Charlotte [a fictional college blog]

Author's Note: Charlotte is on hold

2009-06-20T20:23:00.002-04:00

Hi all,

I'm sorry to report that I need to put this blog on hold for awhile. I did originally outline the story to last for two years, but I currently don't have enough time to devote to it. I'm not sure whether I'll be able to pick it up again in awhile or not. Either way (and I do hope I'll be able to finish it), it has been a great experience for me and I hope you have enjoyed the past year with Charlotte. Thanks so much to all of my readers and commenters <3

Love,

Bekah

when the beats run dry there's gonna be some blood

2009-06-09T00:16:00.001-04:00

Starsailor, “This Time”

I’m in Spain and have had absolutely no time. Orientation was okay, generally, but really hectic. I’m finally moved into my own room, thank god. We’re only here for a couple months, so it doesn’t really make sense to go all out decorating, but that’s all I want to do right now; put pictures on the walls, tiles, wind chimes, hang scarves in my window so that I have floating colors in the breeze.

But I don’t have the money to pay for it, or the time to do it, or the space in my suitcase to bring all that home. So I’ll just daydream of it in small moments, small pieces captured out of time.

We’re really busy now. Classes started today, and already I feel behind. They’re taught in Spanish, and I feel like I’m always half a sentence behind, trying to stuff all the words in my mind so I can translate them and then try to actually think about what we’re learning. And already I have a whole pile of homework. Literally, a pile: three worksheets, grammar review sheets, and a huge Xeroxed play to read by the end of the week.

And I’m not even properly moved in yet; I brought sheets, and bought a pillow, but haven’t found any cheap blankets that I like, so I’ve been sleeping in sweatpants and a hoodie and two pairs of socks. I have a couple small shampoo bottles from the hotel, but haven’t gotten any conditioner. Half of my clothes are still in my suitcase because I don’t have hangers.

But it’s so good to be in our dorm, done with orientation, into my own room, my own space, and even if class is difficult, it’s better than lectures on study habits (do your homework! This is STUDY abroad!) or safety (don’t walk around alone at night! Don’t flash money!) or cultural awareness (don’t speak loudly on the subway! Don’t wear sneakers!). And even if I have no proper blankets, or conditioner, or tissues or razors or floss, or friends, for that matter, although there is Zach – it’s better than sharing my orientation hotel room with Kerry.

I suppose Kerry would be nice enough, on her own, even if she’s a little crazy. But she’s here with Nathan. Her boyfriend, from school, who apparently her parents can’t stand because they think he’s a Communist, or something. They don’t know he’s here, and according to Kerry, “they only paid for the trip to, like, get me away from him.” So apparently there’s already been drama about them being in pictures that will be on Facebook where her parents might see them. (Happily, my parents are still NOT on Facebook. I don’t suppose there’s anything so dramatic that I’m keeping from them, but still.)

I couldn’t imagine how they were going to spend two entire months not being in pictures together. Well, I figured out quickly enough: by spending the entire time in bed together.

I’m not going to judge. It had been a whole two weeks since they’d gotten out of school, whatever. There has to be a cheaper way to spend all summer secretly hooking up, even if they needed to be secretive—did they have to go all the way to Madrid?—but again, not my problem. Except for that, during orientation, it was also supposed to be MY ROOM.

So after I finally got to my hotel—after the long flight, the disorienting half-sleep of the plane, where I’d fallen asleep just enough to be terrified and confused when a jolt of turbulence woke me up and I had no idea where I was, and was convinced it’d been hours but it had only been seventeen minutes. The long, empty minutes stretched into endless hours, and only the slight bumps of the plane distinguished one moment from the next. The boredom was so intense I was excited each time I had to pee, just to get up, to go wait in line, make faces at myself in the mirror as I tried to pee as slowly as possible, to carve out a slightly bigger chunk of time out of the solid block of flight time remaining.

I had an aisle seat, and the person next to me was nice enough—a middle aged man in a suit who read a magazine and then slept for hours – but I almost wished for another Calvin, just to pass the time, or at least someone who didn’t look so damn comfortable. No matter what position I was in, my neck hurt, my back hurt, my legs had no room. I stretched my legs out in the aisle, but then the stewardesses ran over it with the drinks cart. There were movies, but none that I wanted to see, and I didn’t really have the attention span for it.

After landing, finally, and trying to get my tired mind to slog through Spanish expressions and conjugations. After meeting our program director, and making small talk for half an hour as we waited for my luggage, when all I wanted was clean cool fresh sheets and space to stretch out and the sweet sweet refreshing oblivion of sleep.

And then the subway, which was remarkably clean and nice, but still, could I finally go somewhere without small seats squishing me next to strangers?— and so, finally, the hotel, waiting at the front desk for my key, the program director and receptionist speaking faster than I follow, and finally lugging my suitcases up two flights of stairs – finally, my back aching, arms killing me, head spinning, I unlocked the door and –

you want my outline drawn, you were my greatest failure

2009-05-29T03:23:00.000-04:00

Anberlin, "Feel Good Drag"

I’m in the Atlanta airport waiting for my flight. There was a program flight leaving from New York City, but my parents found a cheaper one out of Hartsfield-Jackson, so I’m going to meet one of the program advisors in the Madrid airport.

Part of me is anxious thinking about everyone already meeting each other, as if they’ll be best friends before I get there and I’ll automatically be excluded, always on the edges, not getting the jokes, not being in the “remember when?” stories. But I know that’s silly. I already know two people from my Spanish class, anyway, who I don’t really want to spend every moment of the next month with, but at least I’ll know someone.

And mostly I’m relieved to not have to put up with the small talk and social jostling just yet: who will be popular? Who will hook up? Who is the hottest, the coolest, the craziest? I’d rather relax, listen to my iPod and maybe flip through a book. I’ve never been on a flight this long before, but hopefully I’ll be able to sleep. I think orientation doesn’t start until the day after I get there, but I’m not sure.

Hopefully I won’t get anyone like Calvin sitting next to me. I already have my headphones in, even though they’re not connected to anything, the end of the cord shoved into my jeans pocket. I figure if I seem occupied, no one will talk to me. I could also pretend to only know Spanish, but since I’m sure at least some of the flight will be legit Spaniards, I probably shouldn’t try and pull that one off.

They recommended that we get here way early—two and a half hours before the flight—and my parents were concerned about traffic on the drive, so I ended up arriving more than three hours before the flight. I’ve still got about an hour to wait. Thank god I have my laptop, even though there’s no free wireless. Probably a good thing: I’d just end up on Facebook.

