I’ll just ignore him. It’ll be easy. We have nothing in common.
Yet, I find myself staring at the back of his head for the hour-and-a-half class, and I have to work hard to stay on top of my note taking. Against my will, I’m intrigued when the professor raises the concept of charismatic leadership and then gestures toward Esben, eliciting laughter and applause from the entire room. By the end of the class, my heart is pounding, and I practically leap out of my seat the second the professor finishes assigning our reading. I reach the door in mere seconds, pushing through the flood of exiting students to get outside.
God, I need air. I need air.
My pace quickens as I separate myself from the mass of students, and I make it back to my room in record time. I deposit my backpack onto the sofa in the middle room and look in the mirror while I calm down. My bangs are still neat, my long ponytail has held its place, and my mascara has not smeared or left disgusting, goopy clumps in the corners of my eyes. I breathe in and out, in and out, until I begin to feel settled.
It’s then that I notice a not-insignificant coffee stain on my yellow top.
Goddamn it.
I tremble as I rip the shirt over my head and dash to my closet to find a clean one. My emotional reaction to a simple stain is extreme; I know that, but I also know that I have my reasons.
When I was eleven, I lived with a foster mother who was obsessive about me never getting dirty. A mere smudge on my shoes was catastrophic, so in an effort to avoid dirtying white sneakers, I developed this odd style of walking that looked more like stomping. A visible spot on a shirt was cause for alarm, so I learned to be continuously on the lookout for anything that might strike me off her adopt list. That woman was constantly pointing to minor marks on my clothing while wincing and gently encouraging me to change outfits. It’s impossible to shake the belief that she returned me to the foster system because of my inability to keep my clothes spotless.
So I rifle furiously through my closet for the most pristine top I can find. Even though I know why I’m freaking out, it doesn’t help. My crazy reaction is one of a million dysfunctional ones that I have perfected over the years.
I really am goddamn irreparable.
I take my coffee-stained shirt into the bathroom down the hall. Holding the stain under the faucet, something dark on the underside of my shirt catches my eye, and I groan. Great, what bizarre stain is this now?
My fingers glide under the fabric, and I feel something plastic. I am mystified, so I flip over the shirt.
Stuck to my shirt is a button pinned to the side hem. It’s pale blue with white lettering.
YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.
I stare at this in disbelief. Why is there a motivational button stuck to my shirt?
YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.
The statement is crap, because some of us will never be able to let go of what chases us.
YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.
The words nearly scream at me. Against my will, I smile.
This is so weird, a button showing up on my shirt. So random. And yet, I admit, sort of wonderful. It’s a nice sentiment, and I should probably take it to heart.
This button is probably smarter than I am.
CHAPTER 4
WHITE NOISE
I decide to go into full shut-in mode over the weekend, planning to leave my room only to pay for pizza deliveries and to hit the shower. However, it’s nearly impossible to sleep on Friday night, and I’m tortured by the sounds of joyful drunks roaming the halls. As I toss and turn, I make a mental note to either turn into a joyful drunk or invest in some earplugs.
Earplugs it is.
There are no knocks on my door, though, so there’s that.
My sleep is restless and tainted by bad dreams, dreams in which I am driving a car I cannot control; dreams in which I am racing through an airport with no luggage and no ticket, unable to find any departure gates; dreams in which I am faced with an endless series of locked doors for which I have no keys.
I’m exhausted when I get out of bed at eight on Saturday morning, and there’s no way I can get through the day without coffee, so my hopes for being a shut-in are dashed. The nice thing about waking up early on a weekend is the silence that overtakes the entire campus. Only a handful of people are outside when I make my way to the student union. The air is crisp, the leaves starting to turn, and I welcome the impending arrival of true fall. The Andrews College campus is always attractive, but the light this morning is exceptional, the quiet desertion appreciated, and my fatigue feels less painful.
But there still must be coffee.
Given how much I like the quiet, I should probably consider moving by myself to the middle of nowhere when I graduate next year. I could live off of Amazon deliveries and never have to leave the house. It’s a highly appealing idea, but I’ve promised Steffi that I will move out to Los Angeles. That’s always been our plan, but I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with such a heavily populated city. Of course, we’ll be together, and she’ll help me figure things out. Steffi’s my rock, and she will not let me crumble.
The union is empty, and there’s no wait to place my order with the grouchy student who is working at the café today. He looks pissed and more tired than I am, and he knocks down the brim of his baseball hat before taking my money and slamming buttons on the register. There, I think with satisfaction, this is someone after my own heart. Unlike that Esben. Carefree, happy, people loving, he’s an enigma. I don’t know why I’m thinking about him, anyway. He’s obviously insignificant in my life. I want to fist-bump the sullen café boy for his outward display of crankiness.
I take my quadruple cappuccino and check my PO box to find that I have one notification slip.
Simon has sent me another care package. This is the fifth so far this year. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but I don’t know how to respond to his generosity. I collect the box and tuck it under one arm, noticing that I’m oddly comforted by the sight of Simon’s usual white packaging and handwritten address.
My walk back to the dorm is slightly awkward, and I have to set the box down while I fish out my key to get into the building. While I’m bent down, the heavy metal door flies open and smacks my right shoulder. As I’m pushed off balance to land on concrete, I’m not sure what hurts more: the pain from that or the burning cappuccino as it splatters across my left hand.