“I was listening,” I protest weakly.
Juniper faces me, a hint of playfulness in her eyes. “Well, are you going to apply to BU?”
I sigh. I could lie, but the directness in her gazes makes me rethink it. Besides, in a couple more questions, she’d probably corner me into admitting the truth. “Compunctiously, no, I’m not,” I say, and her eyebrows—her perfectly shaped eyebrows—rise. I wince internally. Once again, the pretentious word choice just slipped out. I know from experience that obtuse and antiquated vocabulary generally doesn’t go over well with the girls I try to talk to. With anyone, really.
The woman behind the counter gestures in my direction, and I order quickly. Plain ricotta with chocolate chips. She throws together the familiar package of wax paper, cannoli, and enough powdered sugar to leave the dough beneath barely visible. Juniper orders Oreo.
Handing the woman a rumpled twenty over the counter, I’m conscious of Juniper’s silence. I probably put her off with the weird word choice. Or—a worse thought hits me. Boston University is probably her dream school, and I’ve just implicitly insulted her with my indifference. She receives her cannoli. “Look,” I say before she can turn to leave, “it’s not only BU. I’m on a college tour this week, and I’m not planning on applying to any of the schools I’m visiting.”
Juniper’s eyes widen. “You’re—what?” Gentle understanding settles on her features. “Oh, it’s okay if you don’t have great grades,” she says encouragingly, if a little patronizingly. “Colleges consider lots of other factors in their decisions. I’m certain you could get in if you wanted to.”
I blink. “What? No,” I rush to clarify, wanting with startling urgency for this girl not to think I’m unintelligent. “It’s not that I don’t think I could get in. I have fine grades and a practically perfect SAT score.”
God, that sounded douchey. But Juniper doesn’t look bothered, only curious. The people behind us push forward, breaking our eye contact for a moment. Our shoulders brush, her chestnut curls swinging with the movement. Glancing over the crowd, I see an open table for two in the corner, near the long window.
“Want to sit?” I venture uncharacteristically. Years of lunches and weekends spent with the same three or four friends don’t generally lead to spontaneously inviting random gorgeous girls for cozy cannoli dates. Of course, I have absolutely no expectation she won’t produce a flimsy excuse for why she needs to return to her hotel because she remembered I’m a complete weirdo who she never wanted to have a conversation with in the first place.
“Okay,” she says.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. But incredibly, I keep it together and nod toward the table under the window. We push into the crowd, cannoli boxes held in front of us. We’re pulling out chairs when Juniper eyes me again.
“What do you want to do instead of college?” she asks.
“Oh, I’m going to college.” I open the white flaps on the box and pull out the cannoli, powdered sugar sprinkling down like snow. “I just don’t want to go to any of the colleges on my tour. They’re too hard to travel to.”
“Compunctiously, I have to tell you that’s a dumb reason,” Juniper replies. There’s lighthearted confrontation in her eyes, and I get the feeling she’s proving she knew exactly what the word meant when I dropped it earlier. She’s probably trying to put me in my place. Instead, I can’t help leaning a little closer over our window nook. If this girl intrigued me before, now I’m fascinated. “We’re on the East Coast of the United States, not the moon,” she continues. “There are buses, trains, flights wherever you want to go.”
I don’t really want to get into my reasons for wanting to go to college near home. Besides, I want to know about her. “Where do you want to go?” I crunch into my cannoli. It’s heaven, exactly the way I remember. “What’s your top choice?”
If Juniper notices my deflection, she doesn’t comment—but I’m guessing she doesn’t notice, because I can tell she’s the type who, when she wants to know something, pursues it until she does. “Everywhere,” she says easily. I tilt my head, curious. But her eyes have wandered out the window, her expression faraway and hungry. “I mean, if there weren’t application fees, I would apply everywhere,” she adds. “I’m on a college tour this week too. Already I can tell there are so many great schools out there. It’s going to be impossible to decide. Part of me hopes I’ll only get into one and I won’t have to. I’ll probably end up on the East Coast for undergrad because flights cost money I don’t have. But maybe I’ll get a master’s or PhD in California or London or wherever. It’s exciting to imagine myself in other parts of the country, even on other continents.”
