Just Visiting

by Dahlia Adler

  “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up today?” I ask when we part again. “Would you have just kept this all to yourself until you got over it or whatever?”

  He sighs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that.”

  “Why? Because it’s true?”

  “No, because I had a really, really embarrassing plan to show up at your school on Valentine’s Day.” His face is beet red now, redder than I would’ve thought possible given his natural skin tone, and it’s definitely got nothing to do with the cold. “Now can you please stop asking questions with terrible answers?”

  “Deal. You just need to do one thing for me in return.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  I smile sweetly. “Show me the way to the library?”

  VICTORIA

  I have no idea what made Reagan ditch me at lunch, especially since she hasn’t answered either of my texts, but Simone’s making for a lousy tour-buddy replacement. “These rooms are so small,” she whines as our guide shows us a suite with two doubles that are at least five times the size of Rae’s bedroom at home. I’m actually sad she’s missing this, though I can easily imagine her eyes widening at the sight.

  Fortunately, a tall, chatty redhead named Kimmy with a way better attitude joined us for the residence hall tours in the middle, and her zillions of questions are helping distract me from Simone’s whining. She even posed in a couple of pictures for me after the tour, to help show Reagan the dimensions of the rooms.

  “Love how many cute boys there are in this place,” she observes, her voice tinged with the slightest bit of southern accent. “If that doesn’t get you excited for dorm living, nothing will.” She scrunches up her eyebrows at me. “Unless you’re a lesbian. Are you a lesbian? It’s totally cool if you are. There are girls here too.”

  “Nope, I’m straight.” Though I get that a lot.

  “I never met any lesbians,” Kimmy confides as we walk to the common area to take some more pictures. “That’ll be cool in college, don’t you think? I just wanna meet all kinds of people.”

  I wonder if meeting a Mexican chick has ticked off a box for her or something. Meeting my mom would probably blow her mind.

  We play the “what are you majoring in/where are you from/where else did you apply” game for a couple of minutes, with me declaring myself from “near Dodge City” because no one’s ever heard of Charytan, and her doing the same with “near Leavenworth.” Then a guy walks past us, T-shirt tucked into the back pocket of his shorts, his chest and back glistening with sweat, and both of us go silent in appreciation.

  My parents would probably cross themselves if they could see me now. They’re pretty chill and all, but other than the distance, I think the idea of me living with guys who look like that is what freaks them out the most about me going to college. Javi’s made clear he’s not crazy about his little sister “cohabitating” with boys either, and Steve’s been quiet on the subject. Then again, the whole topic of me going away to college is one we’ve mostly avoided.

  I wonder if he’d visit me here, if he’d drive five hours each way the way Dev did for Reagan. Could he, even? Between school and basically working full time at Joe’s? Probably not. That seems so…sad.

  “So where are you going from here?” Kimmy asks, breaking up my mental pity party.

  I hadn’t even noticed that the tour was breaking up and we were being guided out of the residence hall. “I’ve got a meeting with someone from my program in twenty minutes,” I say apologetically, even though I’m not sure she was asking to hang out. “Maybe I’ll see you later? I’m going to look at some sorority houses after that.”

  Her face lights up. “Yeah, maybe.” We trade numbers, and I realize I just made my first friend at college. And admittedly, I’m a little proud to have done it entirely on my own.

  I hadn’t made my appointment early enough to nab a faculty member or adviser for a meeting, but the department was nice enough to find me a junior Visual Arts major named Pete, who meets me for coffee in a bright red fleece pullover and a KU cap pulled low over dark brows.

  “So!” he says once we’ve sat down, both of us curling our hands around the steaming cups in defense against the weak heating in the coffee shop. “You’re planning to do Visual Arts. Textile Design, right?”

  I take a tentative sip of my mocha latte. “Right. I’ve always been interested in fashion,” I say, trying to get the words out confidently even though I feel silly uttering them.

  “Very cool. It’s a great program. Do you have your portfolio?”

