In the Wild Light

by Jeff Zentner

  “What’s it you called him?”

  I don’t want to say it. But I do, to keep the peace. “Papaw.”

  “Papaw?” He snickers.

  “It’s an East Tennessee thing.” I should have waited until I found my headphones.

  “You must have gotten a fire-ass scholarship.”

  Because we sound unsophisticated and hillbilly. I want him to stop prying. I don’t feel like telling him why I called my grandparents instead of my parents.

  Tripp turns, sits at the edge of his bed, and stands, stretching and yawning. He slips on a pair of New Balance running shoes. “Hitting the gym.” He picks up a duffel bag at the foot of his bed and starts to leave, sauntering with an easy arrogance. He’s almost out the door when he turns back. “By the way, your poppop or whatever sounds like shit. He should go to the doctor—like today.” There’s no concern in Tripp’s voice, only the casual contempt of someone annoyed at the inconvenient reminder that our bodies fail us and we die.

  “Yeah,” I murmur to the door as it closes behind Tripp. “I know.”

  * * *

  After Tripp leaves, I make my bed and put away my clothes. It doesn’t take long. I hide my bottle of river water under my socks.

  The emotional and physical toll of the last twenty-four-plus hours overtakes me, and I try to sleep, the familiar smell of the Arm & Hammer laundry detergent that Mamaw uses perfuming my sheets and salving my homesickness a bit. But every time I’m about to drift off, Tripp’s mockery reverberates in my mind, the stab of anger acting like a shot of caffeine. It’s always just enough to keep me awake for another ten minutes, wondering if anything about Middleford will be easy, wondering if I’m destined to spend a year being scorned and making my papaw’s last memories of me ones of defeat.

  Solitary, in my small room, in a building full of boys, is the most lonely and afraid for the future I’ve felt since I sat trembling on the front porch of my trailer, listening through the jagged wailing in my head to the distant crescendo of sirens as they came to collect what was left of my mama.

  I hear someone approaching in the hall, and I pray it isn’t Tripp. I’m relieved when there’s a knock, and I check the time—it’s right about when someone was supposed to be by to take me to see my counselor.

  I answer the door, and a friendly-looking kid with wavy dark hair and glasses, who appears a couple years older than me, stands there.

  “You Cash?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  “I’m Cameron, one of the fourth-floor dorm proctors. Welcome to Middleford.” He gives me a firm handshake. He exudes cheerful generosity.

  “Hey, man.”

  “Ms. Clark told me you’re from Sawyer, Tennessee.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m from Nashville.”

  I brighten. “No way!”

  “I know Sawyer. We passed through there on family vacations in Asheville. Beautiful area.”

  “For sure.” Thank God not everyone here is like Tripp.

  “Just FYI, the dining hall is mostly great, but they never get biscuits quite right. And—trigger warning—you’re going to see people putting sugar and maple syrup on grits. Bless their hearts.”

  I grin. “Thanks for warning me.”

  “I’m supposed to shepherd you to your counselor. Ready?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  As we walk, Cameron gestures toward a small open area with sofas and chairs arranged around a wall-mounted television. “This is the fourth-floor common area. We have movie nights, video-game tournaments, that sorta thing. If you ever feel homesick, we have a Saturday-night tradition where we watch this funny show called Midnite Matinee on New Canaan public access. These two ladies who have no business being on television—which is why it rules—dress up like vampires and do goofy skits and show cheesy old horror movies. They’re from Tennessee. Sunday nights, we watch Bloodfall.”

  “Cool.”

  Cameron points down the hall. “On every other floor, there’s a big corner unit where someone from the faculty lives. In this building, they’re on floors one and three. So if you have an issue one of the dorm proctors can’t handle, pop down to the third floor. Me and my roommate actually live in the corner unit on this floor.”

  I vaguely remember reading about this, but it didn’t register at the time. “Teachers live right here? In the building?”

  “I mean, they get pranked sometimes, but always very innocent, deeply nerdy stuff. A voice instructor, Mrs. Torres, lives on the first floor with her husband, who teaches history. They’ve lived there for twenty years or something like that. Raised two kids there. Dr. Karpowitz from the English department lives on the third floor with his wife.”

  We pass a couple of open doors, with students sitting inside rooms, chatting in small groups or arranging things.

  “Hey, Cam,” someone calls. “You got any duct tape?”

  “How many times have I told you it’s less painful to shave your balls?”

  “But then it grows back twice as thick. Seriously, though.”

  “Yeah, it’s in a tub under my bed. Raheel’s probably there, but if not, get up with me in a sec and I’ll let you in.”

  We keep walking. Cam looks at me apologetically. “Sorry, man. Atul and I always roast each other. I should’ve made sure you were okay with that sort of joking around.”

  I flash to Delaney flipping me off. “No worries.”

  While we’re in the elevator, Cameron asks, “You sign up for laundry service?”

  “Not in the budget.” It never even entered the conversation with Papaw and Mamaw. It was hundreds of dollars a year extra that my scholarship didn’t cover.

  “I hear you, dude. So, laundry facilities are in the basement. You work the machines with your student card.”

