by Britt Morrow
“I’m Sarah.”
She’s one of the rare people who perfectly suits her name: nondescript features, hair that’s neither blonde nor brown but some shade in between. She holds her hand out for me to shake and it’s as limp as I expected. I realize that I’m judging her with unfair harshness, but I can’t stop myself.
“Nice to meet you, Sarah. We’ll wait for you after class, and head over to the library,” Dawson offers. I wonder if he’s interested in her, or if he’s this friendly with everyone. Probably the latter; he’s a much more jovial person than I’ll ever be.
“That sounds great! Thanks for the invite guys.”
She turns back around to watch the professor scribble answers on the chalkboard. As usual, I’m manically trying to take notes and understand as much as possible while Dawson just sits there watching, seemingly able to absorb everything with minimal effort.
Apparently, I’m not the only one amazed by his ability to comprehend everything almost instantaneously. Sarah moves closer to us as we’re packing up our stuff. Well, I am; Dawson never even took out a notebook or pencil.
“How is it that you don’t need to take any notes?” She asks.
He shrugs. He always downplays his intelligence, but I think he’s secretly a genius. “Math is just intuitive for me, I guess.”
“I wish I had that talent. All I’ve got is a gift for choosing smarter friends,” she replies.
Dawson gives her a pity laugh, but I’m not feeling that charitable.
“What about you, Levi?” She asks, turning towards me. “Any talents?”
“None worth mentioning.”
“Levi’s a quarterback,” Dawson interjects.
“The backup,” I correct. It’s an important distinction, especially for college girls. It’s the difference between being willing to blow a guy who might become a millionaire and ignoring the guy who’s probably going to end up middle-class and bitter.
“Oh, wow. Good for you.”
Evidently, the distinction isn’t that important to Sarah. She’s gazing at me even more intently than before. I can tell that even Dawson is made uncomfortable by it.
He clears his throat awkwardly. “Shall we head over to the library?”
We follow him out of the class and across the quad to the stately red brick building that serves as the campus library. With its dormers and imposing white columns, it looks like a neoclassical plantation.
I’ve been learning about different architectural styles in a design class that I’m taking as an option. It’s my favorite class so far, and the only one that I seem to have a natural talent for the way Dawson does for pretty much every subject. The irony isn’t lost on me that the guy who grew up in a single-wide is developing a passion for home design.
The first time Dawson and I came in here, it almost made me nervous to be somewhere this grand, amongst people who actually belonged in a place like this. I was afraid to even take a drink from my water bottle for fear by being escorted out by security or someone else who might notice my uncouth mannerisms and lack of belonging. Now though, the library is one of my favorite places. Especially in the evenings, when the long wooden tables are bathed in the soft glow of the lamps, and everyone is speaking in hushed, reverent voices. It makes me feel like I’m part of some classy academic society, and I guess, in a way, that I am.
The deferential quiet is repeatedly broken tonight though by Sarah’s repeated questions.
“Were you able to calculate the probability for question four yet?” She directs the question to me even though it’s clear that Dawson is the more authoritative source for answers.
I look at him beseechingly. Not for help with the solution, which I already have written down, but to redirect Sarah’s attention. I’ve made it as clear as I possibly can that I’m not interested in her advances without being outright rude. She isn’t taking the hint, though. Instead, she’s gradually inching closer to me under the guise of taking a look at the equations scribbled in my notebook.
At this angle, the perilously low cut of her v-neck shirt gives me a view straight into her cleavage. Not that I’ve been looking. In fact, I’ve been trying to look anywhere other than that direction, distracting myself by staring at the angry-looking pustule on Dawson’s chin. It serves him right for ignoring my pleading glances. He seems bemused by my discomfort. Either that, or he’s just enjoying the v-neck view. Either way, I feel like kicking him under the table.
I’m relieved when Jeremiah interrupts our study session by plunking himself down in the chair beside Dawson. Since his parents’ visit, I’ve been nagging him to join our evening library sessions. At least half of the time, he begrudgingly does. Usually, his lack of focus and need for constant conversation disturbs my concentration. Tonight though, it’s a welcome distraction.
“Hi, I’m Jeremiah.” He extends a hand to Sarah. “How did these two clowns manage to convince you to join them?”
He’s already laying the charm on thick - a very welcome distraction.
“Sarah,” she responds. “We’re in the same statistics class. I actually asked to join their study group.”
She turns back to me, asking about a particular calculation. I wonder if she’s the first girl at Tennessee Tech to be immune to Jeremiah’s charisma. He hasn’t given up yet, though.
“Statistics, hey? So I guess you’re a smarty-pants like these two. What’s your major?”
“Business.”
“Nice, I like a woman who can rock a suit,” he says appreciatively, his grin even wider than usual.
She gives him a thin smile but doesn’t respond. I don’t know who’s more disappointed: Jeremiah or me. Reading women is his forte though, so he doesn’t push any further. Defeated, he withdraws a textbook from his backpack.
“I’m going to run to the washroom. Would you mind watching my stuff, Levi?” Sarah rises without waiting for an answer.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Dawson is giggling uncontrollably, and Jeremiah is peppering me with questions.