  I reach into my bag and hand it over, butterfly wings brushing my stomach lining as I do. No one’s seen my portfolio other than my parents, Reagan, Steve, and Miss Lucy, and I’ve looked it over so many times even I have no idea if it’s any good. He’s quiet as he flips through it, but my eyes are too focused on his cup of coffee and how quickly I will throw myself out the café’s plate-glass window if he spills on my sketches.

  “These are really good,” he murmurs, closing it to take a sip, then reopening it again once he puts his cup down. “These patterns are so interesting. Can I ask what inspired them?”

  “My family, actually.” The pride in my voice is audible. “My brother’s in the Peace Corps now, in Fiji, and he sent me all these pictures of plants and native clothing and stuff, and I thought it’d be really cool to incorporate that in my designs. And then there’s some Mexican influence, inspired by my abue—my grandparents.”

  “Fiji, huh? That’s really cool. It looks so tropical, but earthy. Is there any stuff here inspired by your own travels?” He’s flipping through the sketches more briskly now.

  Um, what travels? Not that I really want to admit to a college guy that other than a couple of trips to Mexico for the sole purpose of visiting my grandparents, I’ve been all of nowhere. I mean, I guess I could do something with the shades of the Grand Canyon, but…

  “Nope,” I say, trying not to sound as meek and immature as I feel. “Haven’t gotten to do much of that.”

  “You should,” Pete says seriously. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—these are good. The colors are really vibrant and the patterns are interesting, but they lack texture. It’s obvious they’re based on things you’ve seen but haven’t touched.” He draws a fingertip over one of the branches in one of my favorite patterns. “In real life, this would probably be knobbly, or at least not completely smooth. Think how cool this would be if it were leather, for example. Or if you’d used shading to show bark.”

  I rub a fingertip over another of the branches. I see what he means, and he’s absolutely right. How could I not have thought of that? I flip through the portfolio, and immediately pick out at least three patterns that are missing the same sort of touches. Suddenly, I’m embarrassed at the lack of depth of color, the flat tones where they should appear three-dimensional, the lack of imagination with regard to fabric choices and textures. What am I doing, thinking I can suddenly jump on board with this whole thing just because I’ve stitched a few bags and taken one week-long workshop with a community college professor?

  Tia Maria, why can’t I think anything through? Every time I think I know what I want, I realize I haven’t really thought about it at all. I just keep diving in like some sort of blind idiot.

  I gently take back my portfolio, even though it doesn’t feel like there’s anything in there worth saving, and tuck it back into my bag. “Anyway, it’s just a thought,” I mumble, taking a sip of coffee to hide my stupid quivering lip. “Obviously I’m not married to it. I’m considering other programs too.”

  “Oh, really?” There’s so much pity in his voice, I could die. “Like what?”

  “Like…” I think back to the application I filled out not that long ago. Not a whole lot of special skills on there. But at least there was one that had nothing to do with design. “ASL,” I say triumphantly. “American Sign Language. I’m thinking of studying that. Majoring in it, I mean.” I have no idea if they
offer it as a major, but it sounds good.

  “Wow, that’s certainly a different direction. Hard, too.”

  “Not so bad once you get the hang of it.” I sign the words as I say them.

  “Whoa, you already speak it! That’s so cool!”

  “My mom’s deaf; I’d be kind of a jerk if I didn’t speak it. It’s cool, though. I like knowing it. I think taking classes in it would be awesome.” And as I say the words, I realize they’re true. Being five hours away from my mom would be really hard, but video chatting with her about stuff I’m learning in the same kinds of classes she teaches? Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  “Let me guess,” says Pete, the corners of his lips quirking up as he taps his fingertips on the side of his coffee cup. “You tend to change your mind a lot.”

  “I just don’t know how to know what I want, or what I’m good enough at to pursue,” I admit. “College is expensive. I don’t want to waste my parents’ money.”

  Pete laughs, not meanly or anything, just…laughs. “You don’t have to be great at something to learn it, you know. If you were already perfect, taking classes would be a little pointless.”

  “So what do you think I should do?”

