Time of Our Lives

by Emily Wibberley

  Dave looks momentarily thrown. “Does that mean loud?” he asks.

  “Loud and unruly,” I supply hesitantly.

  “Yes. Exactly.” He nods fervently. He walks past me, heading for the food line. “Come on, Fitz. I need bacon.”

  I follow through the dining hall, threading between tables and chairs draped with coats. While we pile our plates, Dave introduces me to a few of his friends, guys in the political science program, one of whom is writing his thesis on the political plausibility of The Handmaid’s Tale. They’re friendly, full of questions on my hometown and what I want to study. I notice my nerves from the beginning of the night are gone.

  It makes me wonder whether Juniper was right. If my fear of change is something I have to face and fight, and my mom is only my excuse not to. Because tonight had nothing to do with my mom, and yet I was ready to give up on it before I’d even given it a chance. I was going to write this experience off like I did with Cara, like I’d planned with college, like I was preparing to do with Juniper. But I didn’t give up on tonight. I let it sweep over me, and the only consequence was that I had a memorable, wonderful night. If I let other things in, it might be fine. It might even be wonderful.

  Maybe I’ve made Mom my excuse every time. For Cara, college, my future.

  But if my fear comes from me, I can fight it for myself.

  Sitting with Dave and his friends, a plate full of half-finished pancakes before me, my thoughts return to the one thing I need to do. I stand up from the table, searching the room for a particular ponytail.

  Juniper

  I LOVED THE Primal Scream at first. The frenetic buzz was exactly how I’d imagined it when I read up on the tradition over my solitary dinner in Philly. When I entered Sharples Hall, I went up to the first girl I found and asked if she comes every semester. She told me she did, and I wanted to keep talking to her, but she got a text and walked off to join her friends.

  Enveloped in the crowd, I wove through tables, looking for Fitz. But the countdown began before I found him. The seconds wound down to midnight, and the room erupted. I prepared to join the hundreds of voices screaming themselves hoarse, pouring out their every emotion in one cathartic rush.

  I couldn’t. My lungs, my heart, wouldn’t. I have things I want to scream. The day with Fitz, everything with Matt, the pressures of my family. I just couldn’t.

  I hated the feeling. Everywhere around me, students were clinging to each other, laughing, coming together, and all I felt was alone.

  I walked out of Sharples Hall into the night, where I heard the echoed screams of students who couldn’t come to the dining hall joining in from their dorm rooms. I’ve been wandering the campus for the past ten minutes, my thoughts a blizzard colder than the wind on my face. I can approach someone and ask her about her school, her major, whatever, but that won’t make me her friend. I could be in exactly this position next year, in a crowd of friendly faces and yet entirely alone. Except next year, I won’t be returning to high school with my friends, with my sister, at the end of winter break.

  When I’m in college, I’ll be finding my place and finding my people anew. And with every day I’m connected to my family only through FaceTime and phone calls instead of breakfasts and carpools, I’ll be deciding what parts of home to hold onto. How I’ll put myself together from the pieces of my past and my present, of old friends and new, of my family, of the two cultures I grew up in.

  The pressure won’t just be about fitting in with everyone else—it’ll be about figuring out where I want to fit in. The newness of college will force me to reconsider who I was and refigure who I want to be. Whether I want to keep doing student government. Whether I’ll have every meal in the dining hall or will want to cook for myself. Whether I’ll find friends who speak more Spanish than I do or less. It’s inevitable in transitions, and it’s daunting. There’s a loneliness in feeling like you no longer know yourself, one that looms large when facing the enormity of the future.

  I want peace and quiet to pull myself together, far from the students streaming from Sharples, returning to libraries and dorms. From touring the campus with Fitz, I remember exactly the place I need. I walk in the direction of the woods.

  It’s not snowing. The night is cloudless, stars spilled on the seemingly endless black of the sky. I huddle in my parka, resenting the cold. It’s skin-searing, intense enough to reach through the fabric of my jeans. While I wish I could stay out here longer, I’m no stranger to New England winters. I know I have to get inside soon.

