom. 

            Oh well.

One of our neighbors, Siena Groff is making phone calls from the couch and checking names off a white print-out. 

            Lance’s cheeks are a blushy peach as he continues to tell me about his mother.  “Then, she bitches at my Dad and me for not taking the garbage out, or about the dog, or for not laughing at her lame jokes, or if that isn’t enough—for breathing too loudly.” 

He sees the doubt on my face.  “I’m completely serious Willow.  She would never in a million years get off her fat ass to organize a letter-writing party or give two shits about a species of clam.”

            “Mollusk.”

            “Whatever.  She couldn’t care less about clams, mollusks, squirrels, slugs, ameobas, people…”  Lance pauses to take a big breath.  His head shakes.  “Well… you get the idea.”

            I look at Lance carefully.  I do get the idea.

            My elbow on the wooden table, I lean in and whisper loudly.  “If you think my mom is intense about the mollusks, don’t even get her started about funding for the bird sanctuary on Lewis Key or the new power plant that they’re trying to build just outside of town.”

            “Ahem… What are you two talking about so intently?”  Mom is hovering in the space behind our chairs.  One hand is on her hip, the other cradles a blue spiral notebook. 

            “Oh, Mrs. Beagle,” Lance starts though my mother has asked him to call her Julie three times already.  “I was wondering if you knew anything about that bird sanctuary on Lewis Key.” 

And I swear that Lance flashes me the wickedest grin imaginable. 

            Mom’s expression is priceless.  It breaks her face apart into pieces—her wide eyes, her scrunched nose, her oval mouth. 

“Why yes, Lance I do know quite a bit about the sanctuary.”

            I roll my eyes but I’m laughing inside.

***

“You really need to do something Willow.”

“What do you mean?”  Today it’s raining so we’re pushing through the crowded cafeteria to where Asher is waving from a corner table.  In one hand I’ve got a bagel with cream cheese and chives, and a soda in the other.

Laney stalls.  She added an extra layer of kohl eyeliner today so she looks even more otherworldly than normal.  Knee-high purple boots climb her calves.

“Here’s what I’m thinking.  It all comes down to making a decision,” she says, flicking her wrist as she shakes out a pen.  I told her that I’d help her with an English worksheet during lunch.

“And what might that decision be?”  I ask feebly.

“You have to decide who you want to be.”

***

Once I’ve decided, I expect the rest of the week to drag, but it doesn’t. 

            I’m really busy with school.  We’ve only got a week and half left until graduation and all the teachers are laying it on thick in what I think may be an attempt to flaunt their authority in our faces one last time. 

            I hadn’t intended to, but I actually end up creating a calculus study group to get ready for the final.  We meet at my favorite coffee place after I’m off work on Thursday.  Nate and Colleen come, Katie Evans and Daniel Patel, and I have to wipe my eyebrows off the ceiling when Dustin and Roland walk in.  They’re really completely civil to me and the whole thing ends up being sort of fun and
un
weird.  Bizarre.

            On Friday night I think about sleeping outside under the stars and the lazing moon, using their light like a soft lace coverlet.  I think about the shadowy leaves and the dewy fog wrapping its arms around me while I dream, but that just seems crazy, right? 

In the end I decide that I have a big day ahead of me and not to be a cliché or anything—I need my beauty rest.  I fall asleep just after dinner watching a movie with Aaron. 

            The distance is forty miles. 

According to Jake, the drive should take no more than forty-five minutes even if there’s traffic, but I have a steadfast rule that if you’re going to be trapped in a vehicle for more than thirty miles, you should get a consolation prize in the form of treats.  This rule results in one stop on my way out of town for those mini peanut butter cookies and a fountain drink so large that I have to place the cup in between my thighs since it won’t fit in the Honda’s drink holder.  This necessitates a second stop halfway through the drive to use a bathroom and defrost the insides of my thighs. 

The drive ends up taking me just over an hour.

            Once I’m off the exit ramp, I focus on following road signs directing me toward campus.  At one point I’m twisting through a residential neighborhood and I think I’ve made a wrong turn, but then the curtain of wooden houses pulls away and in front of me is a mosaic of hulking brick and cement buildings.

            Parking is far more complicated than anticipated and I have to circle the block four times before I find a space in a visitor lot.  Now, I’m all turned around and I hate doing it, but I have to call Jake and have him look up directions to the dorm because I can’t figure it out on my phone. 

            “Okay, turn right when you see a sign for Morgan Hall,” he’s saying, and the whole time he’s been talking me through the navigation Mom’s been chirping in the background.  I can picture her grabbing at Jake’s arm.

            “Done,” I say.

            “Now look for a tall brick building.”

            “Oh my God Jake!  They’re all tall brick buildings.”

            “Well, this one should be taller than the rest and you should see a spire or something jutting from the top.”

            I scan the space, my eyes sifting in and out of shadows and sky. 

“Okay.  I think I see it…  Am I looking for a name or something?”

            “It should be called Wyman.”

            I walk closer, side-stepping to let a girl on a bike pass me. 

“Yeah.  I see the sign.  This is definitely Wyman.”

            “Okay,” he says brightly.

            “Okay what?”

            “
Okay
, as in… You’re there.  You made it kiddo.  Wyman is the name of the dorm.”  When I’m quiet, Jake sighs into the phone.  “Honestly, Willow, did you even read the directions that I wrote for you this morning?”

            I click my left heel against a large landscaping rock that’s braced at the edge of the path.  “Of course.  And I completely appreciated it.”

            “Sure you did.  Now your mom is begging me to tell you that she asked her friend Alana to do a reading this morning and all the signs look good.”

            “Well, isn’t that a relief.”       