Pictures of dates, engagements, weddings, puppies, tattoos, piercings. Glimpses into other people’s lives, endless, refreshing itself: why? What makes this so compelling? Addicting, even? It’s not out of control, but it’s like a default background noise, a channel to watch whenever there’s a pause.

Is it just silence, blankness, that I don’t want? Or the thoughts that might crawl up in the darkness, catch up with my mind once it stops running? I need to stop this, need to face whatever it is: guilt, fear, boredom. I’m running away to Spain, and I have a nine hour flight to think about why.

and she fights for her life as she goes in a store with a thought she has caught by a thread

2009-05-20T16:45:00.003-04:00

Oren Lavie, “Her Morning Elegance”

I fly to Madrid in 9 days.

I got accepted, clearly, which I guess I shouldn’t ever have worried about. I even got a partial scholarship, which according to my parents is the only reason I’ll be allowed to spend my summer “dallying in Europe,” as if it’s a Caribbean cruise or something. I’m taking classes, I keep telling them, but they just roll their eyes.

But it’s true: when I imagine the next two months of my life I’m not ever imagining myself diligently taking notes in a classroom, but rather, striding through busy foreign streets and sipping espresso on sidewalk cafes. Spain seems so exotic to me: glaring heat, dark sangria bars, foreign men. All of my daydreams are tinted with this haze of glitter and lust and sweat.

I know it won’t be like that—nothing is every like I imagine it will be, but I can’t ever stop myself from imagining, obsessively. Anyway, dreaming of Spain is better than other things I can think about: Paul, whom I’m still not talking to after that awful stupid amazing kiss. He’s still dating Savannah, according to ever-useful Facebook. I don’t know if she knows what happened, and part of me feels like I should tell her, but I don’t want to be involved with them at all right now. For all I know, she does the same thing to him. It could have just been him getting revenge. It could have been anything.

Or Riley, who is spending his summer studying in London. He’s already there. So I will probably see him. Things between us are okay, I guess. I’m probably just imagining everything. But I can’t help but analyze every movement, every inch of contact, and wonder about his motivations. Which fucks everything up, because I need a real friend who I can bitch to about Paul and then let him hug me and tell me it’s okay.

But I can’t even bring up that kiss to him without thinking of kissing him, and then a tiny tiny part of me still wonders, maybe, maybe… and that’s most of all what I can’t ever let him know, can’t ever let that thought leave its dark dark corner of my mind.

He’s already told me I can crash with him if I visit. And that would make sense; I’m sure accommodation in London isn’t cheap, and a hostel by myself might be just as shady as Riley’s couch or bedroom floor. But I still don’t have a great feeling about it, but I can’t bring that up because I just don’t want to talk about it and am probably being ridiculous.

I’m back in Alabama now. Knowing I’m only here for a week makes it all so much sweeter: the gentle May heat like a blanket hovering in the air, the air fragrant with honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass, the road stretching out before me as I drive home from the grocery store or the post office, any small errand to give me an excuse for those perfect moments of speed and sunlight and loud music spilling out the radio.

I do actually have a lot to do before I leave—get my shots, go to the eye doctor and dentist, buy some classier summer clothes that don’t scream “AMERICAN!,” and brush up a little on my Spanish. I pulled out an A- in the class, but I never really properly learned the last two chapters, and now I might actually need it. I keep reminding myself: this is real, you’re going to have to speak Spanish, you’ll have to meet new people and make friends and it’s actually going to happen.

But I feel pretty good about it. A year done at Bailey—one fourth through college – and there’s been so much so good. Late nights with Alice and Brittany, talking and laughing and pretending to do homework. Knowing that city streets are out there, beckoning, a blur of neon and pavement and people. Walking campus alone in the morning, when it’s empty and pristine. How the marble shines after the rain. Hanging out with Riley and his friends, all night, laughing and eating and debating. Jason. Jason, who I still can’t figure out, but there have been amazing moments of connection and hope.

It’s weird to not have yearbooks like in high school, to not have to sum up a friendship in a Sharpie-scrawled note, to not catalogue inside jokes and make promises of keeping in touch. Instead, leaving Bailey was a blur of frantic packing, shipping my books home, walking past piles of discarded furniture and books every time I left the quad.

Everything was so hectic the morning of my flight that there wasn’t time to be sad, only to hug Audrey and Alice and everyone I ran into on the hall as I dashed to brush my teeth or pee, then heave my suitcases to the street to get a cab.

I hadn’t started packing until the afternoon before, because I had two final papers due that day and had procrastinated so much. Packing was so much worse than I’d expected—apparently I’ve acquired a lot more than I’d thought. And then I had to put my bedding in summer storage the day before my flight, so I ended up only napping a little with a sweatshirt on a sticky plastic mattress, but since I only got to sleep about three hours since I had so much packing, it hardly mattered.

It didn’t me until I was on the plane: that’s it, freshman year is dead and gone, as T.I. crooned in my ear courtesy of Airtran’s XM Satellite Radio. And I waited for a moment to be relieved, sad, anything. But I couldn’t feel anything except a quiet tiredness, so I did my best to curl up against the window, closed my eyes, and drifted off.

A star made from broken glass, fallen in a bitter street

2009-04-20T20:28:00.002-04:00

Pablo Neruda

Paul kissed me and now everything’s messed up. Paul kissed me and I didn’t know what to do. Paul kissed me and yes, no getting away from it, I kissed him back.

And I knew what I was doing, knew fully, as his arm was around me when we were saying goodbye, knew it as he was leaning in, knew it as he kissed my cheek, softly, knew it as his hand was on my chin, so gentle, and then his mouth on mine, I knew it, and I didn’t stop him, I knew it, and I leaned in for more, wrapped my arms around his neck, gave in.

I’d suspected something as we were walking around the night-swathed park, let it linger as an interesting idea in the back of my mind, a vague quiet possibility briefly flaring when he’d brush my hand with his, let his hand rest on the small of my back, just a moment, a moment, of his hand and I should have known, should have left, should have run, screamed, anything. But I stayed, laughing with him, telling stories, reminiscing; conspiring, complicit, guilty, knowing each slow meandering step we took was leading towards this.

He cheated on Savannah and I helped him. Willingly, knowingly. I’m still so disgusted with myself that I can’t think of it without cringing. I helped make someone feel as cruelly stricken as I’d felt when he betrayed me.

