august
I figured before I left I should check in one last time with someone from my panel of experts, just in case. I sat down to the computer:
Leah—I’m starting again soon at Kenyon. Yes, I’m trying there again. Like I said, I don’t think it was the school that was wrong, it was me that was wrong. I guess I’m ready this time? Do you have any words of advice for me before I leave?—Cecily Powell
A few hours later, I got a return e-mail:
Nope. ☺ Drop me a line when you’re home for Thanksgiving. —L.
Well, that was anticlimactic. But at least she seemed to believe I’d have a Thanksgiving break—I wasn’t completely sure yet. Last year I assumed that I would experience the same rites of school as everyone: registering, exams, Thanksgiving break. But every time I contemplated it, a voice in the back of my head this time said, “Are you really going to do all that stuff?”
“YES,” I’d say out loud, and Superhero would look up and wag his tail.
There wasn’t much left to do except start packing up again. There was the stuff I had taken to Kenyon last year, things that I’d never even gotten out of their original packaging. I carried some of the boxes up from the basement and opened them. It felt a little like Christmas. I had seen it all a year ago, but I had already forgotten that I had some of these things. I had bought a children’s alarm clock that woke you up with the noise of a shrieking monkey. My roommate was sure to love that. (I had gotten a letter from the school. Her name was Lauren, and she was from Georgia. I didn’t try to contact her, and she didn’t try to contact me. I figured nothing good had come from e-mailing with Molly. And maybe Lauren and I would have more to talk about when we met.) A red lamp that clipped onto your desk or bed and had a bendable neck. A yellow corduroy “study pillow” that Dad insisted I buy, although I had no idea what it was really for. My new comforter, which had a nice wavy striped pattern of chocolate brown, lime green, and light blue. I had been deciding between that and a really weird blanket that was white with a huge lobster printed on it—I had figured that at least I’d own a conversation piece—but in the end I decided to go a little more mainstream. Dad had suggested that I take Germaine’s old flowered pastel Laura Ashley comforter, but if it was possible for a girl to feel emasculated, that comforter would have done it for me. The sheets I had to match were still in their packaging. I bet they smelled nice and plasticky. Nervousness was now mixed with the excitement of remembering my new stuff.
In addition to all the new supplies, I had to decide which parts of my actual life I’d be taking with me. Last year I had packed a ziplock bag of inside jokes and trinkets and photos from high school: ticket stubs and postcards and collages that I had collected, to put up on my wall in my dorm. I had unpacked the bag but didn’t put anything back up on my bedroom walls. The pile now lay in a drawer in my desk. It didn’t feel right to take those to college, to pretend that they were still my life.
There were now three photos on the wall next to my bed. The first was a cute one of Josh, Angie, and me from the party in Madison I decided to take with me. I might never look that good again—unless I hired Angie as a personal stylist—and it was nice to have visual evidence that at least once over the last year, I had a good time with friends. The second picture was one of Superhero wearing a pair of sunglasses. Obviously I packed that one. The third was a picture of Kate and me on graduation day. We were doubled over in laughter about something, her long auburn hair falling around her shoulders in two perfect segments. I looked at it. I left it. I suppose that most people who saw it wouldn’t know that it was taken over a year ago, as opposed to a few months ago. But I would know. It felt kind of pathetic to bring it along just to make it look like I had more friends than I did. Besides, I had the picture of a dog wearing sunglasses. Clearly, even without the lobster blanket, I would be the most popular girl on the floor.
I’d quit working at the end of July so I could spend the rest of my time packing and filling out the rest of the paperwork I needed to start school again. Like last year, though, I tried to squeeze in as much downtime as I could. Probably after a whole year of not doing much, plunging into five classes a week was going to be a nightmare.
Mom had sent me a letter that I wasn’t supposed to look at until I was on the road to school, but I opened it when I got it anyway. It was hard to read. It seemed like the fakest thing in the world, filled with little clichés and best wishes for my future, like things she cribbed from a touching mother/ daughter movie. A few times it crossed my mind that maybe it wasn’t fake, but that thought made me feel strangely guilty and sad. I tried reading it a second time, but it got too hard. I put it in the ziplock bag with the other stuff.
“You going to make it, rock star?” asked Mike when he came to say good-bye a few days before I was due to leave. I was lying in the backyard on a lawn chair, holding on to one end of Superhero’s drooly wet rope toy.
“I’m nervous,” I said. “But I think I’m more nervous now that I know what happened last year. I’m more nervous about that happening again than going to school.”
“But at least you know you don’t want that to happen,” said Mike. “You didn’t know that was even a possibility last time, right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Just don’t fall in love with someone at another school,” he said. “Starting freshman year late is probably a pain, but nothing is as big a bitch as transferring.”
Then the day came. The drive back east to Ohio felt exactly the same as the same drive last year. We even stopped at the same Arby’s in Indiana that we had on the way back. I had the roast beef. I contemplated getting something different, to signify a change in my life, but thought that that would be kind of dumb.
“Cecily . . .” Dad said when we got back in the car. I was driving this time.
“Yeah?” I asked. I was feeling jittery. I didn’t know if it was the huge Coke I’d had or just run-of-the-mill nervousness.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Cecily?” he said. “I just want to say . . .” and he coughed. “I don’t know that I’ve always made the best decisions. And it kills me to think that I might have . . . I don’t know, done something not right for you. So I want you to know . . .” and he coughed again. Jesus Christ, it was excruciating. “I want you to know that all I wanted was to make you happy.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Dad.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Do you mind if I put on the radio?” I didn’t feel like talking any more.
“Sure,” he said.
We got to campus and pulled into the parking lot, where, once again, a sea of incoming freshmen carried garbage bags, boxes, and laundry baskets. Their hopeful mothers carried vacuum cleaners and irons that would probably never be used. For the hell of it, I’d brought the poster that Mom had given me at Christmas. I figured I’d let Lauren decide if it should go up or if it should be banished under the bed.
“Cecily Powell?” I said when I got to the big picnic table that had the freshmen orientation information. A smiling, squinting girl in a purple NEW STUDENT ORIENTATION! T-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up handed me a small envelope. “Here you go! Room assignment and keys. Welcome!” I heard her fellow orienters saying exactly the same thing, word for word, to the other kids around me.
“Where is it?” Dad asked, trying to get ahold of the student map that was in my packet. He was a sucker for maps.
“It’s this way,” I said, following one of the campus signs. “Let’s go.” I hustled off, and he had to run a little bit to catch up. We just had to do this.
I had to do this.
We stood in the room. I was in a brand-new dorm, compared to last time, when I was assigned to a room in what looked like a housing project from the 1960s. This place smelled like new carpeting and paint. Not exactly a homey feel, but it smelled like a fresh start. My boxes were piled so high, I could make a fort out of them if I wanted to. That actually might be kind of fun.
“What now?” said Dad. “You want help unpacking? Should we get a bite? Do you want to go down to the parent/freshman mixer? I saw a sign for it.”
“No,” I said, and shook my head. This is real, I thought. This is not a drill.
“You okay?” asked Dad, and put his arm around my shoulders. For a second, I felt tears welling up inside me. Or were they in him? I couldn’t tell exactly.
“Yeah,” I said, and shrugged out from under his arm. “You should go.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” he said. “I can help you.”
“No really,” I said. “I mean it. Time to go.”
“Are you Cecily?” I heard a voice behind me, loud and Southern. I’d probably find it grating after a few days, but I planted a big smile on my face and turned around.