  Cameron and I keep chatting as we walk. I’m still feeling low-grade despair at the thought of spending the next year here, rooming with Tripp, but knowing there are at least some friendly people here other than Delaney (and even that depends on the day) helps a bit.

  As I walk up the steps of the admin building, Cameron says, “All right, man. You know your way back?”

  I nod.

  “Let me know if you need anything. Duct tape. Whatever.”

  “I normally just shave,” I say.

  Cameron grins. “Well played, dude.”

  * * *

  “I know it’s unwelcome news,” my academic counselor, Victoria Kwon, says. “But believe me when I say that you’re better off repeating sophomore year here than being a junior at an ordinary school.”

  I must appear as gut-punched as I feel. “So I’m not a junior this year?” Another year away from Papaw and Mamaw? Thanks for telling me, Delaney.

  “No. And also because we don’t have junior year here. It’s called ‘fifth form.’ Sophomore year would be ‘fourth form.’ But I know that’s little comfort.”

  “Yeah, no.”

  “It’s common to have to repeat grades when transferring from public school to a private school like this one. You have no reason to feel ashamed,” Victoria says while looking again at my transcript.

  I rub my forehead and exhale in a low whistle. I’m imagining calling Papaw and Mamaw and telling them their grandson is basically getting held back. Looks like I get to start disappointing them immediately.

  “I bet you’ll end up glad you got the extra year here.” She turns back to her computer monitor and scrolls. “Okay…okay…so all Middleford students are required to have an after-school sport. I don’t see that you played any sports at your old school.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Ever wanted to try any?”

  “Hmm.” I’d considered going out for football. Thought I’d have done all right, too. Papaw would’ve loved it. But I mentioned it to Delaney and she freaked out and
started lecturing me about concussions and chronic traumatic encephalopathy (she made me repeat the name until I had it memorized) and reciting statistics until I promised her I wouldn’t.

  “What do you love doing?”

  “I like being outside. Canoeing. Let me think—”

  Victoria perks up. “How about crew?”

  “I’m not even sure what that is.”

  “Workouts are hard, but you look like you could handle it.” She types and motions for me to come around and look at her monitor. She’s pulled up a YouTube video showing a long, narrow boat gliding knifelike through the water. The boat’s oarsmen row with a hypnotic, machinistic precision. It’s strangely beautiful.

  I keep watching, mesmerized. It’s deeply soothing—something I could use. “Sure.”

  “Yay!” Victoria gives a little clap of delight. “Almost done. You need an English credit. Any preferences?”

  “Not really.” I almost say, Something easy, but I remember Papaw’s admonition.

  She taps a pen against her lips for a moment in thought. “A space just opened up in Dr. Britney Rae Adkins’s Intro to Poetry class. She’s brilliant. Her poetry collection, Holler, just came out with Copper Canyon Press, and it’s been getting huge awards buzz.” Victoria leans in confidentially. “Between us, I’d be surprised if we were able to keep her here. You better take advantage.”

  I’ve never in my life thought about taking a poetry class. “I don’t know if I’m a big poetry guy.”

  “It’s an intro class. You might not be a big poetry guy. But you might. Based on Dr. Adkins’s evaluations, if you are, you’ll know it by the end of her class.”

  I lean back in my chair, my elbows on the armrests, steepling my fingers in front of my mouth. “Sign me up.” I try to sound confident and casual. What are you getting yourself into?

  Victoria cheers and high-fives me. “Well, Cash, looks like we’ve got your class schedule locked down. The rest of the weekend is yours to get settled in. We’ll be having a mixer tonight. A bus is going into New Canaan tomorrow if you need to hit Target or the mall. I can get you the schedule for on-campus worship services, or we have vans that can take you off campus. The athletic center will also be open. Try to fit as much playtime as you can into the next couple of days, because, come Monday, we’ll be working hard.”

  This sends a fresh wave of anxiety through me. I leave Victoria’s office. The air is warm and sharp with the familiar green smell of cut foliage as groundskeepers whip campus into shape. More students mill around. I stand on the front steps of the administration building and step aside to let a few people pass. I wait for a lull in foot traffic, close my eyes, and turn my face to the sun, the insides of my eyelids fluorescing red. I envision the metronomic beat of the rowing from the video. I want to be there, letting my hungry muscles burn off my anxiety, one stroke at a time.

  I hear in my mind the swish of the boat cutting through the water, a whisper of a thing that returns to perfection the moment we leave it.

  I like knowing there are bodies whose scars heal completely right in front of you. I expect I’ll need that reminder in the days to come.

  Delaney and I sit with our trays. A basket of chicken tenders for me, a chicken salad wrap for her. Fries for both of us. The dining hall is more crowded than at breakfast. Students fill the space with an animated buzz; mini reunions are happening here and there. I overhear one student ask another how Geneva was over the summer. “Sucked ass. Annika and my dad were smashing every night, and I could hear them. How was Mumbai?” she asks. “Hot as hell,” her friend responds. “How was Kuala Lumpur?” All fresh reminders of how out of place I am here.

  “Why’d I get a wrap? They’re always such a bummer,” Delaney says.

