Archives:
February 17-February 23, 2008

February 17, 2008

I stand outside Smith Hall, and hold a hand over my Bic lighter, flicking it three times before the flame catches the end of the cigarette, dangling from my lips. Sucking in that first drag of smoke, I deposit the lighter in my coat pocket, beside the pack of Parliaments Dave left with me. I take the cigarette from my mouth as I exhale a stream of smoke, and look down at the thing, pinned between my fingers.

“That's a good look for you.”

I turn to see Cameron has shown up behind me, coming out the door. “How's it going?” I ask.

“OK,” Cameron says, stepping right up beside me. “You come out here to reminisce?”

I grin for a second. “Seemed like a good place. Dave and I used to talk out here a lot, and he'd be smoking.” I reach in my pocket and feel around for a second, before I find the pack again. I hold it out to Cameron.

She shakes her head. “Not for me. I think it's nice for you, though.” Cameron bobs her shoulder, shifting her bag. “I do the same thing. I keep going to places where we used to go, and thinking about how things were. Of course, we spent a lot of time in the room, but it's just annoying to be there with T-Rex asking me if I'm OK every five seconds.”

“So you are?”

“What?”

“Doing OK?”

Cameron looks away. “Yeah. I mean, as good as I'm going to be, you know?”

“Yeah, I hear that.” I take another drag of my cigarette.

“So hey, is something going on with you and Teri?”

It's my turn to look away. “What makes you ask?”

“I ran into her before. Asked her how you were doing, and she said you guys weren't really talking.”

February 18, 2008

“Hey. You want to go for a walk or something?”

Teri looks up at me, from just inside her apartment door. She looks down, and lets the door open a bit wider. “All right.”

A minute later, we're outside, walking beneath the glow of stars and lampposts. It's a bit strange to be walking on dry pavement, but it hasn't snowed in a few days now, and the temperature reached up as high as the mid-50s this afternoon. I'm sure that will change soon enough, but it's nice to get even a short break from winter.

“I've been thinking about how we left things the other night.”

“Me too.”

Somewhere out there, a police siren is blaring. Or maybe a firetruck.

“I said some stupid things,” I say. “I know you're really busy. And I know I've got to respect that.”

“I said some dumb things too. And you didn't deserve to have me talk to you like that.”

Teri and I haven't taken a lot of walks like this. We're always walking to someplace—to my place or hers, to the Student Center or to class. I wonder if anything would be different if we had taken more walks like this before. I suppose we're both too busy to do this sort of thing a lot.

“So where do we go from here?” I ask.

“I love you, Preston ,” Teri says, “and I don't want you to think that I ever changed my mind about that.” She clears her throat. “But I've been thinking—and I'm not sure I love who either of us are when we're together.”

I exhale, and watch my breath form a cloud of mist. “I think I know what you mean.”

“I don't know if I want for anything to change. I kind of forgot what it's like for us not to be together, you know?”

“I know.”

The siren's back.

“But this isn't working.”

“It's not.”

I can see red and blue lights flashing in the distance, between some trees. They're gone before long, and gets harder to hear the siren again.

“So where do we go from here?”

Before long, we're coming back toward Teri's apartment. I hadn't even noticed that we were walking in a little circle. I wonder if Teri was steering us, or if that's just the way things turned out.

I leave Teri off at her apartment. We look at each other for a second outside. It feels like we should kiss, and for a second I think we're both considering it—one last kiss.

The weight of it's enough set me straight. “Your nose looks good,” I say, breaking the quiet. “You can hardly tell anything happened.”

She smiles. “Thanks, Preston .” She turns around, opening the door to the apartment. “I'll see you around, OK?”

“Yeah. Take care of yourself.”

She doesn't turn around again. I watch her through the glass panel next to the door, as she heads to the door of her apartment. I wait until she's inside to leave.

February 19, 2008

“Hey, Preston ,” this girl from my floor says, sneaking her head in through the open space in the doorway.

“Hey, what's up?”

“There's a girl puking in the bathroom. Just thought you should know—it being a Tuesday night and all.”

There are a lot of people sick on the weekends. A girl ralphing on Tuesday leads me to think she's either really sick, or has something wrong with her to be drinking this hard this early in the week. Either way, I'm on my feet. “Thanks for the heads up. I'll check it out.”