I don’t know how to explain how awful I feel. I was trying to explain to Alice that I feel violated, and she jumped on the idea, agreeing that he’d kissed me against my will and that was basically sexual assault and maybe could I get a restraining order? But I’m not really that upset with Paul; if anything, I feel like I violated myself. I guess I’ve never let myself down like this before, and I don’t know how to deal with it.

I might spend the summer in Spain. It’s a study abroad kind of thing; I’d take Spanish classes and get Bailey class credit. It’s absurdly expensive, but I applied for a scholarship, and apparently most people get at least partial funding. I should hear back any day now, and I’m really hoping I get it, if only to get out of here and to not have to try and get a real summer job. I have literally no idea where I would start looking for a job; I’d probably end up at Publix making minimum wage, if I even got that.

I know it’s naïve to think that I can just escape to another country and all my problems will be solved. Going to Bailey didn’t really change anything; now I just have Riley’s too-long hugs every time I see him, his offerings of backrubs and eagerness to watch scary movies alone with me; this weirdness with Jason, this sense that we’ve both irrationally let each other down, this bizarre notion that he knows about Paul; and the pressing guilt of kissing Paul. The thing is, I really enjoyed it, I really, really did. But every time I remember it it’s sickening, literally nauseating, to know I’ve hurt someone that badly, even as a part of me swoops inside, thrilled and tingling.

But maybe a fresh start, an exotic place, somewhere I don’t know the language, will help me somehow. The pictures of Madrid in the glossy pamphlet were gorgeous: silver wire sculptures against the bright blue sky, fountains on every corner, buildings edged with ornate carvings, plazas bustling with people and street performers. I’ll finish off my Spanish language requirement there, which really would help my scheduling in the fall semester. It’d be a great cultural experience. I’d learn more independence. It’d look great on my resume. And living in Spain would definitely help my language skills.

Those are the reasons I carefully recite to my parents. And, secretly, the possibility that I won’t be back in Alabama for more than a month, so I can avoid Paul, the park, Whitney, the way every street seems to be on the way to his house.

Finals are in three weeks. I’m nearly a quarter done with college, which is terrifying. I don’t even want to think about getting a job in this economy, or in any economy, really, since I can’t think of any job I would enjoy. I love anthropology, but not enough to give up everything to move somewhere remote and learn a new language just to catalogue and analyze their interpretation of life and culture. And I don’t think that’s a very lucrative idea anyway.

I almost hit him afterwards, but it wasn’t really an instinct, just an idea of what I should have done in the first place, my conscience flickering to life for an instant. I opened my mouth to yell, to scream, to ask, demand, what the fuck, Paul, what are you doing, what have you done? – but couldn’t speak, my throat too thick with anger and tears, and the unspeakable part of me that wanted it to never end.

So instead I walked away, slamming the car door and choking on everything I should have said, should never have done.

tired of living in the modern world, another casual flag left unfurled by love

2009-03-19T19:22:00.000-04:00

Starsailor, “Faith Hope Love”

So my flight sucked. I was a little anxious about flying, after all of these high-profile plane crashes; I know it’s only media sensationalism, but it’s impossible to be rational about the fear of falling 50,000 feet through the air. But I forgot all about that before we’d even taken off. I’d just sat down in my seat, 21A, and gotten settled in, my seatbelt fastened and my purse stowed beneath my seat.

And then I innocently, stupidly, accidentally made eye contact with the guy sitting down next to me, this twenty-something man in a leather jacket, sunglasses on top of his gelled hair.

“Hey, I’m Calvin,” he said immediately, leering at me (okay, grinning, but it was definitely a leer type of face).

“I’m Charlotte,” I said hesitantly, smiling automatically. I know this is where I should have said something curt and turned back to the window, but I hate being impolite. It’s awkward, I never know how to nicely end a conversation, and I have this bizarre notion that if I insult these men, as pathetic as I might think they are, they might shoot me, or shoot someone else, or something. I guess that wouldn’t happen on an airplane, where God forbid I carry four ounces of contact solution. But still.

“You have gorgeous eyes, Charlotte,” he leered. (Leer for real.)

“Thank you,” I replied automatically, and began fumbling in my purse for my headphones. I smiled and then turned away to the window as I slid the earbuds in my ear, and pretended to turn on my iPod (which was actually out of battery). I thought I was safe, until only a minute or two later a flight attendant stopped by.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t use any electronic devices until the fasten seatbelt sign has been turned off,” she told me apologetically. Fuck, I muttered to myself.

“So what were you listening to?” Calvin asked breezily.

My mind raced over my iTunes library. “Uhhhhh. Ben Folds.”

“Yeah? So what you do, Charlotte?”

“Uhh. I’m in college…” I said vaguely.

“Where?”

“Bailey.”

“Ooh, yeah, I party around there all the time. You ever heard of ____?” (At this point he named about four clubs I’d never heard of.)

“Nope,” I replied. “Not really into partying.”

“Why not? Girl, look at you, you should be out having fun!”

“I have plenty of fun,” I said, laughing.

“No really, Charlotte. Let me show you a good time sometime, okay? How does that sound? I’ll show you where you gotta go, I know my way around.”

“No, thank you,” I said politely, miserably, vaguely envisioning myself following this sketchy man around the streets of New York, and trying to make eye contact with the flight attendant walking up and down the aisles checking our seatbelts. I’d end up dead in an alley, I thought to myself, gang-raped and sliced into pieces.

Or maybe I shouldn’t be so scared of taking these kinds of chances, maybe it’d be new, fun, some different facet of New York I’d never seen. I imagined a club, everything slow motion, a crowd dancing to pulsing music, purple lights flashing across the room. Then I chanced a quick glance at Calvin and immediately recoiled. No way in hell.

He misinterpreted our nanosecond of eye contact and pulled out his phone. “I’ll give you a call, okay? What’s your number?”

I opened my mouth to say something — I have no idea what – but happily the flight attendant beat me to it. “I’m sorry, sir, but cell phones must be turned off for the entire duration of the flight, including takeoff and landing,” she recited smoothly.

I took the opportunity to grab a book out of my purse and pretend to read it. As soon as possible, I put my headphones in, listened to imaginary music, and pretended to sleep, unhappily listening as the flight attendants served everyone else soft drinks and small bags of pretzels. Somehow they let me land with my headphones in, and I was able to get off the plane without incident, although I didn’t feel safe until I was in the car with my parents.