  “I think you should do what you like to do! Look.” He places a palm flat on the table. “You’re good at design; just because there’s room to grow doesn’t mean you’re not one hundred percent perfect for this program. Learning is kind of the point! And you’re obviously good at ASL. And I’m willing to bet you’re good at a whole bunch of other things. But what do you want to do?”

  I shrug. “All of it? Or not?”

  “Victoria—”

  “I don’t want to make the wrong choice!” I blurt. “Look, I don’t want to let anyone down, okay? I don’t want to make my family suffer for my mistakes, or my best friend to realize she’s too smart for me, or to hook up with the wrong guy because he’s too nice or too not nice. I’m just sick of not knowing what I’m doing!”

  When I’m done ranting, I can feel the eyes of other patrons on me, and I sink down in my seat until my flaming cheeks brush the fur lining of the hood of the coat I’ve hung on the back of my chair. Tia Maria, I’m a train wreck. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, lifting my eyes just enough to see that once again, Pete is smiling. And once again, it’s not mean.

  “You’re what, seventeen?” I nod miserably. “That’s what life is at seventeen. You make mistakes, you learn from them, you grow up. No one expects you to be perfect or know exactly what you want. There’s a reason college students get until the end of sophomore year to pick a major.”

  “Not—”

  “Not with this program, I know,” he says, cutting me off, “but if you left it to major in, say, ASL, I bet you could do that.” He scrunches his brows. “Is that even a major?”

  “I have no idea,” I admit sheepishly.

  “Well, whatever. The point is, ease up on yourself. Get to know yourself a little better. And forge your own path. You’ll figure it out; you’re far too talented not to. There’s a whole world of possibilities out there, ya know?”

  I drop my gaze into the milky depths of my coffee, thinking about the past bunch of months, all the different schools and all the different weirdness at each one. Jamie and Steve. Sorority Sasha and I-Want-to-Meet-a-Lesbian Kimmy. I think about Fitz going to the army, and Javi going to Fiji, and Steve going to CCC, and the fact that unless she ditched me to drive home, I suspect Reagan will be going to KU.

  And I think about what I really want.

  And I finally smile, and say, “Yeah, I guess there are.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Hey, do you want to get Chinese, or—?”

  “Hush! It’s time!” Reagan dashes past Dev, knocking him back onto her bed, and yanks open her laptop just in time to receive the call. “Hiiiii!”

  “Hola, mi amiga!” Vic says cheerfully, shaking a maraca at the screen. “How crazy that we finally convinced my grandparents to get the Internet?”

  “Very,” Reagan confirms, pulling the laptop off the desk carefully so as not to dislodge the cord, and settles back on to the bed, knocking Dev over again. “How’s the Victoria and Javier Reyes World Tour Bonanza?”

  “You know you guys just talked, like, two days ago, when we were in LA,” Javi says grumpily in the background, his voice only faintly carrying through the speakers.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Dev mumbles, glancing at his watch.

  “Hello to you too, Dev!” Vic sing-songs.

  He waves. “Hey, Vic. Sorry, I’m at the cranky point of hunger. Somebody was supposed to have dinner with me an hour ago, but—”

  “But somebody was talking to her professor about a competitive tutoring position that would bring in way more money than waitressing at the coffee shop,” Reagan fills in, elbowing Dev in the side playfully.

  “Hey, that’s great!” Vic and Dev say at the same time as he snakes an arm around her waist and plants a kiss on her cheek.

  “Get the other cheek for me,” Vic commands, and he happily obliges. “Are you sure you want to waste all that waitressing experience? I know Steve misses you.”

  “Freckles also thinks I’m gonna help out over Thanksgiving break, doesn’t he?”

  Vic whistles innocently.

  Reagan rolls her eyes. “At least Joe’s turkey is better than my mom’s. How is Steve, anyway?”

  “He’s good,” says Vic, drawing out the words. Behind her, Javi mock-vomits in disgust. “Oh, hush. We’re just friends now. We haven’t even seen each other in weeks. But he did mention something about applying to culinary school in the near future.”

  “So at no point will he be joining the Reyes siblings on their glamorous tour of youth hostels and fashion observation?” Reagan teases. “Where’s the next stop, anyway?”