We both realize she’s rambling. I think it’s awesome. She doesn’t. Her embarrassment is evident in the way she turns quickly to face me, tugging that tight ponytail, her cheeks heating.
“What about you?” she asks. “Why go on a college tour if you’re not planning to go to any of the colleges on the tour?”
“I’m on this trip because my mom’s forcing me,” I explain. “But I’m committed to Southern New Hampshire University.” Even saying the name gives me a rush of reassurance. Memories flit through my mind of the wide lawns, the brick buildings, the expansive windows, and the elegant columns of the modern library. “I practically grew up on the campus because my mom’s a professor there,” I continue. “It’s close to home. Familiar.”
Juniper’s finished her cannoli. I’m not even halfway through mine.
“Let me get this straight,” she says, pointedly pausing to dust off her fingers. “Your parents are encouraging enough of your college choices to send you on a tour. You have fine grades and a practically perfect SAT score”—she recites my words verbatim—“and I’ve already explained how travel won’t be a problem. Yet you want to return to a campus you grew up on, a campus that’s familiar?”
“Well, there are things more important than college,” I tell her. Frustration stirs in me. I should’ve known this girl wouldn’t understand. Should’ve expected she’d react the way every one of my classmates has, oblivious to the idea that there are other ways of thinking about the future.
Juniper’s nostrils flare, a frown shadowing her lips. She half opens her mouth, like she’s fighting what she wants to say.
I suddenly don’t want to be talking about this any longer. I want to change the direction of the conversation instead of only being the guy who told this PhD-bound girl he thinks there are more important things than college. But right then, I notice her boyfriend’s broad frame push through the door, and I know I won’t get the chance.
Juniper
I NARROW MY eyes, feeling a hundred retorts about to spring forward. But I hold them in. I don’t know this guy, and I know it’s wrong to come right out and criticize his whole worldview, even if I think it’s ridiculous. Instead, I try to formulate a lighter, reasonable rebuttal. Before I have the chance, a hand drops gently onto my shoulder.
“There you are.” Matt smiles down, stepping up to my side.
I glance back to the boy with whom I hadn’t anticipated having a full-on discussion of college and the future. I honestly have no clue what compelled me to unload my entire prospective life plan on him. With a family skeptical and even dismissive of my desire to live my own life, I’ve learned to be a little wary of sharing my highest-flying hopes. Yet here I am. He might not be interested in college, but I’ll grudgingly concede he was a welcoming listener.
“This place is great,” Matt declares, and I don’t know if I love the distraction. He surveys the room, then nudges my shoulder to get my attention, his hundred-watt grin returning to me. “We could come here for date nights if we both go to college in Boston.”
“Yeah, when we’re not busy,” I remind him instinctively.
His green eyes flicker, and I know it’s not what he wanted to hear. I feel bad, but I’m not wrong. When Matt env
isions college, he pictures the life we have now, the dates and long conversations, except with new freedoms and a new city. I picture problem sets and sorority philanthropic events, having two-hour conversations in the dining hall with people we’ve never met, and walking each other to class under the fireworks of fall leaves. I just hope our different pictures are two parts of one panorama.
Matt glances at the boy I’m sitting with, whose presence I haven’t yet explained. I guess I don’t really have a good explanation. “Well,” Matt says stiffly, “I checked out of the hotel. Do you want to get dinner before we head to Providence? I know you wanted to explore the North End.”
“Yes,” I say enthusiastically, standing up and taking his hand. I’m not one for public displays of affection, but I feel bad for torpedoing his date idea.
I turn back to the boy, who’s taking his final bite of cannoli. His eyes flit to Matt’s and my clasped hands. When he peers back up at me, the frustration I saw earlier after I questioned his decision to go to a familiar college has returned. He blinks, and it disappears, erased so completely that I wonder if I misread him or if he’s practiced in letting go of irritation.
“It was . . . interesting meeting you . . .” I pause, realizing he never gave me his name.
“Oh, I’m Fitz,” he supplies.
