Time of Our Lives

by Emily Wibberley

  The Stephen Robert ’62 Campus Center is full of prospective students and hovering parents. Hours-old snow dusts the sculpture in the courtyard and the patio furniture. I walk into the foyer, pretending I’m not checking the hallway for a certain ponytail. In the presentation room, I choose a seat near the back with a view of the rest of the rows.

  I watch the door. I don’t even reach for the dictionary tucked into my parka pocket. Sempiternal and verisimilitude will have to wait. Bouncing my knee nervously, I try vainly to remember it’s unlikely Juniper and I have booked the same session.

  People file in the double doors behind me. I watch kids in Brown sweatshirts and bright-eyed parents enter the room, quickly picking out seats and, probably, checking out the competition. I couldn’t care less who the competition is.

  The doors close. Despite telling myself I likely wouldn’t see Juniper, I can’t help it. I’m disappointed. I guess I was stupid to guess she’d be in today’s ten a.m. session just because we’d both been in the ten a.m. BU presentation. It’s typical me, hoping nothing ever changes.

  The presentation begins. I pull out the dictionary.

  While the presenter regales us with the usual routine of facts and figures, photographs and platitudes, I focus on the words. Quixotic. Definition: impractically idealistic, foolishly unrealistic, e.g., a quixotic undertaking.

  I thumb the pages until finally the presentation ends. We’re divided into tour groups, and I halfheartedly follow my guide, who looks impossibly thrilled to be escorting twenty parents and kids like me through his campus in the snow. While David, the sophomore who’s concentrating in public health, escorts us into the Ruth J. Simmons Quadrangle, I check out. I catch myself repeatedly watching crowds of visitors and groups of students, looking for familiar brown eyes and wavy hair.

  Knock it off, I order myself.

  We finish our route, ending up in front of the campus center. David the Sophomore Concentrating in Public Health enthusiastically wishes us good luck with our applications. I decide to keep wandering the campus. The freezing weather reddening my nose and watering my eyes, I stuff my hands into my pockets and walk into the College Green.

  This campus is different from BU, contained and classically old. The uniform brick of the buildings, the white columns framing wooden doors, wrought-iron fences around quiet quads. Wandering to the corner, I reach the Italianate tower that caught my curiosity on the tour. The tower’s bricks climb higher than every other building nearby. Four clocks the color of old copper face the campus in every direction. THE CARRIE TOWER reads the inscription carved over the door. I circle the structure and find more details carved into the back.

  It’s a memorial. It commemorates Carrie Mathilde Brown, from her husband.

  It feels futile. Sure, everyone who walks this campus will see her monument, and everyone who reads the inscription will know the name Carrie Mathilde Brown. What the tower can’t tell them is the color of her hair, the sound of her laugh, what kind of friend she was, what she enjoyed. If we could reduce everybody’s essence into enduring physical objects, we would. But we’re only pretending the memorials we erect could possibly embody those we’ve lost. Memory and memorial may share a linguistic root, but they’re estranged brothers, not twins.

  I think of pulling well-worn novels from bookshelves. I think of folding Thanksgiving tablecloths and eating plates of eggplant parmesan. I think of stacking pages of student dissertations on Hawthorne and Melville and Twain.

  Even if you wrote every memory imaginable on to a memorial a million feet high, you would fail to capture infinite others.

  I walk from the Carrie Tower onto Prospect Street and gradually explore the rest of the campus. The brick buildings blend together, especially under the ubiquitous blanket of frost. They’re undeniably impressive, colonial and imposing in a way I know characterizes the college dreams of countless of my classmates. I barely taste the sandwich I get for lunch in the student center, my eyes drifting to every unfamiliar face that enters.