“Is she someone you’re seeing?”
“Couldn’t be further from that,” Dawson interjects, still laughing. “She moons over him all class, and he pretends to look right through her.”
“Why? She’s hot,” Jeremiah remarks.
“I’m not interested.”
“Not interested in what?” Jeremiah presses. “Attractive women?”
“In pursuing anything,” I respond.
“There’s no need for pursuit, you already have her.”
“I don’t want to get involved in anything right now. I’m focused on school and football.”
“Who said anything about involvement?” Jeremiah retorts. “I was just talking about having some fun.”
“I guess we have different definitions of fun.”
“I would like to know what your definition is. Does it only involve your girl back home?”
Dawson, who’d been disinterestedly watching our volley, suddenly perks up. “What girl?”
“There isn’t a girl. At least not anymore,” I respond, eager to shut down the conversation.
“All the more reason for you to move on with Sophia,” Jeremiah retorts, starting to pack up the textbook he barely glanced at. I don’t bother correcting him.
“Jeremiah and I are going to grab dinner, we’ll leave you two alone,” Dawson announces suggestively.
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or pissed off that they’re leaving me. I’m eager to avoid any further questions from Jeremiah, but not to be left alone with Sarah.
When Sarah returns, it’s clear which one she feels, though. “Is it just us?"
“Yeah, Dawson and Jeremiah went to grab dinner.”
“Maybe we can actually make some progress now,” she responds. I’m not sure if she means with her studying, or with me.
I expect her to turn back to the equation she was working on, but instead, she lays a hand on my forearm. The proximity is uncomfortable. Other than Charlie, and the
occasional awkward encounter with Ms. Walker, I’m not used to anyone being this close to me.
According to my high school psychology class, kids who receive skin-to-skin contact and lots of physical affection growing up experience better emotional health. Aside from occasional hugs from Amber when she still used to come by, the only physical touch I received was a shove or a casual backhand. They were never hard enough to leave me in much physical pain - I wouldn’t call Brandi smart, but she also wasn’t stupid enough to leave marks - but I wonder if it’s done permanent damage to my psyche.
I want to pull away from Sarah. The casualness of her hand on my forearm feels inexplicably intimate. It’s not the deliberate, fumbling touch of two virtual strangers becoming acquainted with one another’s bodies, but an affectionate gesture between partners. I can’t think of a way to extricate myself without being rude though, so I redirect her attention to the unfinished equation.
“I think you need to multiply it by 0.25 to account for the likelihood of the cats being black.”
“Oh, you’re right.” She throws the equation a cursory glance but doesn’t move to correct it.
“Are you always this focused, Levi?” She continues. “You’re very serious.”
Amber used to tell me the same thing. That I should stop furrowing my brow because it made me look like an old man. When Brandi got into one of her chain-smoking and binge-drinking moods, Amber would encourage me to go outside, run around in the woods, play cops and robbers. You have to be carefree to run around and play games, though and, even at a time when I was barely old enough to reach Amber’s hip, I already felt burdened. So instead of chasing Cody and Colt, I sat on my front porch with a book, hoping upon hope that this latest one would give me an idea on how to escape, or at least be entertaining enough to provide a few hours’ worth of mental reprieve.
Sarah is wrong, though. I do know how to let loose and have fun. I spent nearly every afternoon this summer frolicking in the creek without a care in the world and having the time of my life. But maybe Jeremiah is right. Maybe Charlie is the only one who brings out that cheerful side of me. Or maybe she’s just the only person who I’ve allowed to.
“Not that serious.” I shut my notebook and turn towards Sarah. “I’m ready for a break.”
“Want to come hang out in my room for a bit? I have a single,” she offers.
I don’t particularly want to hang out with her. But I don’t have anything better to do, and I’m trying to prove to myself that I’m capable of being easy-going. What is university for if not new experiences?
She walks close to me as we head out of the library. Close enough that our hands keep brushing against each other. I wonder if she wants me to initiate some hand-holding; I cross my arms across my chest as if to ward off the fall breeze.
The campus is beautiful this time of year. It looks exactly as advertised in the marketing materials: red brick buildings interspersed with hardwood trees resplendent in vibrant reds and oranges. In a few weeks, all of the foliage will have disappeared though, leaving the trees barren and sinister against the winter grey skies. Football season will give way to the bleak months before spring when even my heavy denim jacket won’t be able to ward off the chill.
“You’re quiet,” Sarah remarks.
“Just taking in the scenery.”
I’m looking everywhere but at her. I’m not sure if my jitters can be attributed to the fact that I’m shit when it comes to small talk, or because I subconsciously know that this isn’t a good idea.
“Are you from Tennessee?”
I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me that. I don’t like the idea that where I grew up could give any indication as to who I am as a person. Where I’m from isn’t nearly as important as where I’m going.
“Yeah, a small town to the south. You?”
She shakes her head. “No, Kentucky.”
I’ve never talked to someone from out of state before. I don’t picture Kentucky as being any different from back home, though. It’s equally afflicted with poverty, opioid addiction, and rotting teeth.