“Fitz?” I repeat. “Like Fitzwilliam?” It’s not a name for redheaded teenage boys on college tours eating cannoli in Boston bakeries. It’s a name for snarky Jane Austen heroes.
“Like Fitzgerald. Not that that’s much better.”
“Damn,” Matt says. “Family name? I have a cousin named Eustace, after our grandfather.”
Fitz turns to Matt. Even though Matt interrupted us, even though his first words to Fitz were lightly disparaging, Fitz doesn’t appear annoyed. I’m convinced Matt is secretly a superhero with powers of uncanny likability.
“No,” Fitz replies. “My mom is really into twentieth-century American literature. My brother’s name is Lewis, for—”
“Sinclair Lewis,” I cut him off. “And F. Scott Fitzgerald.” Our eyes lock.
“Exactly,” Fitz says, and smiles widely for the first time. It’s not a flashy smile, not one used to being on display for large crowds. It’s the kind of smile for surprising kindnesses, for doors held open or dropped items picked up in hallways, for book recommendations or discovering you’ve both had the same favorite band since seventh grade. It’s exhilarated in a close-quarters kind of way.
Matt squeezes my hand, and I know he’s asking me if we can go.
“Right,” I say. “Well, I’m Juniper, and this is Matt. My boyfriend.” I don’t know why I include the “boyfriend” designation when it’s obvious. I continue. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again on this trip. You know, if you don’t decide other colleges aren’t worth a chance.”
He nods, and I swear a wry gleam enters his unreadable eyes. “Impossible to say,” Fitzgerald—Fitz—says with a shrug.
Fitz
I LIED TO Juniper. It wasn’t impossible to say. It is very possible we’ll cross paths. I don’t do “cool” very well, but in Mike’s I miraculously pulled out a noncommittal veneer even though I knew my own itinerary put me in Providence next.
I’m not following this girl to Providence. I’m not. I reminded myself of this important fact on the walk from Mike’s to the T, from the train down to my brother’s dorm.
It’s just serendipity that my tour and Juniper’s are putting us in the same city again. Pure coincidence.
It’s pretty probable she’s visiting Brown like I am—from her unusual preparedness in the BU information session and her use of compunctiously, she exuded the overachiever vibe of student council presidents and future valedictorians. But there are plenty of colleges in Providence, I tell myself while packing up my backpack in my brother’s room the next morning. Plenty of opportunities for me not to run into Juniper and Matt. It would be impossibly coincidental if we did reconnect.
But even the possibility filled me with nervous excitement, which got me out of bed before six. It’s unlike me, wanting to spend time with some stranger. But being a stranger to her lets me be unlike myself.
I took another brief shower and quickly folded the futon back into a couch, then waited while I heard my brother’s phone alarm go off three times. I knew he was repeatedly hitting snooze. Lewis never was a morning person. In fairness, I’m usually not either. After the fourth alarm, I banged on his door and heard a groggy, “I’m up.”
We were on the road half an hour later, Lewis rubbing his eyes and dressed in a rumpled polo, one of those ones with an animal embroidered on the pocket. It was snowing softly when we headed out. Lewis drove carefully, neither of us speaking while we navigated onto I-93 and through Quincy, passing ponds and white rooftops.
Mom calls when we’re nearing the Rhode Island state line. Lewis hits answer on his dashboard display. “Hey, Mom. You’re on speaker,” he says.
Mom’s voice crackles over the car stereo. “Oh, you’re driving? I figured I’d be waking you up. I thought Fitz’s tour was scheduled for ten.” It’s a relief hearing how focused and vivacious her voice is, how herself she sounds.
“Yeah,” Lewis says, shooting me a lightly disdainful look. “Fitz woke me up early. He was eager to get on the road. Dramatic change from trying to ditch the trip and take the bus back home.”
The commentary irks me, and I grit my teeth. It’s not worth calling Lewis out, though. I know he said it to piss me off, and he would only ignore me or continue belittling me if I spoke up. It’s going to be nine more days of this, I think ruefully. Nine long days.