  Heading onto one of the campus’s identically tree-lined roads, I wrestle down a growing dejection. I’ve circumnavigated dorms and paused in front of libraries, passed gleaming genetics buildings and entered empty foyers. No sign of Juniper. I’m left to confront why I’m, okay, obsessed with this girl. I could distract myself from this college tour if I were wondering when or whether I’d run into her. With the chance we’ll reconnect pretty much gone, it’s only me and the emptiness of this idea of my mom’s. I don’t want to concentrate in public health. I don’t want to read in the Ruth J. Simmons Quadrangle. I don’t want to remember Carrie Brown or her husband.

  I head downhill for the bed-and-breakfast.

  When I reach the room, I find Lewis napping. With the feeling only starting to return to my fingers, I decide I need a shower to warm up. Standing under the scalding water, I systematically remind myself of every reason it’s good I didn’t find Juniper. Now is definitely not the time to be interested in a girl who could live in Georgia or Ohio or wherever and who has elaborate plans involving possible PhDs in California or London. Oh, and who has a boyfriend.

  I step out of the shower and pull on clothes. When I open the door, Lewis is putting on his shoes.

  “You have dinner plans?” I ask. It’s nearly seven, and it occurs to me I’m going to have to find dinner for myself. I remember walking past a pretty promising burger place near campus.

  “We have dinner plans.” Lewis jumps up. Glancing into the mirror over the desk, he runs his fingers through his hair. “I have a friend here who mentioned a party at one of the coed frats. We’ll find a restaurant in town, then head to campus.”

  “Yeah, no,” I reply. I don’t even enjoy high school parties. The idea of going to a college one with Lewis doesn’t improve the prospect.

  My brother ignores me. “It’s time to quit moping,” he continues. “You have to get out and experience a real taste of college.”

  “I’m not moping,” I say, frustration flaring in me. It’s only partly true, but I’m not taking orders from Lewis.

  Lewis’s expression changes, solemn and searching. “Look, I know you’re having a hard time with the Mom thing—”

  “The Mom thing?” I interrupt.

  “It’s shitty,” Lewis continues, undeterred. “But you have to start living your life. Mom and I are both worried about you.”

  The casual way he invokes Mom pisses me off. He doesn’t know the first thing about what worries her. Knowing would involve visiting or phone calls or even a damn email every now and again. There’s no way he’s worried about me, either. If he were, he could’ve visited or called or written me.

  But those thoughts are weapons for a battle I’ll never fight. “Living my own life wouldn’t include going to parties,” I say instead.

  “How do you know until you try?” Lewis counters. “You might meet a girl there who’ll make you forget whoever you were hoping to see in Providence.”

  I don’t bother wondering how he knows I didn’t run into Juniper. He’s probably guessing. “Forget it,” I say. “I’m not going. You don’t need me there to get wasted.”

  “This isn’t about me getting wasted,” he replies. “Well, it’s mostly not about me getting wasted. Just try something, Fitz. For once, try something.”

  I drop down onto the bed. “No,” I say resolutely.

  Lewis sighs and walks to the door. With his hand on the handle, he pauses. “How about this?” he asks, turning back to me. “Come to this party and I promise, if you want, I’ll drive you home tomorrow.”

  I blink, my thoughts snagging on a dozen discarded rebuttals. “What?” I get out. “What about Mom?”

  “I’ll explain it to Mom. Let’s face it, we both know touring a bunch of schools you’ve decided not to like won’t change your mind about SNHU.”

  I’m almost afraid to say it. Afraid this is
a trap and Lewis is going to ridicule me or leave me behind without another word. “If I just go to this party,” I say slowly, “then you promise you’ll take me home tomorrow? No tricks?”

  Lewis grins. “Get your coat.”

  Juniper

  I, JUNIPER RAMÍREZ, have officially slept in a college dorm.

  There were things I knew I would love on this trip. The grandiose Gothic campuses, the new cities, even the presentations with their wonderfully real projections of the future. The distance from my family. What I didn’t know I’d love was every inch of room A314 in Keeney. The Brown flag hanging in the corner, the crooked posters of The Last Jedi and Radiohead, the three beanbag chairs, the windows with chipped white paint on the frames.

