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March 2-March 8, 2008

March 2, 2008

I stand still for a second. It's hardly a choice as the wind blasts into me. I pull up my scarf so it reaches up to my nose, eyes closed against the whipping snow. Opening my eyes, I can't seem more than a few feet ahead of me.

The news said there was a severe weather alert. I suppose I hadn't paid it much mind until I was out here.

I walk on, trudging through the snow drifts, second guessing my decision to come out at all today. I promised Chang I'd meet him there, though. We're going to go over his piece for our non-fiction class. He's worried people are going to rip it apart in class tomorrow, and wanted to hear my critique first.

I sneeze twice, in rapid succession. I suck in some snot, inhaling through my nose. I can feel my phlegm connecting my lower lip to the wool of the scarf.

I almost slip on the ice outside the library. Looking closer, the blacktop is coated with ice. I'm not liking my chances of making it to the door without falling on my ass first.

Just as I'm beginning the final steps of my trek, I look up to see the library doors open. A string of people walk out, with Chang bring up the rear. I take a step toward him, then think better of it, staying where I am as Chang comes to me, taking baby steps across the ice. He has his hands buried in his pockets, the collar of his coat turned up. His face is already turning red against the cold.

“Chang, where you going, man?” I ask.

He looks up, noticing me for the first time. “I tried calling you,” he says. “They decided to close the library—sent everyone home.”

“You're kidding.”

Chang shakes his head. “Weather's only supposed to get worse. They said everybody ought to head home now.”

March 3, 2008

“I thought it was too simplistic,” one of the guys in class says. He's sitting in his winter coat, still shining with melted snow. The weather has improved a little since yesterday, but the college already cancelled evening classes. “I get it,” he goes on, the guy was adopted, and he loves his adoptive family, but he still wants to know who his birth parents are.”

Chang shifts in his seat, looking straight down at the print out of his own piece.

“Are you saying that this story is cliché?” Benjamin asks, rubbing his chin.

“I don't know if I'd say cliché. I mean, I know it's your life and all,” he says, looking to Chang. “But just, in terms of a literary piece, it didn't really grab me. There wasn't anything really new about it.”

“I'd disagree with that,” a girl across the way says, kneading her ski cap in her hands. “I actually thought it was kind of refreshing to read this. There was just something—something unpretentious about it.”

“What do you mean?” Benjamin asks.

“It's just, there wasn't a lot of flowery description or symbolism or anything. It was straightforward, and honest, and I guess I appreciated that.”

The story was straight forward, easy to read. A little too easy to read. I found myself wanting to slow down, wanting to turn away from what he'd written. There's an ongoing question, throughout the piece, as Chang wonders in writing who his parents were, why they'd give him up, and why they'd keep themselves hidden. He wonders if his birth parents know who he is, and if they ever think about him. He wonders if they might have had other children since him—other orphan brothers and sisters, wandering the world, or maybe siblings at home with his birth parents, who never had the same questions as him.

In my mind, I remember losing track of just how many of his questions I could answer.

“ Preston ,” Benjamin says, “any thoughts on this piece?”

I look back down at the page. “No,” I lie. “I don't have much to say.”

March 4, 2008

“Hey Dad,” I say, cell phone wedged between my shoulder and the side of my face, as I pile books into my bag, getting ready to leave the room for class.

“ Preston —I hope I didn't wake you.”

“Na, I wish. Getting ready for class, though.” I look all around me, trying to spot a spare pen. I'm not sure how I lose the damn things as fast as I do, and yet I never seem to have one handy when I need it. “So how are you doing?”

Dad hesitates. “I'm not bad. How are you?”

“Good, good,” I say, spotting a black click pen under my desk, and scrambling after it, as if it's going to scurry off.

“Well listen Preston , the real reason I'm calling is that we had a problem back home.”

“What kind of problem?”

“We had a hell of a snowstorm here the last few days. Practically the whole town shut down.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and heading out the door. “We got hit pretty hard here too.”

“The thing is,” Dad goes on, “the storm hit your mom's store especially hard. Blew out the front window, and then the weight of the snow actually made the roof cave in.”

I stop in the hallway. “Are you serious?”

“Must have had problems before that we didn't know about—all that snow was too much for it, though. Anyway, it looks like she's going to have to start from scratch on the place.”

“Is she all right?”

Dad sighs. “She'll get by. But no, she's not doing so great right now. It might be nice if you gave her a call later on.”

“Yeah,” I say, starting to walk again, a touch slower. “I'll definitely do that.”

March 5, 2008

“Who are you talking to there?” I ask, peering at Emma's computer screen from where I sit on her papasan.

“Claire,” she says finishing typing something. From there, she closes the Instant Messenger window. “But I'm done now. Time to focus on work.”

“How's Claire doing?”

Emma sighs. “Better. I think she's still down about Jones, and she still hasn't heard from him.” Emma takes off her glasses, cleaning them against the blue wool of her sweater. “But she's focusing on The Off Beats, so that's taking her mind off it. She was actually just asking me some stuff about the group.”

“That's right. She's the director now, huh?” I ask, tapping my pen against the spiral binding of my notebook.

“Yeah.”

I reach down picking up my 20 ounce of Mountain Dew. Twisting off the cap, I go on, “So, I don't get it. I mean, you told me you got into a fight with some of the girls and ended up leaving. But, I'm sure you've made up with them by now—you and Claire seem close as ever.”

Emma pushes a hand through her hair. It's growing longer, shaggier. “It's just one of those things.”

I wait for her to say more. When nothing comes, I ask, “One of those things?”

“It's just, being the director—it wasn't that fun anymore, you know?” she says. “And it's not like after college, I'm going to be in a professional a cappella group. I just didn't see the point.”

“But it was something you cared about. It was your thing.”

