September 2002

Caitlin

MARTIN HAD ONLY EVER MENTIONED his family in letters before, so Wallace stood out. That he was actually coming to the United States was beyond thrilling. If Wallace could do it, Martin could, too.

The only problem was, Martin did not mention which school Wallace was going to. We’d have to wait for Wallace to get in touch. The thought made me giddy.

It was an exciting time for me. I’d just started my dual enrollment program. That semester, I had signed up for five college classes: English 101, General Psychology, history, liberal arts, and calculus, which I dropped quickly. I still hated math, but I liked being surrounded by older students who wanted to be there. It was so different from high school.

I’d always gravitated toward older kids. Damon was a year older than me, as was Heather, my neighbor. She had left for college, and I missed her. But Damon was still around. He wasn’t interested in college, though, and couldn’t understand why I was.

“Why don’t you just work more shifts at the pizza joint?” he asked earlier that summer. He’d started working full-time at a factory in nearby Sellersville that made unfinished furniture. People could paint the chairs or dressers any color they wanted. He was happy doing that, but I wanted more out of my life than waitressing could afford me. I started to worry that he wanted me to be more like his mother. She married his father young and gave up any plans for college or a career to take care of her husband. Even though his father was disabled, he ruled the house. His mother jumped when his father said to. That was not the life I wanted for myself.

I worked every Wednesday and Saturday at the pizza parlor, and spent every spare moment in between doing homework. I never cared about it in the past, but I loved college and wanted to do well. It wasn’t easy, and it left hardly any time to hang out with Damon. When I started studying with Jeremy, an older guy in my English class, Damon got jealous.

One night, he called me four times in a two-hour period. I was studying for my very first psych exam and didn’t want to be bothered. By the fourth call, I thought it must be serious.

“Is everything okay?” I said, instead of hello.

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” he said angrily.

“I told you I was studying,” I said, wishing I had not picked up.

“You’re always studying,” he said. “It’s bullshit.”

“Actually, it’s my future,” I said, incensed. “You giving me a hard time about it is bullshit.”

I stayed on the phone listening to his rants for fifteen minutes and then simply said, “I’m not going to argue with you about this. I have a test tomorrow. If you really loved me, you would want me to do well.”

And then I hung up.

The next day, I aced my psychology test.