  It’s everything I never knew to expect. It’s perfect.

  We’re staying with Carter Wright, Matt’s former teammate from the baseball team, who’s a freshman. Carter’s roommate, Theo, inflated their air mattress, and we slept on the floor in between their twin beds. I didn’t care that we were in close quarters. Growing up with five siblings and sharing a room with Marisa my whole life prepared me very well for college.

  Instead of the usual tour and information session, Carter gave us his own tour of the campus. We roamed for three hours, which left me plenty of time for every question I’d prepared on the drive down. He took us into places I’m pretty certain they don’t include on the official tour. His favorite dining hall for breakfast, the local coffee shop with the shortest lines, the lounge for when you’re pretending you want to study and really just want to hang out with friends. I held Matt’s hand, and the hours shed from the day effortlessly. It felt possible. It felt real.

  Now we’re eating dinner out of Chinese takeout cartons as we sit on the beanbag chairs. The door is propped open, and people pass by on their way to the bathroom or to libraries or to parties, popping their heads in every now and then to talk to Carter or Theo. Theo’s computer is open on his desk, playing intolerable music from the college radio station. Thankfully, Theo keeps the volume nearly inaudible until the voice of the female host replaces the music. He turns the volume way up to hear Tina Wu’s commentary interlude. It’s kind of cute.

  When I look to Matt, I find him thumbing through the textbook next to his beanbag. I read the cover. Introduction to Cosmology.

  I nudge him. “What’s that?”

  “What?” For once, Matt seems like he’s elsewhere. His eyes find mine, refocusing. “Oh, this astronomy book is just cool.”

  “Tell me,” I urge him.

  “It’s about the expansion of the universe.” He glances back to the book, and I have to say, his evident interest is kind of a turn-on. “It’s just not stuff we’ve learned in school,” he continues. “But the ideas are really, you know, big. Important. It’s unbelievable what’s out there.”

  I lean into him. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. It could be a cool class.” He closes the textbook.

  “Definitely,” I say. “Could be a cool major, too.”

  He looks timidly hopeful. I’m thrown forward, a year into the future. We’re here—or not here. The place isn’t important, because we’re together. I’m in an architecture program, and he’s in astronomy. I reach my creations toward the stars, while he reaches up and pulls the stars to us.

  “What’s the senior trip this year?” Carter’s question interrupts my reverie.

  “Lake Placid!” Matt replies enthusiastically. “White-water rafting, bonfire, the whole thing.”

  Carter nods. “Okay, dude. Words of wisdom from an experienced college freshman. Don’t waste a moment of that trip. Now, college is the bomb,” he pronounces, holding up a hand like a Greek orator. “I’m just telling you, once high school is gone, it’s gone.”

  He’s not wrong. I haven’t contemplated other moments closer in the future—the last time I’ll have lunch with Matt and our friends in the courtyard under the warm sun, the feeling of submitting my final papers and finishing final exams, the hug I know I’m going to give Ms. Delores for two years of English classes. They’ll be bittersweet moments, tearful congratulations, and half-happy goodbyes.

  Matt takes my hand. I have a feeling he’s remembering those futures too.

  I rest my head on his shoulder. Everything we’ll leave behind when we finish high school will hurt in a way I hadn’t predicted. But the edge of the pain blunts when I remember everything exhilarating to come. I’m not just leaving things behind. I’m leaving them for lunches in the quad, history lectures in wood-paneled halls, and the look on Matt’s face when he comes back from the first class he loves. Maybe it’ll be astronomy.

  Fitz

  ON THE WAY to my first and likely only college party, I observe the contrasts of campus nightlife like I’m watching one of the National Geographic specials I was really into when I got my wisdom teeth out and had hours of daytime to devote to television.

  Girls in puffy coats over their short dresses wobble on high heels, and I honestly have no idea how they’re handling the ice. It’s got to be some secret college-girl skill, because not one of them even stumbles. In the opposite direction walk students probably on their way to the library, wearing sweatpants and huddling books to their chests. Loud music vibrates from dorms near darkened lecture halls.

