In the Wild Light

by Jeff Zentner

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “Let’s do that as soon as things quiet down,” Yolanda says.

  We get plates of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and bacon. There are many other choices. Bagels. Breakfast burritos. Roasted potatoes with peppers. I promise myself I’ll branch out a little more. But not today. We sit.

  Realization dawns on Yolanda’s face. “Hang on.” She gets up and walks quickly back to the kitchen. She returns a few seconds later, beaming, a small plate in each hand. “Middleford bars. A proud tradition. On the first week of school, we actually mail these to people who graduated the year before to remind them of the fun they had at Middleford.”

  I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now. I feel like I’m sinking into the floor with exhaustion. Small groups of students sit and chat brightly. Nobody is wearing their uniforms, and they seem to be living it up in pajama bottoms and hoodies. Here and there a student sits alone, headphones on, fixated on their phone or laptop.

  Delaney scans the room, processing, computing, deducing, downloading information to her memory, looking for patterns and formulas to understand her new environment, some grand theory to predict some grand phenomenon.

  Yolanda left the office with a portfolio under her arm. She opens it. Her nails are painted the blue of the night sky after the sun’s been below the horizon for an hour. “Would you like an introduction to your roommates?”

  Delaney still looks deep in thought but nods absently.

  “Yes, please,” I say. The reality of the situation hits me. You’re going to be living in a room with a total stranger. Sleeping. Dreaming. Studying.

  “We try to put new students with other new students.” Yolanda scans a paper. “So…Cash. You’ll be rooming with Patrick McGrath III—he goes by Tripp. He’s from Phoenix, Arizona. His father was actually just elected to the US House of Representatives.”

  My newly full stomach roils. Hope you’re a good guy, Tripp. Sounds like you’re a rich and powerful one.

  “Now for you, Delaney.” Yolanda leafs through her papers. “Here we go. Viviani Xavier. I think I’m saying that right? The X is a sh sound. She comes to us from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.”

  “You better brush up on your Spanish,” I tell Delaney.

  “They speak Portuguese in Brazil,” Delaney says. “It’s the language most spoken in South America.”

  “Viviani speaks excellent English,” Yolanda says. “You’ll have no trouble communicating.”

  “Rio de Janeiro is closer to Boston than it is to Houston,” Delaney says.

  Yolanda looks at Delaney for a second. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” I mutter immediately. “Guarantee.”

  “But Houston is much farther south than Boston, and Rio is in South America,” Yolanda says.

  Delaney shrugs. “Check it.”

  Yolanda turns over the phone that she had laid facedown on the table. “Okay, I believe you, but I have to see numbers…Boston to Rio: 4,845 miles. Houston to Rio: 5,022 miles. Wow.”

  Delaney smiles slightly. “I need to learn more about Rio. I wish I’d known in advance who my roommate would be so I could have studied up.”

  We get to our Middleford bars. They’re basically chess pie in bar form. No wonder they’re a beloved tradition.

  While eating, Yolanda tells us about day-to-day logistics: how our student IDs work as a debit card to buy things on campus and do laundry, how we show them in the dining hall. She gives us a forecast of what our daily and weekly schedules will look like.

  As we’ve been sitting and talking, individual students and small groups have trickled in. Parents accompany some. There’s a studied casualness about the other kids that unsettles me.

  “How competitive is it here? Between students?” I ask.

  Yolanda mulls the question. “It’s competitive. You can’t put this many overachievers in one place and avoid it. But we strive for a collegial and collaborative atmosphere.”

  Overachiever. I’ve never once thought of myself using that term. Its weight rests uneasily on me.

  Yolanda senses this. “We don’t admit anyone who can’t keep up. Your being here means you have what it takes.”

  Delaney gives me a look defying me to renege on our new agreement. I know better and hold my tongue, but I have to stifle the impulse to confess my unworthiness. I see Yolanda’s answer has put Delaney somewhat more at ease too. Delaney assaults people with facts and trivia when she’s jittery.