Walking to the bathroom, I try to remember what the protocol is for this situation. I figure I should probably grab one of the girls from staff. And yet, when I get outside the bathroom door, I hear a familiar coughing. I have to hear it once more before I'm positive.

I crack open the door, peeking inside. “Emma?” I creep inside. The first stall door is open, and I see Emma there, pink-red hair tumbling down the sides of her head as she stands bent over the toilet.

“Hmm?” she says starting to turn.

“Emma, it's me Preston .” I say coming right in, stepping up behind her.

Emma spits in the toilet then flushes it. She stands up straighter, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she turns to face me. “ Preston .”

“Emma, are you all right?”

Her lower lip trembles, and she looks like she's been crying for a while. It could just be the sort of physical tears that come from puking. I've got a feeling there's more to it than that.

“I'm fine,” she says, pushing past me.

I follow after her. “Emma, you don't look fine.”

“Oh, I forgot,” she says, not turning back, “you're the RA now, so you know everything.”

“I didn't say that.” I end up following her right into her room. I can feel a lot of eyes on me as I do it—nosy neighbors, people who probably thought they were hearing a lover's quarrel, then realized they'd hit the real jackpot when they saw it was an RA talking to a resident.

Emma curls up on her bed, vanishing beneath a red flannel blanket in a second.

“Come on, Emma, it's me. What's wrong?” I put a hand on the hump of her back, and feel her shaking beneath the blanket. “Do you need help? I can call an ambulance.”

“No. I just need to be alone.” Her voice is steady as she speaks the word. She shudders when she's done, and I hear another sob.

I leave my hand on her. As an RA, I'm not sure what more I can do, or should do. As a person, I'm worried about her—and a little hurt she doesn't want me there.

I lift my hand, just watching her. I try to think of something I could say—some reassurance, some platitude. My mind's blank. I watch her for another second, then get up to leave.

February 20, 2008

I prod at a cherry tomato on my plate, shoving it through the leaves of lettuce in my salad. “That soup any good?” I ask.

“Decent,” Chang says swirling the broth around with his plastic spoon. The prospect of ‘breakfast soup'—didn't sound so appealing, but it's kind of funny to watch Chang wade through it. “I could have done without the bacon.”

I clasp one of the buttons of my coat. We had to take a seat near the door at The Lighthouse today because it was packed. Each time someone comes in or leaves, we get hit with the sub-freezing temperatures from outside.

“So how's your next story coming?” Chang asks, blowing steam off his soup.

“For class?”

He nods.

“Not horrible,” I shrug. “I started writing about SA shutting down the paper, but I'm not sure I want to stick with it.”

“Why's that?”

“Benjamin was saying I should write about something I'm further removed from—so I could be more objective, and not apologetic or anything.”

“I can't imagine you being apologetic about SA.”

“Granted.” I take a sip of my Mountain Dew. “So what are you going to write about?”

“I was thinking about a piece on being adopted,” Chang says, fishing around in his soup again. “You know, what it's like not knowing who my birth parents are, to learn to trust other people.” He lets the spoon drop, and looks me in the eye. “I don't know. I just don't want it to be one of those whiny cliché, ‘oh, I'm an orphan' things. I want it to be real, you know?”

“Yeah.” I look away, out toward a window across the way, where the sun is shining in with a bright glare. “I hear ya.”

February 21, 2008

The moment I step into the Student Center , I can hear the sweet blend of voices my mind automatically links to The Off Beats. Heading into the café, there's no mistaking that it's them, standing on a little makeshift stage, performing.

I watch the girls, scanning their faces as I get into line for a cup of coffee. It hits how many of the girls I don't know now—younger faces. I imagine how Emma must have been just one of those faces to upperclassmen years before—another fresh-faced kid who wanted to see what that a cappella thing was all about, smiling at the sounds she was just learning she could make without any instruments.

As I run over the faces a second time, I realize I can't spot Emma at all. I see Claire. I spot a few other girls who have been around for a year or two. But there's no red hair, much less the dark pink streaks starting show as Emma's dye fades.