So it was an awful start to my break, but since then this week has been great. My parents met me at the airport, and then my mom made me macaroni and cheese when we got home. I sat at the counter, flipping through the newspaper, and then went up to bed. I like my bed at school, I actually do. But it was so great to sink into my sheets and drift off to sleep with only the intermittent sounds of the heat turning on and off, instead of drunken shouting and cursing outside.

But waking up that morning was the best part. I laid there for a few minutes, soaked in warmth and softness, and then rolled out of bed. I dragged on sweats, walked through happily clean and soft carpet to the bathroom, then plodded downstairs. My mom made me scrambled eggs and cinnamon sugar toast, and I started rereading Harry Potter. I made myself a smoothie for lunch and was on to the second book by the afternoon, when I took a break to nap.

I’d made vague plans to see a lot of friends from Whitney this week, but never followed up with most of them. I’ve been so content to stay in my pajamas all day and read aimlessly and watch movies. I hadn’t realized how stressed out I was at Bailey, but I guess all the work is getting to me. I feel like I’m hibernating, just soaking up sunlight and sleep.

As far as I know I’m still seeing Paul tomorrow. He texted me yesterday: I can’t wait to see you. I miss you so much. I didn’t respond, because I want to think about him as little as possible, even though every particle of this house is oozing with memories of us.

flip on a switch and everything's fine, no more lips no more tongue no more ears no more eyes

2009-03-15T18:19:00.003-04:00

"The Mirror-Blue Night", from Spring Awakening

SPRING BREAK. Thank god. I had so much due this past week: Spanish test, Medical Anthropology paper, International Relations midterm. Plus campus is immersed in housing rumors and drama, and I really need a break. I’m living in a four-person suite next year with Alice and two of her friends. Audrey is living in a suite with Will, which I think sounds like a terrible idea, but since I don’t want to bring up how I’m not living with her, we haven’t really talked about it much.

Plus, she’s infatuated with him. “Is it bad that I’m already planning out our wedding?” she said dreamily the other night, after he’d taken her out to dinner. I just laughed, because I’m not actually going to say, yes, you’re an idiot, it’s only been five months. But hey, maybe it will work. And who am I to criticize idle daydreaming? It’s not like I haven’t spent years of my life dreaming of things that will never work out. At least they actually are together, that’s further than I ever got.

Housing hasn’t been too bad for me, but apparently crazy shit happens every year. A couple years back some kid got busted for selling their housing lottery number for $1500; it’s rumored that numbers are sold for thousands every year. Brittany got a bad number and decided to get diagnosed with a learning disability so she could be guaranteed a single. And constant friendships being tested, drama, it’s like prom all over again. Seriously, you can’t walk around campus without hearing someone yelling into their cell phone about it. On Wednesday a group of five girls were standing in the middle of the main campus path. Three were screaming and two were crying. Apparently they were deciding who was going to have to drop out of their four-person suite.

Anyway, Audrey flew home yesterday. The dorms are pretty empty by now, which is sort of surreal—the incessant background noise of talking and music can be annoying, but it’s also something I’d gotten used to. Now it’s a little creepy to walk through the empty hallway, to go to the dining hall and have only a small scraggly population scattered across the room instead of the normal bustling cafeteria.

I go home tomorrow. I can’t wait. It’ll be so much warmer at home. I just want to sleep and go for walks and take afternoon naps on the living room carpet where the sunlight warms the room, and wake up to a delicious homemade dinner. And I can relax before finals. I know I had all of these dreams for Thanksgiving break, too, but I’m hoping this time it’ll actually work out.

So I’ve stuck with the Lent thing: I haven’t eaten meat for two weeks. I almost did yesterday at lunch – pepperoni pizza – but I remembered in time to choose plain cheese instead. I wasn’t even thinking of pepperoni as meat. It’s just so weird that it’s made of dead pigs. I can understand why eating ribs can seem a little barbaric, but pepperoni just seems too manufactured.

I’ve thought about staying with it and never eating meat again. I still haven’t told anyone about this streak, though, because I’m not sure if I’m going to keep it up. (And it’s just so typically liberal-college-student that it sort of makes me cringe.) So far it hasn’t been difficult – I don’t eat much meat here anyway, the deli cold cuts are less than appealing – but I keep suddenly realizing things I wouldn’t be able to eat anymore. Yesterday I remembered Chick-fil-A. During anthropology class Friday, I thought of Mongolian beef. Tofu will never compare.

I guess I’ll have to tell my parents when I go home, which I would rather not do. I know exactly how they’ll react: they’ll smile and laugh and be like, “Oh, of course dear!” and later, before going to bed, whisper to each other about how she’s really changed and things must really be different there. Later on at a barbecue or something it’ll become a joke, a conversation starter. In a decade it’ll be family lore: “the time Charlotte went vegetarian for Lent! And she’s not even religious!”.

Honestly, being vegetarian is probably one of the least offensive things I can do. Apparently a few weeks ago some woman in a grocery store told my mother, who was wearing a Bailey T-shirt, that her niece had also gone to Bailey and had “come home a lesbian!” My mom was laughing when she told me this, but I still felt like I had to reassure her that no, I’m still not a lesbian. Which is true. Although it might be convenient; at least girls make some sense to me, or I think they do.

Jason went home Friday afternoon. He asked if we could have lunch before he left, but I was still in class, so I didn’t get to say goodbye. But he texted me about ten times from the airport, and told me he was going to bring some books back from home for me. Which is really exciting to me. But I told Allie and she just started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“That’s like, actually romantic to you. Books!”

“Hey, you were the one falling in love with Rob’s portraiture,” I rejoined.

“Yeah, whatever. So are you actually going to see Paul?”

I am. Unless he bails on me, which really wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. We have plans to get coffee on Friday. This should be interesting, if it actually happens.

isolation is a riddle: to be surrounded by a million other people, but to feel alone like a tree in a desert

2009-03-02T21:55:00.003-05:00

Michael Franti, “Stay Human”

Today we had a snow day. It even snowed back home in Alabama, which is a pretty big deal. Before coming to New York snow awed me. It was magical. Now it’s usually just another routine annoyance. I’ve spent today hanging out in the dorm, though, and I kept finding myself staring out of our window instead of doing my anthropology reading. It really is beautiful, especially when the wind blows and snow cascades off the roof, a sheet of fluffy white pieces floating to the ground. And it’s a hundred times more enjoyable when I don’t actually have to go outside in it, even if that means ramen for lunch and dinner. It’s not so exciting that I need to create four Facebook albums about it, but maybe if I were still in Alabama I’d have done that too.