  Not that I blame her for being on edge. The more I see of Middleford, the more apprehensive I’m getting, feeling like I’m in over my head.

  We finish our breakfasts and sit back from empty plates. Yolanda calls over a couple of mousy rising sophomores and introduces us to them. It’s strange to me that she’s taking pains to introduce us to sophomores, because we’ll be juniors, but I go with it. They seem like they’d rather be doing anything but meeting us. I’m not offended. I could really use a couple of hours to clear my head. Plus, Mamaw and Papaw are going to start worrying if I don’t check in soon.

  “All right,” Yolanda says. “On to your new homes.”

  Yolanda tells us the residence halls are close, and we’re no longer carrying suitcases, so we walk. We arrive at the front doors of Koch Hall, a large brick building.

  “Mr. Pruitt, your new home. I’ll take you inside. I can’t take you up to your floor, in case there are students walking around in towels.”

  I turn to Delaney. “Okay. Here goes.”

  “Hope you don’t trip all over yourself meeting your new roommate,” Delaney murmurs.

  “Because his name is Tripp.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t quit whatever ends up being your day job.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good luck, Red.”

  “Same.”

  “Don’t…” I motion as if biting my thumb.

  After a quick glance at Yolanda, who’s busy on her phone and not looking, Delaney gives me a lopsided smile and flips me the bird.

  “You two will be seeing each other again in just a few hours,” Yolanda says, “so…”

  “Right,” I say. “Let’s see my new home.”

  “You fine hanging out for a minute?” Yolanda asks Delaney.

  Delaney is back to observing. She nods without speaking.

  “Hey, Cash,” Delaney calls after me as we start to walk away.

  I turn.

  “See you in a little bit.” She gives me the sort of beseeching expression that says she doesn’t want the last thing I remember her doing before our temporary separation is flipping me off. She looks small and alone standing there.

  “Bye, Red,” I reply.

  We enter the dorm building. It smells clean, but not harsh and antiseptic. More like a fancy hotel. Like a warm breeze blowing across a grove of cedar and orange trees. I’m sad that I’m going to go numb to the smell. Delaney told me about something called olfactory fatigue, which is when you just stop detecting scents that are around you every day.

  The dorm is orderly and well maintained, and clearly belongs to a wealthy institution, but everything is simple and functional. It almost seems consciously so, like part of the building’s purpose is to teach kids—who have lived in, and will again dwell in, far more lavish arrangements—that you can make do with less.

  This is probably the worst place some of my new classmates will have ever lived. I remember my mama’s and my trailer. The chaos. The rot. Everything broken and peeling and warped. Humidity-swollen doors that wouldn’t close right. Suspicious spongy spots on the uneven floor like oozing sores. Perpetually clogged drains. Stains. Stickiness. The skittering of tiny claws and legs in the walls and ceiling. The putrid animal stench. I guess olfactory fatigue doesn’t always set in, because I never escaped the stink of our home. Maybe you
never acclimate to odors warning of danger and disease. It’s why I spent so much time outside. Whatever challenges await me here, tolerating poor physical living conditions will not be among them.

  We pick up my suitcases in the lobby. Yolanda turns to me. “Cash, it’s been a pleasure. You’re going to take the elevator to the fourth floor, and you’re in room four thirteen. Get settled in. Unpack. Take a catnap. Get acquainted with your roommate if he’s around. At eleven-thirty I’ll have someone take you back to the admin building to meet with your counselor and get you all signed up for classes. Good?”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  Yolanda bustles off.

  I ride the elevator to the fourth floor. Growing up, I’d never envisioned myself ever living in a place with elevators. My pulse speeds as the numbers on the doors go up. 410. 411. 412. 413.

  I set down my suitcases and knock.

  “Come in,” a voice calls.

  I gently open the door and peek in. “Anyone naked in here?”

  “Naw, dude,” Tripp (I’m guessing) says. There’s a jockish swagger in his voice.

