I force a smile. “Oh, cool. Thanks.”
I refold it, stuff it back into the bag, and set it to the side.
He turns and stares at me for a beat. “That’s it?”
“What?”
“‘Cool’?”
“Yeah. It’s cool. I appreciate it. Thanks.”
“Not going to put it on?” he asks. I can’t tell if he’s actually offended or not.
“I’m good.”
He takes another hit, eyes still on me. “Why aren’t you more excited, dude?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I know I should be. Every other senior at school’s been rocking their future college’s apparel since the day their admissions decision rolled in.
“Still sad because of all those rejections?”
I shrug. Lean back on my hands and stare out over the quiet field.
“Seriously, dude, you’re dumb as shit.”
“Oh, is shit sentient?”
“You know what I mean. Like, out of all the schools you applied to, how many were Ivy League?”
I don’t answer.
“All but Michigan and Berkeley, right?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t anyone tell you about applying to safety schools?”
I try to laugh. “Come on, man. They weren’t completely out of reach. Solid GPA and test scores. Plus, student government.”
He considers this. “Dude. You’re a treasurer.”
“So?”
“Class treasurers don’t get into Yale or Harvard.”
“Some do.”
“Maybe the treasurers who are also Olympic skiers or world champion Irish dancers or something.”
“Whatever. You know how my parents are. I took the path of least resistance because if I didn’t send in those apps, they would have said they were cool with it but they wouldn’t have been. Can you imagine their faces if I told them I applied to some school like . . . I don’t know . . . like—”
“Like, Central?” Seth finishes, smirking because that’s where he’s headed in the fall.
“You know what I mean.”
“You do know they have, like, the ninety-third best comp sci program in the nation, right?”
“That is certainly impressive.”
He flips me off. I shake my head and laugh.
When I texted my family the news this afternoon, right after I found out, I could virtually hear their collective sigh of relief at the fact that I was finally accepted somewhere. My sister, Em, replied first with, “Fuck yea, baby bro” followed by, like, fifty exclamation points. Mom messaged, “Oh, honey! We’re so proud of you! (And watch your language, Em!)” while from Dad I got a “I mean, it’s not Harvard . . .” joke that wasn’t fully a joke. My brother, Chris, still hasn’t responded.
“I never wanted to go to any of those schools anyway,” I say, answering Seth’s earlier question. It sounds super defensive, but it’s true. I’m not sure what I want to do. For some reason, that’s not okay. Everyone acts like seventeen-year-olds who don’t have their career path mapped out are wasting their lives.
I consider telling Seth all of this, but he wouldn’t get it. Despite his slacker stoner vibe, he already knows he wants to get his computer science degree then become a code monkey for Google or Facebook or whatever company becomes our new digital overlords.
Besides, Seth and I have been friends for a long time, but we never get too deep into things. We hang out, play video games or basketball or whatever, and that’s pretty much it. If something’s bothering one of us, we never really talk about it. We give each other space until things are cool again. Like sophomore year, when Seth’s parents were going through their divorce. He never brought it up beyond mentioning once that it was happening, and I didn’t push him to talk about it. There were a few months where the slightest thing would set him off, like kids leaving their lunch trays on their tables instead of throwing them away or someone failing to bag their dog’s shit on a walk, but he eventually returned to his old self. If I had tried to get him to talk about it, it would have made things worse.
Jun really was the only person I’ve ever talked to about these kinds of feelings. We used to share all kinds of things back when we used to write each other letters. Actual letters—not emails or texts or DMs.
Now that I think about it, Jun should also be graduating this year—assuming he went back to school. I wish I had a way to find out what he’s up to. But I don’t. I messed that up a long time ago.
I stand up, walk over to the south side of the building, and sit down on the ledge overlooking the playground. The swings sway slightly, and the wind whistles through the tube slide. I look down at my feet as I kick the backs of my heels against the bricks.
Seth eventually sits down next to me. He’s done smoking, but the stench still radiates from his clothes. His parents know, but they don’t care, which blows my mind.
A few moments pass, then Seth chuckles to himself.
“What?” I ask.
“You know the Unabomber went to Harvard, right?”
“Yeah. And tons of the buildings are named after eugenicists.”
“So it’s a good thing you’re not going there.”
I sigh. He still thinks that’s what’s bothering me.
A bird or a bat flits past overhead. A dog starts barking somewhere in the distance. The wind picks up again but doesn’t die down this time.
Much to my relief, Seth finally lets the college thing go and starts rambling about this top secret mod he’s been working on for this first-person shooter we like to play. Without telling me what the mod does, he goes on and on about the specifics of the coding and all the iterations he had to try before it worked. None of it makes sense to me because I’m no programmer. After several minutes of this, he finally reveals that the mod replaces the rocket launcher with a cat and the rockets with babies.
“So, the cat . . . launches babies?” I ask.
He nods, cracking himself up.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s the point.”
“I don’t get it,” I say.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t get you.”
Seth considers this. “Does anyone truly get anyone, Jay?”
“Deep,” I say sarcastically. “Nothing like wisdom from on high.”
UNANSWERED
I sleep in on Saturday because I’ve got no plans beyond gaming with Seth later tonight after he finishes his shift at the sock store. I shuffle downstairs in my joggers and an old T-shirt, and after what I’ll generously call brunch, sink into the living room couch, and fire up my PS4 to make some progress in this one-player game where you battle massive robot dinosaurs in a post-apocalyptic Earth.
I don’t know how many hours into this session I am when my dad’s suddenly standing behind me like he’s learned to apparate.
“Jason, can you pause your game for a second?” he asks.
“I’m almost at a checkpoint,” I say.
“Jason . . .” he starts and then falters. He tries again. “Jason, I have something important to tell you.”
“Hold on.” I know I’m being an ass, but I’m pretty sure this is probably going to be about college or something and I don’t really want to talk about that anymore. Plus, I’m in the zone fighting this mech-T-rex that’s already killed me, like, a million times.