“Operative word—was.” Emma starts typing, this time in a Word document.

I look back down at my notes, getting back to studying.

March 6, 2008

“Anyway, she was all frazzled about the storm,” Matt says over the phone, “and I was trying to explain that just because there's a blizzard in Shermantown, doesn't mean it's going to be storming in the City, but she wasn't having it. She kept saying she couldn't afford to get stuck in an airport, and yada yada yada.”

I lie on my bed, flipping through the latest Rolling Stone. “So what you're getting at is that you didn't get any this weekend?”

“Well, yes,” Matt says. “Although, on a less shallow level, I was also kind of sad that I didn't get to hang out with her, period.”

“Is that genuine emotion I'm hearing?”

“Shut up,” Matt says, as I chuckle. “But anyway, what's going on with you?”

“Not much. But speaking of Shermantown, and the blizzard and all, sounds like my mom's store got nailed?”

“Sorry to hear that, dude. What was the damage—broken windows and stuff?”

“Yeah, broken windows,” I say. “You know, that, and the roof caved in?”

“What?”

“Yeah, the roof caved in under the snow. Mom's gonna see what she can do to follow up with the realtor, because it had to be a problem before. But she didn't sound too optimistic about getting any compensation.”

“That sucks.”

I turn a page, without even looking at the magazine. “I think the most messed up part is that she was so excited about this—it sounds like she was really doing it. Then, next thing she knows, it's like the store's gone. It's going to take her forever to get everything set again.”

“Your mom's a tough, though. She'll work through this, you know?”

“Yeah, you're probably right,” I say. “I just wish there was something I could do.”

March 7, 2008

“You know what makes this movie great?” Jonah asks.

“What's that?” I ask, scooping up a handful of popcorn from the coffee table in front of us, as The Karate Kid plays out on the lounge TV in front of us.

“It's how outrageously bad the villains are. They're just complete assholes,” he says, eyes fixed on the screen. “Take that scene we're the bad guys are all dressed up in the skeleton costumes and they're beating up Daniel.”

“Right.”

“In real life, they beat him up, leave him battered and bruised. In this movie, the lead kid is actually read to kill him, before Mr. Miyagi makes the save.”

“I guess it is kind of funny.”

“It's fantastic,” Jonah says, shaking his head.

“All right, I hope everybody's still hungry,” Gary 's voice calls out. He approaches us, a stack of about ten pizzas in his hands.

We decided to have this movie marathon at the start of the week, when the storm hit hardest. We called it “Snowed In,” and sold it as a way to have fun this weekend without having to brave the weather. It's still snowing now, but it's hardly as treacherous as it once was to head outside.

Still, we've drawn a pretty decent crowd of residents. Forgetting about snow, I guess they're just looking for the chance to be lazy and pig out. I suppose I can't judge them, since I'm enjoying myself here too.

“Good call ordering the extra pies,” Jonah says, as Gary joins us, leaving the table where the residents are swarming around the new pizzas.

“What can I say? I know people,” Gary says. “So what are we thinking next? Keep the fight theme going with Rocky?”

“I was thinking A Beautiful Mind,” Jonah volunteers.

I watch as Emma takes a seat on one of the couches. She's wearing her red and white flannel pajama pants. It's bizarre, but they strike me. I can remember lying in bed with her when she had them on, pushing a pant leg up with my foot, so I could touch our bare legs together, before she pushed the pant leg back down.

Gary turns to me. “Tie breaking vote?”

“Eh, I think that responsibility's a little much for me,” I say, waving them off. “Let's have the audience vote when this one's done.”

March 8, 2008

“You should really get a couch or something,” Emma says, shifting so her back's against the wall, sitting beside me in my bed.

“You think so?”

She waves her hand out into the room. “Look at all the empty space you've got. You put a couch or a futon in, and you kill some dead space—not to mention giving guests somewhere to sit besides your desk chair and your bed. And it would be a good space somebody to crash—like if you had Matt staying over night or something.”

I scratch my head. “I don't know what I'd do with the couch after this year. Seems silly to buy it just for these next couple months.”

“So you move it to the next place,” Emma says, moving some of her hair behind her ear. I notice a stray pink strand fall off, twisting in the air as falls toward my bed.

When she sets her hand down, she leaves our arms touching. The commercials end, and the crappy movie on Oxygen is back, picking up where it left off, with this middle aged woman crying. I think about moving my arm, so that when Emma notices it, she doesn't think I put our arms together. It's only then that it occurs to me she might have meant to touch her arm to mine.

I'm Emma's RA now. I know people are already talking, and evening having her here, behind closed doors, sitting on my bed is kind of shady. You're not supposed to get overly involved with your residents.

I slide my arm so more of it's touching her, then pushing my luck, push my hand against her back. She bends to me, and slide my arm around her waist.

Emma kisses my cheek. Her breath is hot against my skin as she moves away. I don't have a choice anymore.

I kiss Emma on the lips. She turns into me, kissing me back before she pulls me down. I prop myself up on my hands, bent over her. She grips my hand in hers. I slide my free thumb beneath the waistband of her underwear, touching the indentation in her skin.

“Wait,” she says. “ Preston , wait.”

“What?” I ask, starting to grin, looking down at her. She's as beautiful as she was when I met her. No, she's more beautiful. I kiss her again.

“Wait, we shouldn't do this.” She pushes my hands away, pushing me up, off of her. Once I'm off, she swings herself, climbing off the bed.

“Emma—I'm sorry.”

“No, it's OK, it's just—I should go.”

“Come on, Emma—stay, watch the movie.”

“I should go,” she says, putting on the slippers she wore in. “Thanks for letting me hang out. We'll do it again sometime.”

“Emma—” I don't bother finishing as she opens the door, and walks out into the hallway.