  “So you knew we’d be repeating sophomore year?” I ask her.

  “Fourth form,” she says with her mouth full. “And no. I thought there might be a possibility but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Delaney shrugs. “As you’ll recall, you took a fair bit of convincing to come here. Why hand you another excuse not to come if I wasn’t certain?”

  I’m sure I’ll be angrier when I’ve had time to think about it, but I don’t have the energy right now. “Whatever. How’s the roomie?”

  Delaney brightens. “Cool. Smart. Wants to become a video-game developer. How’s yours?”

  “The opposite.”

  “I looked him up. Before his dad became a US House rep, he was some big-time private security contractor. Like he provided mercenaries to governments. Some of his guys got prosecuted for killing civilians in Iraq.”

  “My high school roommate is the heir to a mercenary army?”

  “Yep.”

  “Cool. He mocked Papaw’s accent, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I was videochatting with Papaw without headphones, and Tripp could hear. And he made fun of how Papaw says ‘up there.’ ”

  “Piece of shit.”

  “I wanted to beat his ass, but I also didn’t want to get kicked out on my first day.”

  “I’d have been real mad. But damn.”

  “He said his old school was shitty. Bet he got kicked out for something and he’s pissed about being here.”

  “I’d hate being here alone,” Delaney murmurs. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  I nod and we eat quietly for a moment.

  “What you end up doing for your sport?” Delaney asks.

  “Rowing team,” I say through a bite. “You?”

  “Field hockey.”

  We snort-laugh. But Delaney will probably make a pretty decent field hockey player, especially if scrappiness and the ability to take a hit, dust yourself off, and get back up again make for success in the sport.

  We compare schedules. She’s on a special STEM track. So no class overlap, which isn’t surprising but is disappointing. I’d feel better if there were at least a class or two where Delaney could help with my homework.

  “Intro to Poetry?” Delaney giggles. “Gonna buy you a beret. Get you one of those striped French-guy shirts.”

  “Go on. Laugh. There once was a man from Nantucket.”

  She suddenly turns gravely serious. “I think it’s awesome. Why come here if we just take classes we could’ve back home?”

  “Poetry teacher’s supposed to be great.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see three bookish-looking girls approaching timidly.

  “Hey, sorry to interrupt,” one of the girls says.

  “No worries,” I say.

  “Are you—” The girl points at Delaney, who looks up expectantly, waiting for the girl to finish. After it becomes clear that Delaney isn’t going to finish her sentence for her, the girl continues. “The one from Tennessee?”

  “There’s more than one from Tennessee at this table,” Delaney says. I know her well enough to know that she’s not trying to be prickly—just precise. But her questioner wouldn’t know that.

  I give Delaney a take-it-easy-we’re-new-here look, but she refuses me eye contact.

  The girl blushes. “I meant the one in the Middleford newsletter.”

  “Oh,” Delaney says, looking at her tray. “Maybe? Haven’t seen it.”

  “There was a picture that looked like you. You discovered a plant or something?”

  “A new strain of penicillin. They named it after me. Penicillium delanum.”

  One of the girl’s friends behind her pipes up. “We have kind of a weird question. Hope it’s not offensive or anything.”

  “Okay,” Delaney says apprehensively.

  “We heard you guys were, like, married?”

  Delaney and I stare at each other for a second, speechless. We burst into laughter.

  “No,” I say. “We’re best friends and we came here to
gether. We are definitely not married.”

  The three girls laugh nervously. Their curiosity seems genuine and not an attempt to belittle us. This school must be full of socially awkward and curious kids. “We had just heard—Never mind,” the first girl says.

  “So people are saying we came here together because we’re married?” Delaney asks.

  “Yeah, I don’t know. People are weird,” the girl says. “Sorry to interrupt.” The three begin edging away. “See you guys around?”

  “See y’all later,” Delaney says.

  The girls leave, and Delaney and I share a look.

  “This school must be a very small world,” Delaney says.

  “Who reads their school newsletter?”

  “Middleford kids.”

  We pick at our food for a few more seconds.

  “Bet they wouldn’t have asked that if we were from LA or Paris,” Delaney says quietly.

  “We should probably get used to it,” I say. My heart sags further.

  We’ve both finished our food, but we stay put. For the first time, it sets in how lonely I would also be right now if I had stayed behind while Delaney went on without me. No winning.

  Delaney pushes back her seat and stands.

  “Where you going?” I ask.

  “Give them something to talk about,” she says with a puckish gleam.

  “Red.”

  “You’ll like it,” she says over her shoulder.

  “I’m worried.”

  “Don’t be.” She walks to a large silver machine with a spigot, picks up two clear plastic cups, and fills each with a towering ivory spiral of vanilla soft-serve, complete with a little loop on top. They could have been carved from white marble. Her Dairy Queen training on full display.

  She swaggers back, a cup in each hand, choosing a route that will take her past the most students. She smiles serenely as behind her, those who bother to notice point discreetly and whisper at her craft. Obviously, none have had a job that required them to learn how to dispense soft-serve in a visually pleasing manner. Someone says, “Nice.” Someone else says, “Hell yeah.”