  I find my destination on the edge of campus. The Scott Outdoor Amphitheater sits in the midst of the forest behind the college, the semicircular stone steps smothered in snow. I read online they hold commencement here. For a second, I picture this place full of people, proud parents and jittery younger siblings. The image couldn’t be in sharper contrast to right now. It’s empty, completely quiet.

  I wipe snow from the edge of one of the steps and sit. Alone, I let the tears sting my eyes.

  In all my college research and anticipation, I never considered the day-to-day details. Having friends, fitting in, finding my place. I never wondered whether I would ever feel lonely, because when I’m home, with nine people in the house, loneliness feels impossible. I never imagined I could feel lost.

  For the first time, I wonder if college won’t be everything I’ve envisioned. The thought is harrowing. Worse, if I go to college far from home, far from my family, and I feel this way, I’ll really be alone. Tía will be right.

  It’s infuriating. I bitterly wipe the tears from my eyes, hoping if I rub hard enough I’ll force this feeling out of me.

  It doesn’t work. The tears don’t stop, and the feeling remains, stuck deep in my chest.

  Fitz

  SHE COULDN’T HAVE gone far.

  I search Sharples Hall for Juniper, scouting every table, every conglomeration of Swarthmore students enjoying the post-Scream solidarity. I don’t find her, which is weird. The Primal Scream and midnight breakfast are exactly Juniper’s thing. Figuring she might’ve gotten a call from her family or wanted a minute outside the slightly claustrophobic dining hall, I go out in front of Sharples.

  No Juniper. Eventually, I start walking into campus, no sense of where I’m going.

  As I wander aimlessly down a path, my boots crunching the salted pavement, my phone buzzes.

  I’m at the amphitheater.

  I spin and jog toward the outdoor amphitheater Juniper pointed out on our tour. I can’t think of a single reason she would be there now, in the middle of the freezing night, except the possibility of some other campus tradition I don’t know about. I’ve heard some schools partake in winter streaking, which admittedly is not something I’m eager to witness. But if Juniper’s there, I’ll willingly risk naked butts.

  When I near the stone steps, I see her immediately. It’s not hard. She’s the only person here. Sitting in one of the rows, she’s illuminated by starlight, her huddled posture strangely small and forlorn in the empty theater.

  I walk up to her slowly, not wanting to startle her. She says nothing when I sit next to her. “What are you doing out here on your own?” I ask.

  “I wanted to watch the stars,” she says. Her voice is off, tight and overly nonchalant. “It’s a really nice night.” She doesn’t look at me, her face turned to the sky. I study her. Shadows and moonlight mingle along her neck, her cheeks. The clouds drift, revealing the moon, and the light touches Juniper’s features. Her eyes are puffy. Only slightly, with the barest hint of red rimming the edges. She’s been crying.

  “Yeah, it’s beautiful tonight,” I reply. I don’t know how to comfort her, or if it’s even my place to comfort her. Would it be prying to ask why she’s upset? I get the sense she doesn’t want me to know she’s emotional.

  She shifts, angling her legs toward me. “Did you have fun tonight?”

 
I don’t want to talk about my night. But this is Juniper. She directs the conversation exactly where she wants it. “I think I sort of did,” I answer, trying to come up with a way to turn the questions on her without being demanding or insensitive.

  She smiles faintly without a trace of pleasure. “That’s great. Did you find Cara?” Her tone is . . . jealous? I know some guys find jealousy flattering. Immediately, I learn I do not enjoy it on Juniper. The idea she is hurting over something I have done—it’s the furthest thing from flattering.

  “Juniper, what’s wrong?” The question escapes me before I can think of a way to bring it up lightly.

  Sure enough, her expression hardens. “Nothing. I’m fine,” she says quickly. A tear trickles down her cheek, and she turns away, hurriedly wiping her face with the back of her hand.

  “Hey.” I reach for her, wanting to take her in my arms, but she leans away.