  I push the door open a bit wider, lug my suitcases inside, and look upon my new home. A bank of windows takes up much of the wall I’m facing. To my left is a bare-bones twin-sized bed and a spartan mattress. Nothing worse than what I’ve slept on before. At the foot of it, an unassuming desk and chair abut the wall. Next to that is a large wardrobe.

  The right side of the room is a mirror image of the left side. A laptop, a lamp, and various odds and ends cover the desk. What I guess is a lacrosse stick leans against the chair. Tripp lies on the bed, texting, headphones on, one leg crossed over the other. He’s wearing white ankle socks, basketball shorts, and a white tank top. Shaggy platinum-blond hair spills from under his baseball cap. He’s resort-tan with eyes the color and warmth of blue bottle glass. He has the kind of perfectly defined arm and leg muscles that obviously come not from work but from a gym. A massive container of Muscle Milk sits on the floor next to the head of his bed. He seems like the sort who trails privilege behind him like a wake. He’s what the well-off kids at my old high school tried to be but never quite nailed.

  Tripp makes no move to get up, so I set down my suitcases, go to him, and extend a hand. “Hey. Cash Pruitt. Good to meet you.”

  Tripp slaps my palm, one eye still on his phone. “What up. Glad you speak English.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I’m not sure how to respond to this statement, which Tripp delivered with a faint smirk and an unmistakably contemptuous tone—one that suggested that if I’d had trouble speaking English, I’d be in for a long school year. Not that I’m especially sure at the moment that I’m not in for a long school year.

  He continues. “I’m just saying.”

  I laugh nervously. “Jury’s still out on how well I speak it.” I hope my dumb joke spins this conversation off into less awkward territory.

  “At my old school, my first roommate was Taiwanese. It sucked.”

  “This is your first year here too?”

  “Yep. Old school was shitty.”

  I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. “They said you were from Phoenix,” I say.

  “North Scottsdale.”

  “My bad.”

  “Good golf there.” Tripp’s phone dings, and his eyes snap to it.

  “I’m from East Tennessee. Near the Smokies. Town you probably never heard of called Sawyer.”

  “Cool.”

  If Tripp is trying to feign interest in my life, he’s doing a terrible job.

  “Anyway. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Tripp nods absently. His phone dings again.

  My heart sinks. I knew this whole experience wasn’t going to be easy, but having a warm and friendly roommate would have made things a little easier.

  Meeting Tripp makes me think of the people in my life who do give a shit about me. In the bustle of arrival and settling in, I’ve forgotten to call Papaw and Mamaw. I rummage around for my headphones, but I can’t find them.

  “Hey, man, cool if I videochat with my grandparents?” I ask.

  “Knock yourself out,” Tripp says.

  “I can’t find my headphones and I don’t wanna bug you.”

  He shrugs and stares at his phone with a faint smirk, as if to say, We’ll see.

  I sit on the bed and call.

  Papaw answers the phone with a coughing fit. “How you doing there, Mickey Mouse? Make it all right?” He wheezes.

  “Hey, Papaw. I did. Just ate, and now I’m unpacking. What are you doing?”

  “Watching some programs.”

  “Mamaw there?”

  “Left for work a bit ago.”

  “You got a sec to videochat?”

  “I believe I do.”

  “Get the tablet and the instructions Delaney wrote and call me like we practiced, okay?”

  “I’m like as not to screw it up.”

  “You won’t. Follow the sheet.”

  “Tess said it was idiotproof. Guess we’ll see.”

  I hang up and wait a few minutes. I’m about to call back and check in on him when my phone lights up with the incoming video call. I answer, and Papaw’s face fills my screen. Their internet connection is slow, and his picture is poor quality, his movements herky-jerky. He holds the tablet at an awkward angle that distorts his facial features. The lighting is unflattering in our living room, and his skin has a waxen and sallow cast. Purple-blue rings encircle his eyes like bruises. He looks far sicker onscreen than he does in person. I hate how this way of talking robs him of dignity. He wasn’t meant to converse through pixels and wires.