“Well,” Mom says, sounding pleased if startled, “it’s wonderful you’re beginning to take an interest in the trip. Brown would be perfect for you, honey. With your grades and your SAT score, you can really consider the Ivies. I googled the campus, and it’s lovely. It looks like SNHU”—she says this in a way I know she imagines is casual—“except, you know, older.” She laughs.
“I’m sure it’s a nice campus,” I reply neutrally. I don’t have the heart to explain that my feelings on this college tour haven’t changed, except to the extent that the tour puts me in the path of one particular prospective coed.
“I hope you love it. Text me pictures, okay?” Mom charges on. “Love you both.”
“I will,” I promise. “Love you too.”
“Talk to you later, Mom,” Lewis says, and hangs up. Of course he doesn’t bother to tell our mother he loves her. Lewis is too cool for that kind of thing.
The brick buildings and barren trees of Pawtucket pass by outside. I put my forehead to the cold glass of the window and close my eyes, hoping to check out for the rest of the drive. I wish I could pull out my pocket dictionary, but I don’t want to deal with the shit I’d get from Lewis. Instead, I concentrate on cool, nonchalant ways to get a girl’s phone number without offending her intimidatingly muscled boyfriend. Hypothetically, of course.
“You don’t want to go to Brown,” Lewis says speculatively, interrupting my creative process.
I look over, finding him watching the road with thoughtfully narrowed eyes. Sitting stupidly in silence, I realize I’m astonished my brother figured this out. He hardly knows me. Even Mom, who does, was quick to forget I have a plan and I’m not wavering from it.
“I’m just doing what Mom wanted,” I reply carefully. “Visiting the schools, going on the tours, you know.”
“Yeah . . .” Lewis draws out the word, emphasizing his disbelief. “There’s a difference between doing what Mom wants and doing what Mom wants at seven in the morning. Not even you cling that tightly to her every wish.” Once again, I ignore the jab. He’s only trying to get a rise out of me. “You wouldn’t have hauled my ass out of bed bright and early for this itinerary,” he continues, pursing his lips, and with dread I watch an idea enter his eyes. “Do you have your own plan
s in Providence?”
“No,” I say quickly—too quickly. The instant the word exits my mouth, I know I’ve blundered into a conversational bear trap.
Confirming my worries, Lewis grins wolfishly. “Oh, I get it,” he goads. “I know what’s going on here. You know a girl at Brown? The hot girl from high school who’s a couple years older than you who you still have a thing for? Everyone has their upperclassman crush,” he pontificates. “Nicole Kepler. Whoo.” He bites a knuckle, performing the jock-bro role he’s evidently gotten used to. “Went to Berkeley. Your Nicole Kepler goes to Brown, doesn’t she?”
“There’s no . . . Nicole Kepler,” I fumble to contradict him. “It’s not that.”
“Uh-huh.” Lewis glances over. “There’s a girl. There’s definitely a girl.”
“What’s it to you?” I ask harshly. Lewis isn’t really interested. He’s never been interested in my life. He’s just playing his favorite game of pressing me about girls, putting on the older brother posture and flaunting his own casualness in romantic conquests. It’s Twenty Questions, except with a victim.
“I’m just curious,” he answers. “I’m going to figure it out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out.”
“Of course there’s not.”
“Whatever,” I reply, fuming.
“Whatever?” Lewis repeats. “Are you feeling all right? Don’t you mean antediluvian vagaracity or something?”
Here goes the dictionary shit. I didn’t even have to pull out the book. “Vagaracity isn’t a word,” I reply flatly.
Lewis ignores the retort, something he’s infuriatingly good at, and nods confidently to himself. “There’s definitely a girl.”
Fitz
I GET TO the Brown information session at ten minutes to ten and out of breath. There’s a punishing hill between the bed-and-breakfast where Lewis and I checked in this morning and the campus. By the second block of close-to-vertical sidewalks, my legs were burning and I felt sweat stains forming under my parka. They’re practically neon lettering over my head proclaiming, Hey, everyone, Fitz is out of shape. It’s a cool look for possibly running into Juniper and Matt.
Time of Our Lives Page 7
