An Off Year (23 page)

It was weird—I had already forgotten a lot of kids' names—other kids from our class who I had known just from going to school with them for four years, from hearing their names at announcements or reading them in the yearbook or having a gym class with them. They'd seemed like they were an essential part of every day, but now that I hadn't seen them for a while, I'd completely forgotten about them. I was pretty sure these random people were thinking the same thing about me. There was that pretty, moon-faced girl who acted like an ethereal hippie and who everyone knew was a big slut. There was the ugly moon-faced girl that I had two years of English with who had an annoying laugh. There was that cute brown-haired, brown-eyed girl who always wanted to know if she was doing better in school than I was. I was surprised that she was at this party. Did that mean that she was as cool as me now? I always thought I was at least cooler than her.

I caught Kate's eye again from across the room. She waved me over.

“Hey! I'm heading out to another party. You're welcome to come with.”

“No,” I said. “This is enough for me, thanks. Whose party?”

“I don't even know,” she said, looking at the girl she was with, whom I didn't recognize. The girl shrugged and didn't look at me.

“Yeah, that's okay. Thanks for the invite, though.” I felt like it wasn't really an invitation, of course.

“We have to catch up sometime!” she said. “I can't wait to hear how the rest of your year was. It's been so long!”

“Yeah,” I said. “It has, huh?” I wasn't sure when the last time was that we had actually talked. I looked her in the eyes, searching for the old Kate, old funny Kate who could take or leave any kind of party, who didn't need other people to tell her she was awesome.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, glancing away. I'd never seen her look self-conscious before.

“Nothing,” I said. “See you around.” She gave me a one-armed hug and was out the door with a slam.

“She's changed, huh?” said a voice behind me. I turned around, and it was Meg.

“Yeah . . . she has,” I said. I wasn't sure what this was. I was worried this was like one of those times from junior high when Meg would try to get me to say something bad about one of our friends and then she'd go tell them. Though would it matter if Kate found out I thought she had changed?

“You guys still talk a lot?” she asked.

“Um, not so much,” I said. “Part of it is me, though.”

She nodded. “Yeah, me, too. We hung out a few times during the year, but I couldn't keep up with her, really. I mean, I like to have fun and everything, but I just get exhausted running around and partying all the time.”

“Clearly, you hate parties,” I said, raising my voice as some guy in the living room was attempting to play the piano with his butt.

She laughed. “Well, this is a special occasion. It's good to see everyone back here.”

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “What percentage of the people in this house would you say are your friends?”

“I don't know,” Meg said. “Twenty-five? Maybe? I'm counting casual friends. But if I'm counting people who are likely to stick around and help me clean up afterward, like three or four.”

“I'm probably not going to stay and clean up,” I said. “But don't take that to mean I'm not glad to see you.”

“I'm glad to see you, too, Cecily,” Meg said. “I'd like to catch up sometime, for real.”

“That's doable,” I said. “I'd like that.”

“What's your e-mail address?” she said.

“Actually, I think it's about to change,” I said. “What's yours?”

“You can find it on the Barnard site,” she said, and then we heard a splashing noise from the backyard.

“Shit,” she said. “I told everyone
no swimming
!”

“Go tend to your party.”

“Talk to you sooner rather than later?” she asked. I nodded.

Mike was talking to some girl I recognized from the class ahead of us. I couldn't remember her name, though.

He glanced over at me for a second and then turned back to the girl, but then he did a double take. “Okay,” he said. “Give me a second. I'll walk you home.”

“You don't have to walk me home,” I said. “I was just saying good-bye.”

“Wait for me by the door,” he said.

I walked around Meg's empty living room. I hadn't seen much of the rest of the house at the party, but this room hadn't changed since the last time I was there several years earlier. Meg's mom and Rudy had decided that this room would be decorated in an Asian theme. It was cool, with lots of little blue-painted porcelain knickknacks all over the place. It felt very Zen, whatever that really meant. There was a little clay stool against the wall that kind of looked like a bongo drum. I sat on it for several minutes alone, listening to the party go on in the rest of the house.

“You okay?” asked Mike when he found me.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm okay. I think I'm going to head home.”

“You want me to walk you home?”

“Nah, I'm cool. Thanks.”

“That wasn't too bad, was it?”

“I guess it wasn't.” I wasn't floating home on a cloud of intoxication and happiness, but I didn't feel bored, or out of place. I felt . . . fine.

“So,” I said. “One question. Maybe I should have asked you this earlier. But what's college
like
?”

“Like?”
Mike shrugged. “Um, I dunno. It's not
like
anything. I guess it's the biggest cliché that ever happened, because everything you expect is there. But at the same time, it's pretty cool, because it's happening to you. I guess? Maybe I'm just cynical.”

“I love you for being cynical,” I said.

“Seriously, more than anything else, I'm looking forward to next year,” he said. “It just gets easier once you do it for a while, once you fake it and figure stuff out. You just have to get through that stage and that's really not so bad anyway. Don't worry, Cecily. I'm not worried about you.”

We hugged good-bye.

I walked home, still feeling surprised by how calm I felt. I'd entered that party without nearly as much trepidation as the party in Wisconsin, and Josh or Angie weren't at this one. And I wasn't drunk—I had pretty much faked it as a normal person at this party. One who, even if I didn't belong, at least didn't
not
belong. I had faked it and come out fine. And I was okay with that.

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:

A few hours later, I got a return e-mail:

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.