  But my spirit lifts when I see his face.

  “Breaker breaker one nine,” he says, using the slang he told me truckers use on their CB radios. “You reading me?”

  “Loud and clear,” I say, reclining on my bare mattress, mirroring Tripp’s pose.

  “Good to see your face, Mickey Mouse. How was the ride up there?”

  “Long. Tiring.”

  “I’d guess. How’s it up there?”

  “It’s good. Weather’s nice. Wanna see my room?”

  He lets a storm of coughs subside. “I surely do.”

  I hold up my phone and slowly scan the room. “That’s my roommate, Tripp.”

  “Howdy, Tripp!” Papaw calls, and waves. The effort sends him into another coughing spasm.

  Tripp, clearly annoyed, looks vaguely in my phone’s direction and nods. “ ’Sup.” He makes no effort to return Papaw’s cheerful amiability.

  I turn the phone back to myself. “I have a couple hours to settle in, then I’m meeting my counselor to sort my schedule. Apparently it’s tricky when you transfer.”

  “Sign up for stuff that’ll make you sweat.”

  “I will. So. How y’all doing?”

  Papaw coughs and wheezes. “Just got done running a marathon.”

  “You win?”

  “Came in second.”

  “Pick up the pace next time.” We smile at each other.

  Sometimes a clear day will cloud up without your noticing, until a gust of rain-scented wind nearly steals your balance. That’s how the homesickness hits my center of gravity in that moment.

  I’m not supposed to be lying on a bare mattress in this little room, in this unfamiliar place, with a standoffish stranger—one I now live with. I should be home with Papaw, sitting beside him and Mamaw, sinking into their old sofa, whiling away the morning watching old episodes of Law & Order with Papaw as he talks to the TV.

  “I miss you and Mamaw already,” I say, leaning into the ache.

  “House’s too empty without you here.”

  “Delaney says hi.”

  “Tell Tess we miss her too.”

  Tripp sighs loudly. He’s not looking
at me, but it’s clear I’ve exhausted his small reserve of patience. It’s probably best that I try to avoid unnecessary conflict right off the bat with someone I have to live with.

  “All right,” I say. “I’m gonna unpack and try to take a little nap before I get my schedule made.”

  “If you can, call later and say hi to your mamaw.”

  “I will. Love you.”

  “Love you, Mickey Mouse. Do good up there.”

  I’ll sure try. “I will. Bye.”

  “Bye, now.”

  I hang up and stare at my phone for a couple of seconds until it goes dark, and then I look at my reflection in the black glass, feeling hollow. I’m putting myself in a lose-lose situation being here. Back home, there was never any risk of disappointing Papaw and Mamaw. Sawyer High was easy. I was good at mowing lawns. Here, the best-case scenario is I do as well as I did back home—and there doesn’t seem to be much chance of that. More likely the last thing Papaw sees me accomplish in this world is a string of C’s (if I’m lucky) and D’s.

  “Ep thar,” Tripp says, smirking.

  I look at him for a second. “What?”

  “Ep thar,” he says, as if I’m not getting an obvious joke.

  “Not following.”

  “It’s how your gramps says ‘up there.’ ”

  No one’s ever mocked my grandparents to my face. Something volcanic builds in my chest. It grows so quickly, I know it’ll detonate if I don’t stop it. It’s the same wave that engulfed me when I found out what Jason Cloud did to Mamaw. I imagine Papaw: You get to school and start acting like a roughneck your first day? Hellfire, Mickey Mouse, I believed in you. Didn’t I tell you there was more than one way to be a man? I imagine Delaney: You get kicked out of school your first damn morning for punching in your roommate’s front teeth and leave me here alone? After all I did to get you in here? You piece of shit. I don’t want to let her down any more than I want to let down my grandparents.

  “Hadn’t noticed,” I say, looking away, breathing down the sizzle of adrenaline.

  “It’s funny.”

  “Guess if you aren’t from where we’re from.”