I don’t know what to say, so she continues, “This was the closest school. I didn’t want to go too far, stay close to family, you know?”
I don’t know, but I nod to appease her.
“My Papaw’s getting pretty old, I want to be able to go visit him on the weekends.”
“That’s nice of you.” She does genuinely seem nice. At least nice enough for me to feel bad about my poor conversational skills.
“This is me,” she says, gesturing to the residence hall to our right.
I follow her inside and linger beside her while she fumbles her key into the lock.
“It’s not much,” she says apologetically.
Unlike the room I share with Jeremiah, which is barren except for a couple of his car posters, hers is actually decorated. The bedspread and drapes are a matching hue of neon pink, coordinated to perfectly match the shade of a decorative lamp beside the bed and a candle on the window sill. It’s tacky - at least, that’s what a few weeks of my design class have taught me - but I can tell she put effort into it. She probably spent a few hours poring over the JC Penny catalog to find the perfect set of Barbie-pink linens and accessories.
“I like it,” I lie. “The pink suits you.”
She sits down on the bed and pats the spot beside her. I sit down obligingly.
No sooner am I sitting than she’s lunging at me for a kiss. Apparently, the forwardness of college girls isn’t just a high school myth. Their sophistication and finesse are, though. I try to close my eyes and pretend that she’s Charlie. But her aggressively probing tongue makes it impossible to ignore the fact that she’s not.
I don’t know if it’s the amount of saliva that’s being shared, or just the fact that I’m making out with someone other than Charlie, but I’m suddenly disgusted. I rise abruptly, roughly pushing her off of my lap. I don’t even know how she got there. The color of the bedspread is somehow even more jarring now, and I wonder if I’m going to throw up on it. I would be doing her a favor, honestly.
I manage a few gulping breaths before stumbling out the door. I rush out the hallway and through the front door before stopping at the steps to gather my wits. She doesn’t follow me. I certainly don’t blame her.
I’m wearing jeans and shitkicker boots, but it doesn’t matter, I need to run. So I do. Fast and hard without a particular direction. I need to exhaust myself to the point where my thoughts are no longer coherent and consist solely of convincing myself to continue putting one foot in front of the other. I’m deeply disappointed in myself, but I don’t know if it’s because I shoved Sarah off of me, or because I put myself in that position with someone other than Charlie. Most likely the latter, but, either way, I don’t want to think about it.
So I run until my lungs are burning, my legs are leaden, and I’m lost to the point that I need to ask a gas station attendant for directions back to the campus.
I’ve drained myself to the point where I can only manage a slow trudge home. I think I ran a good six or seven miles, but I wasn’t following a straight line in my frenzy, so I only have a couple miles to traipse back to campus. I succeeded in eliminating all rational thought, though. I think of nothing on the walk home other than navigating back.
When Jeremiah takes in my wild-eyed, bedraggled appearance and asks me what happened, where I’ve been, I’m not capable of formulating logical thoughts, never mind sentences. I just pull off my boots, treads worn down almost to the nubs, and fall into bed still in my sweat-soaked clothing.
Chapter 16
“Are you sure you’re good to play tonight?”
It’s at least the third time over the past two days that Jeremiah has asked me that question, and it’s starting to irritate me.
“Jesus, I’m fine.”
He raises his hands in defeat. “Ok, just checking.”
I know that I’m being an asshole; his concern is validated after I sho
wed up looking like I had been hit by a semi-truck and refusing to answer his questions a couple of nights ago. I still haven’t told him or Dawson what happened with Sarah, but I’m sure they can surmise that it didn’t go well based on my alarming entrance and the fact that she started sitting at the front of the class and now refuses to make eye-contact. I hope they don’t suspect the extent to which I flipped out though, or how unsettled I’ve been feeling about it since. Or how much effort it has taken to consciously channel my thoughts away from Charlie for the rest of the week; I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I go there.
For most of the week, I’ve kept to myself , attending my usual dinners and study sessions with Dawson and Jeremiah while barely speaking. I’m pretending to be stressed out about the upcoming midterms, but my anxiety doesn’t have anything to do with exams. The only upside of my emotional turmoil has been that I’ve thrown myself into studying even more than usual to keep my mind preoccupied.
“Wanna walk over to the field together?”
I know Jeremiah’s probably suggesting it as an excuse to keep an eye on me, but I readily agree. I could use his constant banter to keep me distracted.
“How are you feeling about tonight?” He questions.
I shrug in a way that conveys much more nonchalance than I’m actually feeling. My nerves are still shot from my night with Sarah. And, given that I played pretty decently during last week’s game, there’s a good chance that I’m actually going to have to get up off the bench and get my head screwed on right tonight.
“What about you?” I ask instead of elaborating.
“Raring to go,” he replies. “I’ve been celibate for the last two days to prepare. Miranda thinks I’m crazy, but it totally makes you perform better. More aggression, ya know?”
I’m in agreement with Miranda. But then again, I’ve always had plenty of aggression. Plus, having a couple of nights where I didn’t have to listen to his creaking bedsprings was a relief. Not that I’ve been sleeping much lately.