So Allie’s giving up all drinks but water for Lent through this charity called Blood:Water Mission. A few days ago she asked me if I wanted to do it too, and I was all excited for it, thinking of the bottled Starbucks and Caribou drinks I buy every day, until I realized that I’m on a meal plan and don’t really have a choice. I can drink only water, but I’m not going to save any money, since I’ve already been forced to buy more dining dollars than I could ever use.

It’s so hypocritical. Bailey’s all about “sustainability” and “reducing waste!”, but then they compel us to consume more through these stupid requirements. It’s probably like that with all universities: they put on this front of environmental concern, but then have gorgeous dorms and polished landscaping and heated pools and glass buildings, so much excess luxury to lure in students. So I guess we are the hypocritical ones, after all.

Instead I’ve decided to give up meat for Lent. I’m not very religious, but I’ve always been conscious of Lent, mostly because my friends always gave up chocolate. In elementary school I got to eat their chocolate chip cookies. By high school it had become a sort of holy Prom diet, which always seemed bizarre. Is it really a sacrifice if you’re doing it to fit in a dress, so you can have highly unbiblical sex in a grungy hotel room? I’m not the first person to call religion hypocritical, but really, I’m not sure that’s what Jesus had in mind.

Anyway, on Friday animal rights activists were standing along the path to our main academic complex, shoving graphically illustrated pamphlets into the hands of everyone walking by. I have mixed feelings about this. First of all, the whole thing irritates me because it seems like the scare tactics some evangelists use. I’d have preferred a pamphlet with half the blood and twice the information. And, coming from the Bible Belt, I’ve walked away from them plenty of times. So usually I’m a pro at flashing a fake smile and keeping my hands in my pockets, or smilingly insisting I have a pressing appointment, pretending to be deaf to their protests (“Jesus is more important than your haircut! Jesus will make your SOUL beautiful!”). But I was stressed out about my Spanish test and wasn’t concentrating, so I automatically took the pamphlet they pushed it in my face.

And I do think they have a point. What we do to animals is absolutely brutal, and it makes no sense to legislate against harming “pets” but allow excruciating torture of the animals we find tasty – ethnocentrism! (My hot professor’s voice is so clear in my mind.) And I’d never eat meat if I had to be present for its slaughter.

The pamphlet argued for better cage conditions, which I suppose would be an improvement. But really, what difference does it make? We’re raising them to kill them anyway. A picture of a dying pig collapsed in its own vomit disturbed me the most. That’s not only cruel, that’s disgusting.

And then I remember that not only are animals dying cruelly every day, so are humans. People. Children. Mothers. Fathers. Dying for totally preventable reasons. Malaria. Diarrhea. AIDS. I’m not literally eating them for dinner, but I might as well be. It’s shocking how easy it is for us to save lives, what ten dollars can do. And yet most of us (me included) do nothing. Maybe because of the scope of the problem – what difference will it make if we save a life? Or two lives, or ten lives, or a hundred?

Infinite difference. I know that. But it’s too far away for me to see. So I’ll continue this wretched Western lifestyle. Continue eating my hamburgers because I can pretend the slaughterhouse doesn’t exist. Continue buying expensive clothes and gourmet coffee because I can’t see the people who are dying and need my help. But not for these 40 days. I’m too scared to really change, but maybe this is a small step that will get me somewhere real.

I don’t want to tell people about this, though, because I don’t want to seem like I’m taking it too seriously – it’s only 40 days, I know I’m not saving the world — but also because I don’t want people watching my every move, jumping out to tell me my cereal has gelatin or my Caesar dressing has anchovies, or whatever. Apparently red food coloring is made from beetles, but I don’t feel too affectionate towards bugs.

Speaking of food, I’m worried about Audrey. I didn’t really take Callie’s concern last semester seriously; Audrey’s thin, but some people are. I see her eat all the time. But she really does seem to be losing weight; she was trying on outfits the other day and she has veins sticking out in weird places, and her ribs are literally jutting out of her skin.

Maybe she’s just sick, or stressed, I told myself. But then yesterday she’d left the room and I saw a pro-ana website up on her Mac. I know, I shouldn’t be looking at her computer, but ever since the Sex Tips scare, I’m a little paranoid. Plus the page had all these pictures of frighteningly thin girls—like, Holocaust victim thin, torture victim thin, about to die thin – which caught my eye. So I went over, looked at the address, and then looked it up on my own computer. And aside from the “thinspiration” there’s all this advice about being anorexic. Don’t tell your doctor if you lose your period, because they will be suspicious. Always have nail polish on so no one can tell that your nails are blue. Throw away food and dirty a couple dishes so it looks like you have eaten. Sabotage your food by adding ingredients you don’t like, so you will eat less. Sniff scented markers to curb cravings.

It’s horrifying. But obviously it doesn’t mean anything to just look at a website. And maybe it’s not my business anyway. But I think I might talk to Callie about it. I haven’t spoken to her much this semester; I don’t know what she knows about me and Jason. Not that there is much to know about us, or anything at all, really.

Spring break is in two weeks. I am so incredibly excited. I’m only going home—no exotic skiing or snowboarding or third-world-country-orphanage visiting – but I can’t wait: warm weather, my mom’s cooking, sleep. Allie. Paul?

I try not to think of him, but I can’t stop. Even nights after seeing Jason, I dream of Paul. It’s probably nothing more than habit, grooved tracks my subconscious has engraved on my mind, but I dream of when we were together, I dream of walking in on him and Savannah in Alice’s room, I dream of him apologizing and begging for forgiveness. I find myself daydreaming at the gym, thinking back to kissing him in the pool, the perfect picnic we had before I left. I have no idea how to make this stop, or if I even want to.

hey, you know they’re all the same, you know you’re doing better on your own so don’t buy in

2009-02-24T00:54:00.004-05:00

Jimmy Eat World, "The Middle"

So Obama is president and it doesn’t feel different. I know this isn’t exactly news, but I keep waiting for it to properly sink in, and it still hasn’t. I keep trying to grasp the moment, pick out details I can tell my grandchildren. But life feels exactly the same. I keep thinking back to 9/11, walking into school that morning to a silent classroom, everyone staring at the TV in the corner.