  “Buenos Airrrrrres,” Vic trills. “But first, my parents are coming down here for Thanksgiving. My mom swears she finally made a batch of churros worth bringing across the border down to Abuelita.”

  “Have you seen photographic evidence of this success?”

  “No, but the sign for ‘perfect’ is just about burned into my brain from all her enthusiasm during our video chats, so I’m gonna trust her on this one.” She tips her head. “And how are you guys? You a die-hard Jayhawk yet?”

  Reagan rolls her eyes. “Definitely not. People here are crazy.”

  “People just went to their very first game at Allen Fieldhouse and loved it, actually,” Dev informs Vic. “People just like to hate on everything.”

  “That’s my girl,” Vic says with a smile. “Don’t ever change. Not even for the boy.”

  “Pssh, for this one?” She flicks Dev in his flannel-sleeve covered shoulder. “Never. So, if I’m not seeing you Thanksgiving, when am I seeing you? Christmas? New Year’s? Sometime before we’re legally allowed to drink, please?”

  Vic bites her lip, her nervousness palpable. “Sooo, about that…”

  Reagan narrows her eyes. “Vic. Whatever it is, spit it out.”

  “Okay, but I’m really excited about it, so you can’t be mad.”

  “Me? Mad?” She turns to Dev. “Can you believe she just said that?”

  “Don’t be mad,” Dev commands.

  “You guys are a terrible conspiracy.” She turns back to the screen. “Fine. I will not be mad about this thing that will definitely make me mad. Now, what is it? I’m dying of curiosity.”

  Vic turns to her brother. “Ahem. Javier, the envelope please?”

  Javi’s eye roll is a thing of magnificence, but he obliges, handing Vic a cream-colored envelope with an insignia in the corner.

  “Drum roll?”

  “Just read them the damn thing, Hermana.”

  Vic slides a letter out from the envelope, her hand shaking just slightly even though the envelope has clearly already been opened. Even from two thousand miles away, Reagan can tell she’s honestly nervous, and it’s contagious. “What is it, damn it?” she demands.


  Vic holds it up against the webcam.

  Reagan takes a moment to scan it, and then her mouth drops open. “Does that seriously say what I think it says?”

  Next to Rae, Dev leans in, squinting at the screen, one arm curled firmly around her waist. “Holy shit. You’re going to FIT?”

  Vic nods, tears shining in her eyes, her bottom lip pulled firmly between her teeth. “Are you mad, Rae?”

  “Am I…? No, Vic, no. Of course not.” Tears prick her own eyes, though, and Dev hugs her even closer to his body. “A little sad,” she admits as one rolls down her cheek and she quickly swipes it away. “But I’m so fucking proud of you. That’s amazing.”

  “That summer internship Miss Lucy got me helped a ton,” says Vic, “and I’m not gonna lie—my new portfolio? Seriously awesome.”

  “Fucking awesome, Vic. Just say it.”

  Vic laughs. “Even if I were to start swearing, you think I’d even try it in this house?”

  “Fair enough,” Rae says with a grin. Then the smile falls. “So, this is it, huh? I wish I’d known I was saying goodbye for good the last time I said it.”

  Vic shakes her head. “It’s not for good, silly. And I will be home for Christmas.” She folds the letter back up and slides it into its envelope. “Things may not exactly have gone according to plan, but they didn’t turn out badly either, did they?” She gestures at Dev, who cocks his head as he waits for Reagan’s answer.

  “Not that badly,” Reagan concedes. “But Jesus, Vic—New York? Seriously?”

  “Seriously. And you’ll come to visit me—finally get out of Kansas for once! Doesn’t that sound good?”

  Reagan narrows her eyes. “You’re really hung up on dragging my ass to big cities, aren’t you?”

  Vic laughs. “You’ll love it. Or at least I’m hoping you will, because I’m hoping I will too!”

  “You’re not even going to visit before you accept their acceptance?”

  Vic glances down at the envelope before looking back at the screen. “Nah. How much can you really tell from just a visit, anyway? When you’re headed where you’re supposed to be, you just know.”