  Her shoulders start to shake, her breaths turning clipped and wet. “God, I hate this,” she says between sobs. “I shouldn’t even be crying. It’s so dumb.”

  I touch her arm. Just a brush of fingertips on the hem of her sleeve. It’s nothing—the suggestion of comfort, a reminder I’m here and I care. It’s so much less than I want to give her. “Whatever it is, it’s not dumb,” I tell her.

  Her sobs subside a little. “You shouldn’t be nice to me. I was awful to you last night.” She meets my eyes, tears clinging to her cheeks. “I’m sorry I said you use your mom as an excuse.”

  All day, I waited for her to take her words back. To acknowledge she’d gotten me wrong. But it doesn’t matter to me now. “I’ll admit you were direct,” I say with a hint of humor, “but you were right. I do hold myself back.” Her tears have stopped, and it’s possible her shoulders have drifted toward mine. “Like with Cara,” I go on. “I liked her in eighth grade and was planning to ask her out.” I make the past tense explicit, hoping she understands. “Then I found out about my mom, and I gave up. I thought I did it to spare her from having to deal with my problems, but now I think it’s because I was scared of risking something else that might hurt me.”

  Her expression hardens. She rubs her nose with a punctuating sniffle. “Oh, well, great,” she says shortly. “I’m happy for you, Fitz. Cara’s here now. I guess you can make up for lost time.”

  I open my mouth to reply, and instead I laugh. It’s wildly, outlandishly ridiculous.

  My laughter only incenses Juniper further, which I probably could have anticipated. She rounds on me, glaring, her dazzling eyes full of indignant combativeness. “What?” she challenges.

  “You’re not serious, right?”

  “Oh, I’m not?” I hear her chiseling her voice into the logical confidence I’ve heard in every conversation with her. I guess it’s her natural instinct. “You can apply to Swarthmore, go to college together, and be happy.”

  I can’t help it. I keep laughing, and now the noise is fuller, ringing out in the empty woods.

  Juniper’s stained cheeks have colored furiously pink. “What is so funny?” she demands, her voice pitchy.

  “Juniper,” I get out, “I liked Cara in eighth grade. Not now.”

  She’s quiet for a beat, guarded and uncertain. “Not now?” she finally repeats.

  “No,” I say. “Now the only thing I want is to finish this college tour. With you.” It’s the truth. For the past few days, I’ve welcomed uncertainty I never would have before, exploring colleges with real eyes and forsaking my conviction I was bound for SNHU. Instead of deciding my future was written in stone, I’ve embraced not knowing what it holds. The only thing I do know for certain is how much I want Juniper in my life every minute of our remaining days together.

  Her expression evens with what I sense is relief. Her eyes remain distant, though, fixed on some hurt I can’t see.

  “Cara wasn’t the reason you were crying,” I say gently. It’s not a question.

  I don’t fully expect her to reply. But she hugs one knee to her chest, perching her foot on the step, before she explains. “I guess partly,” she says. “But no, I just . . .” She inhales deeply. When she speaks, her words come in a clear, unqualified rush. “I’m not used to feeling alone,” she says. “I never have the chance. Three sisters, two brothers, an overbearing aunt. Tonight, I felt lonely for the first time, maybe ever, and I just kept thinking this is what college will be like. Except worse because I’ll have moved away from my family, and I’ll be feeling alone in the place I’ve chosen as my home.”

  The thought that Juniper Ramírez could share my own insecurities momentarily stuns me. She’s beautiful and outgoing and smart and fearless. It makes sense for someone like me to anticipate loneliness in college, but her? It’s comforting, in a way. “I know what you mean,” I say.

  Her eyes lift to mine, searching and hopeful. “You do?”

  “Of course,” I answer. “I’m beginning to suspect everyone feels lonely some of the time. But, Juniper”—I take her hand—“you have to know you’re the last person who needs to worry about this. You’re charming and outgoing and fearless. You didn’t even know me a week ago. Now look at us.” The corner of her mouth curls, and I squeeze her fingers. “You’re not alone. Not now. Not by any definition. And I know you’ll find amazing friends wherever you end up.”