We sat and watched the news all morning, instead of social studies. We were watching when the second plane hit, and that was when it really hit me – this is something real, something huge. I felt like I had to feel something, remember this piece of history I had stumbled into, even though I couldn’t understand it. I had no idea what the World Trade Center was, and halfway expected an attack on our school building. I couldn’t understand why we weren’t being sent home, and wondered briefly if it wasn’t safe, imagined the lockdown drills we’d had, desks pushed against the doors, black construction paper taped over the window. But I couldn’t bring myself to be really scared: it was more like a dream, this new world I had walked in to. Three or four girls were crying, but I think it was mostly a show to get boys to hug them and put their arms around them. For once affection was allowed, and even the teachers were hugging each other, whispering in low voices in the hallway.

I sat there tensely and thought about war, wondering if we would have bomb shelters, streets turned to rubble, rationed butter and sugar, mothers and wives fainting at telegrams. My understanding of war was formulated almost entirely from World War II textbooks, Anne Frank, and Gone with the Wind. It was a glint of glamour, the chance to be a heroine, sacrifice with an exalted purpose. It would define my teenage years, I was certain. The first few weeks of school—scary eighth graders (moustaches!), new rules of social capital (tight sweaters, expensive jeans, shiny stick-straight hair, glittery makeup); everything would change. It was almost a relief, my fantasy of this new order.

Afterwards I read avidly the stories of the couples who got back together, the new kindness and compassion of New Yorkers, the children who were depressed or scared. This moment had created so many heroes and victims, this huge national wound. But my life hadn’t changed, just the same strange, fascinating, terrifying middle school universe of cliques and gossip and fear. We were too old for war games, too young for politics. Nothing existed but Valentines’ Dance drama and gossiping about seventh graders and rumors of who liked who, shocking whispers of what happened at certain high school parties.

And we did go to war, but nothing changed, just the headlines. It wasn’t real for years, until it was my classmates posting sandy desert pictures on Facebook, until the boy at Whitney was killed and the war became sacred.

But mostly it was nothing special, just the background music I grew up to. It didn’t even seem as real as the books I fell in love with; Hogwarts seemed more likely than Iraq.

Even now I can’t understand war, like I can’t understand hunger or poverty or torture. So usually I just don’t think about it. I forgot it quickly enough in middle school, got sucked back into our notebooks and codes and crushes.

Friday night Jason and I saw Troilus and Cressida, and went for a walk afterwards. I still can’t figure out what’s going on, but I’ve promised myself that as soon as I figure out what I want, I’ll talk to him about it. He asked me if I wanted to go see it – we’d run into each other on Tuesday in the dining hall – but I don’t think it was really a date. And if it was, that was the most un-romantic play ever; all war and betrayal and heartbreak and the futility of love. I hadn’t read it, but it’s pretty weird for Shakespeare. I’d thought maybe the dark theater would be romantic, that maybe we would hold hands, but as the play progressed I was glad we weren’t.

Afterwards, pacing the snowy sidewalks, we were talking about how everything important or profound seems to be so depressing. “Maybe it has to do with religion,” Jason offered. “Most major religions exalt suffering to some extent.”

“Science fiction doesn’t usually have religion, either,” I mused. And then we started talking about Bradbury, and I forgot the play, the betrayal, the cruelty of Fortune, but all I could think after we hugged goodbye was please don’t let this be inevitably bad, doomed to a cycle of love and heartbreak, please.

Allie thinks I’m crazy and irrational for “putting up with another Paul”, but she’s not in a good mood anyway. She’s choosing housing for next year, and there’s drama with her friends and with Rob. And there’s a lot of controversy in the art world these days, apparently, with the economy how it is – whether to include funding for the arts in government programs, if it’s worth investing in, and apparently her entire school is enraged, as if art was more important than anything else in the world. Even her professors are ranting about it.

“And it is important,” Allie was telling me on the phone the other night, “but they keep saying art’s priceless, it cannot be sold, it cannot be sacrificed. But nothing is priceless, it’s basic economics, even our lives have a price. My professor was saying something about what if Obama sold the Smithsonian, and everyone is sighing and shaking their heads in sympathetic horror, but it’s like, I don’t know if that would be such a horrible thing, even though it’s probably the most exaggerated analogy he could come up with. Aren’t there things more important than artifacts? Like people dying? Can’t we think of anything better to protest? God, Charlotte, all major museums have so much stuff you can never see it all anyway, to think, you could sell one piece and probably save an African village…” She sighed. “You wouldn’t believe it, even in the Vatican… I can’t stand this place.”

One of us will have to take the first step, I know, to do something. This awe at the profound, disgusting unfairness of the world has been something we’ve long shared, this ugly, radiant jewel kept between us. But I choke when she brings it up: I don’t want to think about what I’m spending money on, the takeout dinners, my new scarf, expensive organic food. Allie has been marginally involved in charity work since high school – her church does it – but I have never understood how she can partially commit, how she can give ten dollars a month but not twenty, how she can save a handful of lives but not more. I know it’s better to do something than nothing, but lately I’ve promised myself that I’m waiting, I’m learning, I’m positioning myself to be in a place of influence. After all, even with my scholarship, I’m in huge debt from Bailey.

I don’t know what she thinks of my inaction. We never speak of each other, of our guilt, only of this shocking thing no one else mentions, like a secret only we know, or a profane subject only we are brave enough to bring up. For years it was just something else we could complain about, to juxtapose with the superficial drama at Whitney, but now we’re grown up, we’re supposed to be adults, we are implicated.

I also reactivated my Facebook, mostly just to test myself. I changed my preferences so Paul and Savannah won’t come up in my newsfeed. Even ignoring them, though, I had a few months of stalking to catch up on, which certainly was interesting. The latest is a “mommy survey”. I guess it’s more or less understood, but it still surprises me to read these notes from all my classmates at Whitney, admitting their baby was “def not planned”, or that their first reaction was “FUCK!!”. Especially since the recent Facebook Terms of Service change briefly made those technically indelible.

What if their kids grew up to read that? What will our kids do anyway, when they see our silliness, our profanity, the empty vanity of our lives? I have plenty of pictures that would be awkward for my kids to see, and I’m relatively straight edge. Maybe by then it’ll become socially normal. Or we’ll all edit our online selves as we grow up. Maybe it’ll all be the same, just like people dying needlessly all over the world doesn’t change anything, like planes flying into buildings doesn’t change anything, always the same, the same, the same.

now a new day comes, clears the darkness out of sight, and the shadows that were sleeping come and dance beneath the light

2009-02-15T02:14:00.005-05:00

Belle and Sebastian, “Waiting For The Moon To Rise”

So it’s been awhile. I wish I could say I’ve been busy with something awesome, like curing cancer or wandering through Paris writing poetry, but actually, it’s been a lot of homework, evenings dissolving in impromptu card games and Youtube videos and, once, a surprisingly successful cookie baking adventure involving no measuring cups, barely half the ingredients, and a bipolar oven.