  Lewis leads us to the front patio of one of the dorms where the party has poured outside. People hang out on the porch swing, drinking from nondescript cups, while four guys play cornhole on the lawn. Lewis heads for the open door with what I’m guessing is practiced casual confidence. He probably goes to parties like this every weekend.

  Inside, we head directly downstairs. The stairwell is painted with big Greek letters, and the floor is sticky. Bright, discordant murals cover the walls in the basement, which branches into hallways heading in every direction and packed with people. I pass what I assume is the fraternity’s crest and pause in front of a figure I recognize from a picture book. Caps for Sale. The character, a well-dressed salesman, holds his wares on his head, off of which they’re stolen by rowdy monkeys. I don’t remember the ending.

  In front of one wall decorated with Jigglypuff from Pokémon, Lewis heads left. I follow him into what I gather is the fraternity’s taproom. It’s chaotically decorated, with white Christmas lights strung haphazardly from the ceiling and trash or people’s drinks covering every inch of the wooden countertop. I don’t know how people tell which is which.

  The room is hopelessly crowded. Girls dance in the center to excruciatingly loud music. The guys hang out in the wooden booths built into the walls, drinks in hand, watching everything and nothing. Lewis heads for the counter of endless cups while I remain near the door.

  I feel profoundly out of place.

  Lewis returns holding his drink. We head back into the hallway, which is good because with the music and the lights and the jostling bodies and the pungent smell of beer, I’d started to feel a bit dizzy. I breathe deeply in the hall, reminding myself I just have to do this for one night. Then I get to go home, get to put this trip behind me and focus on what’s important.

  “I’m going to play a round.” Lewis nudges me, nodding in the direction of the Ping-Pong table we passed on the way in. It occupies a ridiculous amount of the hallway, and teams of two play beer pong. There’s yelling and drinking every time one of the Ping-Pong balls drops into a plastic cup.

  I nod wordlessly.

  “I could teach you if you want,” Lewis offers.

  “I’m good,” I reply. “I think I’ll walk around.” I turn in the opposite direction with utterly no idea where I’m going.

  “Call me if you go anywhere, okay?” Lewis half asks, half orders.

  I nod once and plunge into the crowd, regretting the decision instantly. I’m doubly aimless and overwhelmed without Lewis. I push out of the hall into the front stairwell and head up, passing the door where we entered. Nearby in
a narrow foyer, a chandelier draped with toilet paper hangs from the ceiling. I wander in and follow the room to the doorway on the other end, which opens into a larger common area. This room’s equally crowded, if fortunately less claustrophobic. Windows line the walls, and the entire room is effectively a dark dance floor.

  It feels intensely anonymous. Not in a comfortable way either. In an unpredictable, vaguely frightening way. I acknowledge pulling out my dictionary would render me the weirdest person in the vicinity of this entire college campus, so I focus on putting words to the experience instead.

  Discomfiture (n.): the unease, close to embarrassment, I feel walking amid partygoers enjoying the kind of party I’d never go to on my own, on a college campus I’ll never call my own.

  I force myself farther into the crowd. Suddenly really thirsty, I decide to find the bar—only for a cup of water. I’ve never had the curiosity for underage drinking I know almost every one of my classmates does. I have a hard enough time holding on to control of my circumstances without the liquid catalyst for risks and abandon. When I’ve nearly reached the counter, someone barrels into me and I feel something wet slosh onto my sleeve.

  Bacchanalian (adj.): characterized by drunkenness and excessive revelry, even on Sunday nights, probably with fall semester finals coming up.

  Ataraxia (n.): the peaceful calm I’ll feel when I get the hell out of here.

  The bar consists only of open bottles from which people mix their own drinks. The girl next to me pours together Sprite and whatever’s in the clear plastic bottle she’s holding while I reach for the soda water. I dump what’s left into one of the plastic cups. It’s flat but not terrible.