  She leans in to me, pressing herself to my side. I wrap my arm around her and try very hard not to let the closeness of her body affect me.

  Her head rests on my shoulder, the incline of my neck. I turn my head, lowering my cheek and nose to her hair, the curls pulled tight into her ponytail. I remember the way she smells from the rooftop overlooking Brown. There’s the floral ether probably from shampoo, and then something infinitely more complex, entirely her. Her body is tucked warmly to mine, her figure nestled into me exactly.

  It’s perfect. Except for one thing.

  “Juniper?” I say.

  “Yeah?” I feel her speak on my shoulder.

  “It’s freezing.”

  She laughs dryly, pulling herself upright. I kick myself for precipitating this unfortunate turn of events, but I did notice my fingertips starting to purple.

  Juniper releases my hand and stands up, shivering once. “Walk with me to the hotel?”

  Obviously, I nod. I try not to betray how freaking ecstatic I am we were just holding hands, again, and I had my arm around her.

  We walk together from the amphitheater back toward campus. My ears have recalibrated from the din of the Primal Scream, and I pick up the noises of the outdoors while we walk. The rustling of animals that’ve found homes in the bushes, the hum of the occasional car, the hooting of a faraway owl. We walk in silence. It’s not uncomfortable this time, not like the disastrous echoing emptiness of the drive down here. I’m mentally replaying the conversation we had in the amphitheater, finding myself unable to stop reexamining every detail.

  “So you were jealous of Cara.” I don’t say it to pry into or delight in her frustration, but because there’s something I have to make clear.

  “No, I wasn’t!” she protests, righteously indignant. It’s one of her top three moods.

  “I’m getting pretty good at reading you, Juniper Ramírez,” I reply, knowing it’s a bit of a bold thing to say. I’m becoming increasingly comfortable being bold with her, and I’m definitely enjoying it. She huffs, and I continue before she hits me with some perfect retort. “But let me tell you, you have no reason for jealousy.” I pause. Admitting how I feel is unquestionably scary. It’s a huge risk—possibly the biggest risk—but after tonight, I’m ready. It could go horribly. Or it could turn into something wonderful. I’m ready to find out. “I like you.” I say it quickly but not without confidence.

  Juniper’s lips twitch with either a pleased smile or contained laughter at the ridiculousness of my affections. “Tell me,” she says abruptly, “what’s your favorite word for sorro
w?”

  I’m thrown by the question, still trying to decipher her reaction. “Dolor,” I answer after a moment, hoping my confession hasn’t flung her into hopeless dolor and that’s why she’s asking.

  “Thank you for curing my dolor, Fitz.” She takes my hand.

  It’s not horrible. Far from it. It feels like the start of something incredible. In the time since the High Line, we’ve joked and fought and fallen out, and even though it’s been only days, I’m boundlessly grateful we’re reconnecting.

  I walk with her through the campus, now hardly feeling the cold.

  Fitz

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, I’d only just finished pulling on my sweater when I heard knocking on the hotel room door. I swung the door open and found Juniper. We smiled stupidly and said our hellos with a breathlessness I didn’t know hellos could have. I think we both felt like last night never really ended, only continued into today.

  She looked past me and said hi to Lewis, and then declared she’d changed our plans. Instead of driving to Baltimore and Johns Hopkins, which was on my original itinerary, she’d decided we would instead visit Pittsburgh. She wouldn’t say why, only commenting cryptically she had something she wanted to show me.

  I’d nodded like this was completely normal and expected and didn’t ask any questions. I probably kept smiling my same stupid smile. Honestly, she could drive us to the world’s biggest ball of twine or the horology museum. As long as I was with her, I’d be thrilled. This trip has been nothing if not a testament to how wholly and completely places can change because of the people in them.

  When she left, Lewis asked me if he needed to come up with an excuse to put me in Juniper’s car for the drive. I shook my head, thinking of her hand in mine and a snowy walk lit by starlight. I think Juniper and I both know we’re driving together.