As they wrap up the song, one of the returning girls comes up to the microphone. “Before we go on any further, I thought I would introduce everyone to our new director,” she looks behind her, giggling, “my good friend, Claire.”

Claire takes a step forward and curtsies as the small, but growing crowd applauds.

I think of how I found Emma the other day. It was bad enough where I could understand her missing a show a day or two later. I never would have expected her to leave the group, though. There's something serious going on.

I wonder if Emma was there when I knocked on her door earlier this afternoon. Or this morning. Or yesterday. I think it's about time I try again.

February 22, 2008

“I'm sorry I scared you,” Emma says, a few steps out of McCarthy Hall.

I walk beside her, a little less than an arm's length between us. I was resigned to not seeing Emma for a while, after knocking on her door, day after day, and never hearing a thing from her, until I finally caught her tonight. “Well, it's not like you scared me.”

She gives me a little grin.

“I was a concerned, that's all.”

“Well, I appreciate that you were concerned.”

I put my hand to my neck, wishing I'd worn a scarf out. It was the last thing on my mind before, as I rushed to grab my coat, and meet Emma back in the hallway.

I pull the pack of Parliaments from my coat pocket, plucking out one for myself, and offering them to Emma.

“No thanks. I quit.”

I think about putting the cigarette back, surprising myself with how disappointed I am at having missed that common ground. I figure it's going to be awkward not to light up now, so I put it in my mouth, and go for my lighter.

“It was Bud,” Emma says.

“Hmm?”

“The reason I was so upset—it's Bud's fault.”

I pull the cigarette from my mouth, exhaling my first puff. “What did he do?”

“Some girl.” She turns to face me. “He cheated on me. I don't even know who the other girl was—and I don't care.”

“I'm sorry, Emma.”

She waves a hand. “It's OK. I had an idea it was going on—I knew I couldn't trust him.”

I nod. “So that's why you were you so upset the other night, then? Throwing up and everything?”

She looks away, taking a few steps. I take another drag.

“I just got wasted after I found out,” she says, looking down. “And I got in a fight with some of the girls from the Off Beats, and ended up quitting.” She looks up, “But that was in the works anyway. It was just too much.” She looks away again. “Anyway, then I got sick when I got back. Thanks for not writing me up or anything.”

I watch her, and she looks away again. I can't help thinking there's something else going on, but I'm not looking to press her. “Yeah,” I say, flicking away some ash, “don't mention it.”

February 23, 2008

“How about an Austin Knights game?” I suggest, sitting with Gary and Jonah in the RA staff room. We're trying to figure out a building-wide program for next week.

Gary raises an eyebrow.

“You know,” I go on, “because Mike Weaver's playing for them. It's got the whole Taylor alumni thing going. And there's probably a game on TNT or something, ‘cause the Knights are pretty good this year.”

“I don't know about the whole sports thing,” Gary says. “It kind of limits your audience. I'm not sure how into sports our kids are.”

“And besides that, what's the educational component going to be?” Jonah asks.

Since I've joined the staff, Kermit has been harping about all of our programs needing to have an educational component. It does make some sense, but the idea's met a lot of resistance from the rest of the staff, who keep arguing about the social value of just giving residents the opportunity to hang out together, and have fun.

I shrug. “Educates people that someone from Taylor can really make something of themselves.”

“That is, if Weaver gets off the bench,” Gary says. “From what I hear, he's played, what, ten minutes total since he got to the NBA.”

“And hasn't missed one shot from the field, or the free throw line,” Jonah chimes in. We both turn to him. “What? I can watch sports.”

“Or read about them.” Gary rolls his eyes. “What do we think about a sushi night?”

“Sushi?”

“Get some food, tell people what's what. Educational. Cultural. Food,” Gary says. “It's a beautiful thing.”

Jonah shrugs. “It's better than a pizza party.”

“How about sushi and basketball?” I ask. “Appeal to a broader audience. And we can give it a catchy name.”

“Fish and sports?” Jonah asks.

“How about ‘Rolling with the Knights?'” Gary says, licking his lips. “You know, because you roll your sushi—and Knights would travel—you know, on rolling things.”

“Like horses?” Jonah asks.

“Rolling with the Knights,” I repeat. “I like it. Let's go with that.”