            Jake chuckles.  “Good luck.  And don’t forget to call us
before
you get back on the road.”

            “I know, I know.  And I’ll make sure to stick to the speed limit and buckle my seatbelt.  And I
won’t
take candy from strange men in unmarked white vans.”

            “Actually, don’t take candy from anyone.”

            “Fair enough.”

            We hang up and I stare up at the lofty brick mammoth with curling spirals of white stone outlining the windows.  Long sloping walls angle out from four identical gables.  Is that called a buttress?   I’m not really up on my architectural terms.

By the time I walk up the seven steps to the front entrance my nerves are crackling with anticipation.  I know my hands are clammy because they slip on the doorknob. 

            The inside of the beast is not at all like I expect.  It’s a cross between shabby and antiseptic—with walls the color of masking tape and a trail of humming florescent lights dotting the ceiling.  There’s a foosball table to my right and a sofa in an unfortunate pattern of browns and greens facing an extra-large television.  A guy about my age is asleep in a corner chair.  His socked feet are propped up on an empty laundry basket. 

To my left there is a window and a counter of blue laminate that I think must be some kind of check-in desk.  A floppy haired boy with glasses is sitting behind the window thrumming through a paperback.  He looks up when I walk in.

“Guest?”  He asks in a bored tone.

My first impulse is to turn around and walk back out the door to my car and drive home.  How stupid is that? 

I take a breath and rally.  “Um… yeah, I guess.”

The boy slides a clipboard forward and instructs me to sign in and not to forget to sign out when I leave.  Then he points to a sad looking bulletin board that declares “Rules” in faded black construction paper letters across the top.  

“How do I know which room?”  I ask.

“Who are you here to see?”

My cheeks flush.  “Alex Faber.”

Glasses finally looks at me and he’s wearing this expression like,
And who the hell are you? 
I take a step back, my nerves retreating with my body. 

He puts down his book and clears his throat.  “Does he know you’re coming?”

My voice is weightless, like smoke crawling up into the air.  “No, he doesn’t.”

I am sure that this boy is going to laugh and tell me to call Alex or go home, but he just shakes his head and says, “Room 311.”  And then he turns back to his book like I’m no longer there. 

I swallow and put my name down on the list in blue ink, and then I’m in the elevator pressing the button for floor three. 

Room 311 is around a corner and towards the end of a hall just beyond the stairwell.  Each door I pass has a little silver-framed plate beside it with the names of the room’s inhabitants.  I pause in front of the beige door and double-check.  There it is. 
Alexander Faber
. 

My pulse is buzzing and my stomach is a riot of butterflies and half-digested peanut butter cookies.  I lift my hand and let it fall.  Once… twice… three times. 

A few millennia pass.

The hair on my head goes grey.  

My teeth turn brittle and fall out, clattering to the floor like dropped beads.

            Finally, the door cracks and a pair of blue eyes peek out and my heart pops.  The door opens wider and in front of me is a pretty brown-haired girl with fluttering blue eyes and a pink tulip mouth. 

My insides feel sick.

“Hi,” she says.  “Are you looking for somebody?”

Am I?  What am I doing here? 

It’s like my brain is an engine that’s stalled.  The girl is starting to look at me suspiciously and I can’t say that I blame her. 

I mumble something that she can’t hear and then crank the volume up a notch.  “I’m here to see Alex.”

“Oh,” the girl’s voice is star-bright and sweet.  “He’s actually out right now.  Do you want me to get him a message?”

“Uh—no, that’s fine,” I manage to croak out as I back up.  I turn around not wanting to incriminate myself further.  “Signs look good” my ass.  I’ll have to let mom know that her friend Alana is a hack.

“Wait!”  The pretty girl calls, catching up with me at a bend in the hall. 

“Wait!” She says again and this time she’s right behind me.  I really have no choice but to turn around and face her.

She’s got her nose crinkled up and her eyebrows pulled together. 

“You’re not
Willow
by any chance, are you?”

Hard is trying to rebuild yourself, piece by piece, with no instruction book, and no clue as to where all the important bits are supposed to go.

~Nick Hornby

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sarah’s pulling my hand with purpose. 

            “You have no idea,” she says for the tenth time in the past five minutes.  Her feet are almost skipping on the sidewalk. 

“I
told
him to call you last week but he wouldn’t listen to me.  Even Adam told him that he was being a jerk, but you know boys.”  Sarah rolls her blue eyes.  She’s grinning wildly, her voice on the verge of a squeal.

            It turns out that the girl that answered the door is Sarah—the girlfriend of Alex’s roommate Adam, who—get this—is the glasses-wearing bookworm at the front counter of the dorm. 

            In a cloud of peppermint and chattiness, Sarah rushes me out of the dorm in the direction of the intramural fields where she says that Alex is playing lacrosse.

            “I didn’t even know that Alex played lacrosse,” I say, my hand brushing loose hairs away from my face. 

            Sarah looks over her shoulder.  “Oh, he doesn’t.  It’s actually Joey’s team, but Joey being Joey partied too hard last night and Alex agreed to fill in for him.”

            “Oh.” 

We cross an intersection and Sarah’s gait slows down, settling to a stop.  In front of us is hodgepodge of green sports fields speckled with sweaty boys. 

            She makes a sunshield with one hand and points with the other.  “There,” she says.

            I follow the direction of her finger, my eyes lighting on a bare-chested boy leaning against a set of low silver bleachers.  If I had a pencil I would sketch him.  His torso is long and rippled with firm muscles—hard lines that cascade into legs and arms.  He has a red tee shirt draped across his broad shoulders and when he bends to pick up a water bottle I spot the two lines of script inked on his back even from this distance.  

There are a handful of other guys around him and they are laughing about something.