It’s Valentine’s Day, which was less of a big deal than I’d dreaded. At Bailey it was always a big show, a day to be accessorized with giant teddy bears and dozens of roses and bunches of heart-shaped balloons, classes and lunchtime invariably filled with gossip about where you were going and what you were wearing that night. Chris and I had an awkward dinner one year, awkward only because there was that heavy expectation that tonight had to be more special, more expensive, more profound, and we couldn’t really fake it. Most years I was single. Allie and I had a lot of anti-Valentine parties, and we always bought each other sale candy the day after.

But I barely noticed it today, aside from the two hours Audrey and Will sexiled me tonight, which isn’t really an unusual occurrence. I’m a little sketched out at them constantly doing it in our room, particularly since she left a (shockingly illustrated) “Top 40 Sex Tips” article open on her computer the other day, which recommended “finding a new setting every time!” I’m REALLY hoping these new settings don’t include my bed. (Or desk. Or chair. Or floor. Ugh.) I’ve taken to constantly leaving piles of papers all over my bed, with the pretense that I’m organizing my research paper (which I should actually be doing).

Anyway, I escaped their Valentine’s Day hookup in Alice’s room, eating Necco Sweethearts candy her professor had given her. She’d told Jay she would flat out reject anything he gave her; I didn’t expect anything else to happen, and I didn’t want it to. I’ve always disparaged the holiday—it’s fake, commercialized, Hallmarked, overpackaged insincerity. But I sort of wonder if my cynicism is just a front, if I don’t really, secretly want something to do something for me. Not roses and chocolate and balloons, not a mass produced teddy bear, but something creative and thoughtful and different.

Things with Jason are going slowly, but I think they’re going somewhere. We had lunch the other day, and have plans again for this week. Part of me thinks this pace is okay, ideal, even; I’m still getting myself back together after the disaster with Paul, we don’t know each other that well, and so on. But part of me wonders if I’m rationalizing something that obviously isn’t working, if I’m just trying to fit this into my ideal pattern of how things could go, convincing myself it is perfect.

Paul has been texting me. Sometimes I respond, often I don’t. I think I can handle this, because I usually respond with neutral statements that I intend to be dripping with apathy and condescension and indifference. Of course, he can’t catch the tone of the words, but I like knowing I can keep that up, this angry shield against him.

Twice he has said he misses me. I don’t respond to those. I tell myself it’s not really him, just words, like our fake dialogues in Spanish class, just phrases, empty letters in a row. Yesterday in class a cute boy asked me to dinner, but it was only a staged conversation in a stupid game. For a moment I let myself pretend it was real. And I told him yes, I would love to, pretending I was pretending too.

Author's Note

2009-02-04T01:37:00.002-05:00

Hi all,

I'm sorry about the delay in updating; I have midterms coming up (already, I know!) and there is quite a bit of drama surrounding the art museum where I work.

I'll get a post up as soon as possible. The layout is not finished either-- I want to make it 3 columns and a little tighter-- but any comments on what I have so far (banner, readability, etc) are also appreciated. :)

Thanks so much to all of you who are reading (and commenting!)

Cheers,

Bekah

blood is blood is blood and love is true vision

2009-01-25T21:51:00.004-05:00

Who will listen? How many songs will it take for you to see
You can bomb the world to pieces
You can't bomb it into peace

Michael Franti/Spearhead, Bomb the World

What I want to remember about inauguration: walking through campus as fast as I could, finally foregoing all dignity and breaking into a run, my bag slapping heavily against my side, trying desperately not to slip on the ice-streaked sidewalks. The sidewalks were mostly empty, a few other students hurrying ahead of me. Getting to the student center completely out of breath, and stepping inside to a huge crowd, the warmth and excitement and tense anticipation tangible in the air.

They had huge screens set up against the wall, and I hovered for a moment towards the edge of the crowd, but then caught Alice’s eye. She was against the wall about halfway up, so I edged my way through the crowd, and squished beside her against the wall, just in time.

And then the swearing in, which was so horribly awkward that for a moment I was afraid the whole thing would be botched, but then Obama was speaking and everything was fine, just these beautiful words of hope and determination and virtue spilling over us as we stood, a mass of backpacks and coats, entranced, and applauding like mad at every pause, every clause.

Alice and I kept turning to grin at each other, and for a moment I thought with a twinge back to election night and Paul, but then a rush of applause swept those thoughts away and I let myself hope, and for those few minutes I really did completely believe, that things would change and things would get better.

I was sweating in my down coat, my shoulders aching from my bag heavy with books fresh from the mailroom, crowded in with so many cameras and backpacks and shoulders. My favorite lines –

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and nonbelievers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth.

To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict or blame their society's ills on the West, know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

But most of all, just hugging Alice afterwards, hugging some guy I didn’t even know, everyone cheering, grinning, and at my class afterwards my professor asking us, are you excited? I hope you are excited. And part of me knows that anyone can say anything; and what inaugural address wouldn’t be positive, exciting, uniting? But I want to believe that it’s more.

Nothing feels any different now, of course, but I’m hoping that deep down things are changing, and that it will eventually rise to the surface. But the optimism, the hope – especially in the midst of this financial crisis, when practically everyone is freaking out about their dwindling job prospects and/or Bailey’s dwindling endowment – is so refreshing.

I’m not as worried as most of my friends, but I think that’s because I don’t have any real idea of what I want to do after I graduate. But still there are moments when I panic and wonder if everything will fall apart, if the world will crumble into the faded black and white Depression-era pictures in my old social studies book. And then I inevitably remember, a great deal of the world still has a lower quality of life than Americans did in the Great Depression. And I feel guilty about the Starbucks I got that morning, and the mountain of clothes piled in my closet, but then I eventually forget, and continue this life, and the guilt piles on and on in some secret corner of my mind.

I went to the library the afternoon of the inauguration, aglow with the energy and hope of change, and started reading graffiti on my study carrel instead of doing Spanish homework. I was totally shocked to see that the carrels were scratched up and graffitied, exactly like the desks at Whitney. Slightly less vulgar, maybe, but then parts had been sanded off, too. I briefly wondered if these had been donated from somewhere else, maybe a reform school for delinquent boys. Seriously, aren’t we a little better than this? At least a little older? And these had to be from students who chose to go to the library, not just frat boys. I guess everyone gets bored, but it was a little disenchanting. We are supposed to be the generation to change the world, but instead we etch profanity on desks. Charming.

