On my own. I asked for it. It’s what I thought I wanted. But it’s hard to see people so happy where they belong when my “uncharted paths” turned out to be regular sidewalks where other people’s eyes rarely meet mine.
So now, here I am, every day, walking across bridges that span interstates, drifting through the rectangular shadows wedged between tall buildings, in and out of elevators, and up and down steel escalators. And I’ve learned that if I refuse to turn around, I stay just far enough away from the possibility of giving up and going home.
* * *
My secret study spot is a nearby coffee shop where my favorite chair waits against a fractured brick wall and people congregate behind stacks of books without any expectation to socialize. It’s where the outside motion of pedestrians and traffic creates a peripheral energy that allows me to fall deep into faraway worlds that exist only between pages.
Henry James and I have always had issues, the main one being that I cannot get past two pages of his long-winded sentences without my eyes glazing over. But when the story finally does take off, I can actually hear the layered muslin skirts pass by (a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon). Gentlemen click by with their canes. And then everyone around me is sipping tea from dainty cups. At the very moment Mr. Winterbourne is pondering Daisy’s level of virtue (Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not.), a male voice speaks.
“Do you actually like that kind of stuff, or is it for a class?”
Glancing up, I blink as the world around me sharpens back into focus.
A guy with dark, wavy hair looks at me expectantly from the chair next to mine before asking again, “I was just wondering what you think of your book.”
He leans toward me and pushes his hair off his forehead in a casual sweep. The other details of him register simultaneously: navy T-shirt, worn jeans, hiking boots. He’s tall with a lean muscular build, the kind you wouldn’t really notice unless he gave you a hug. Pretty much the kind of guy most girls would gladly dive into a murky pool of trouble for.
“Oh, um,” I stutter, dropping my eyes back down to my book. It’s been so long since someone approached me like this. First semester was full of getting-to-know-you activities and parties—now it seems like everyone has settled into closed-off groups, leaving me stranded on a social island with nothing but textbooks.
“It’s for a class,” I say finally. “I guess it’s good if you like long, complicated sentences.”
He smiles. “I prefer Hemingway myself,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Every guy likes Hemingway.” He laughs, and I begin to relax. “Are you an English major?”
“Yep,” the mystery guy answers. “You?”
“Undecided.” English is one of the many majors I’m still considering. I fell in love with literature in high school, and Dad says majoring in English would be good preparation for law school, but I’ve never wanted to follow his path. He just doesn’t know that yet.
“So, would you read it for fun?” he prods.
“Eh, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I should admit this, but it’s my third attempt. Henry James is, like, the king of semicolons.”
He laughs. “Well, there’s nothin’ worse than a mess of semicolons,” he says, this time revealing the hint of a familiar accent.
I scoot forward in my chair. “Where are you from?” I ask.
“Louisiana.”
“Really?” Not many Gulf Coast grads choose to make the move up north, if only for the preference of sun over snow.
“Yes, ma’am. But don’t tell anyone.” He whispers the last part.
This time, I recognize the smooth drawl, the blurred syllables most people up here pronounce differently.
“I take it you aren’t from here either.”
“Wow. How’d you know?” I’m sarcastic. I learned to hide my Southern accent at school by talking fast—or not at all—to avoid the mocking that inevitably followed, but sometimes, like now, I can’t stop it from loosening into its natural rhythm.
“Okay. Let me guess where.” He squints at me. “Alabama.”
“Nope.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “No? Well, I guess you’ll have to give me a hint, then.”
I think for a second. “Our states are connected.”
“So, we’re connected, huh?” His eyes light up with intrigue.
Something flutters inside my chest and dissipates into a slight dizziness.
“Arkansas?” he guesses.
I shake my head no, my lips sealed into a smile.
He leans in closer and narrows his eyes. “I know.” He looks around as if making sure no one else can hear us. “Say ‘y’all,’” he whispers.
I laugh and look straight into his pale green eyes, the edges crinkled in amusement. “Y’all,” I whisper like a secret, laying the accent on thick.
He holds me with his stare. “Well, I can’t wait to get to know you better, Emily, so I can hear all about Mississippi.” He extends his hand. “I’m Josh,” he says.
I reach out to shake it then pause. “Wait. How’d you know my name?”
He nods down at the table where my name is Sharpied in all caps on the front of my notebook. He grins at me. “You think I’m psychic or something?”
Releasing his hand, I try not to seem embarrassed.
His face contorts into an odd expression like he just thought of something else. “A few of my friends are meeting here tomorrow. Want to join us around seven thirty?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” I’m too surprised to say anything else.
Josh picks up his book and stands. “Great. I look forward to seeing you then, Emily.” And then he’s gone as abruptly as he appeared.
I look around the room disoriented, as if waking from a dream. A guy in gray sweatpants is snoring on the tattered couch beside me. A coffee grinder punctuates the faint sounds of jazz. Two girls with backpacks open the door, letting in the rushing sound of traffic. I catch myself staring at the window for signs of Josh. There’s nothing except the constant passage of cars, but I can still hear his parting words: I look forward to seeing you.
Smiling into my anthology, I flip back to Henry James. I don’t even notice the semicolons this time as the scenes rattle back to life.
STEP 2: Get to know the person you invited. Find out what you have in common. Make a real connection.
Pollock Knows Best
Art Appreciation is my favorite class, but today I can’t stop staring at the bits of paint and plaster stuck to my desk. They sharpen in and out of focus as I trace the bumpy patterns with my finger.
Dr. Cranston is lecturing, yet her words don’t register. She’s pacing in front of us, her hair sticking out at messy angles. When she clicks the slide projector, I snap to attention. A Jackson Pollock painting appears on the giant screen. “Aesthetics,” she says. “Remember that word we learned in our first day of class? What is our personal response to art? How do we attempt to define it?” She turns her back to the screen and waves her arm toward the image. “Can you define this?”