Jason and I went for a walk last night. It was bitterly cold, but beautiful, stars glimmering and ice glinting on sidewalks. Mostly we just talked about our classes – I am enthralled with Medical Anthropology – but then started talking again about the future. I don’t know who brought it up first, but we started talking about clean cities, this idea of beautiful, environmental, well-planned cities, so that there was convenience and efficiency, but also gorgeous trees and lovely glass buildings and clean sidewalks, and fresh air and fountains and gardens. That is what I like to hope for: technology taking us somewhere beautiful.

But he thought it sounded creepy, like a dystopian novel. He told me he used to dream of living in a library when he was a kid. He even made plans to run away there, and to stockpile food in the aisles no one went to, in alphabetical order to match the books. Camus = cereal. Dostoyevsky = danishes. Sophocles = strawberries.

We hugged goodbye, but other than that, nothing. And there was no sign that he has any interest in me. We didn’t mention Callie, or Riley, or anyone. But it was so nice, just to talk and laugh and hope. We agreed that we should do it again, and I think he meant it, too. I think of everyone, I should be able to trust him not to say fake things. But I know I’ve been horribly wrong before.

Sometimes I wonder if we ever have any good reason to trust again after we’ve been betrayed, or if it’s just something we do, because we only have so much time to look for love. I don’t think I could make any rational argument for it when my judgment has already been proven disastrously inaccurate. But what’s the alternative? Would it be any easier to just hide away, protected by fear? Maybe we’re reaching blindly into the future and only hoping not to get hurt. But for right now, hope is enough.

I am the madness, the loss, the dark, the hunt, the cage, the race

2009-01-18T22:32:00.003-05:00

It is so appropriate that dementors are cold. Hell cannot have fire. I am so miserable here.

I’d forgotten. In Alabama, I’d gotten used to walking outside without cringing, stepping outdoors without feeling like I’d jumped into a melting glacier. It was in the 60s and 70s for much of my break; colder sometimes, but then I just wouldn’t leave the house. And Alabama-cold is like, 30s or 40s. If it was in the 40s here, girls would probably start sunbathing.

The cold is like an attack, a vicious animal that leaps on you the instant you step outside, like acid eating at your face or a thousand tiny needles sticking in your skin. It’s abrasive, like sand, and wind feels like rocks are scraping at your skin. And it shrinks every part of you until you want to curl up inside yourself and die.

I’m sore at night from being tense all day. And I miss the freedom of heat, the spontaneity. Now when I go outside I am so bundled up that I feel like I am waddling. If I fall down the stairs, I suspect I would bounce.

I miss feeling lithe and free, every step only an instant away from sprinting through streets, flying through grassy fields. I miss the sound of birds chirping, and crickets at night. Instead everything is frozen, dead, shades of white and gray, like dead flesh.

I miss summer, when sunshine pours on you like a liquid blanket, a golden scarf. Winter pulled that away and the bitterness of the sky descended upon us, and I walk huddled down and shiver and wonder, how could anyone have thought heaven was in the sky?

Maybe if I was to confront the cold, to challenge it, instead of hiding, then I could walk with confidence. If I were to strip off my layers and run outside and let the icy air whip at my body, feel the cold seep into my skin, and raise my arms and embrace it, even, and scream this doesn’t hurt, you’re not hurting me, I’m okay, -- then maybe I would smile at the weather report, spend the winter shrugging instead of cringing. Maybe.

But I can’t, so I look for small things to love. The shadows of trees on the snow. The bright early morning sunlight. The freshness of the air. But it’s all so bleak and barren, piles of dirty snow lining the paths and streets, gritty salt tracked in on the carpet, salt lines on the legs of my jeans. Maybe spring will be extra-beautiful after this. I hope so.

Thankfully, Audrey is just as unhappy with the weather as I am. Our thermostat is up as hot as it goes, and we’ve bonded a little over our complaining. Of course, she’s also been, um, “reuniting” with Will at every chance she gets, so I’m spending a lot of time in Alice’s room, which is significantly colder, but Alice and I have a lot to catch up on too.

So this is my first weekend back. My classes have been mostly good so far, but not too much of substance yet. I really wanted to sleep in today – I was hanging out with Riley and some other friends until about three last night – but they’re doing construction on a building near my dorm and it’s excruciatingly loud. But we have tomorrow off, at least.

Last night Riley kept putting his arm around this girl Jana. I don’t know whether he was trying to make me jealous or trying to get over me. Or maybe he actually likes her, and I was just a fleeting thought, a magic spell of snow and moonlight. I didn’t really like her, and she seemed to hate me, but in theory, it would be good if he liked someone else.

I saw Jason on Thursday, right before my writing workshop. He was coming out of the classroom that I was going in; he said hey and briefly hugged me, but he seemed in a hurry. Still, it was nice, and something to hold on to throughout the agonizing three hour class.

What was I thinking? I already don’t fit in my English classes, and this is like that, times a thousand. We started by going around and introducing ourselves and talking about our writing. Everyone was talking about how they’ve always known they were going to be an author and words were their salvation and they just feel compelled to write, and they wrote their first novel when they were fifteen but since then have been converted to poetry and of course, writing is THE most important thing in their lives.

I was thinking: if you are so damn good, why are you in an intro class? But instead I mumbled something about wanting to try writing fiction, because I like to daydream about things, and I might as well put them into words.

As soon as I finished, this pale, ultrathin girl raised her hand. “I thought this was a class for serious writers?” she asked. “Because I’ll move to the other class, if it would be more suited, you know, to be at a more serious level—”

I stared at her, mouth gaping, but my professor cut in. “I’ve read everyone’s writing samples, and we can all learn a great deal from this class,” she said cheerily. So we did a short exercise, and then she asked if anyone wanted to read theirs for the class. The vampire girl (by vampire, I mean ugly and creepy, not Bella Swan), volunteered, and it was all about wounds and death and icicles and teardrops glinting on the blade like starlight, etc, and then something about the injustice of being a woman and “blood dripping through the centuries”.

It was awful, but hilarious, because there was a stage at the beginning of high school when I did write, which I neglected to confess in our introductions since I didn’t think that kind of shit counted as writing. Allie and I both “wrote”, before she sensibly gave it up for Photoshop, and I sensibly gave it up for, you know, actual real life. We both wrote these horrible emo poems, which I think is a pretty common teenage girl stage. We gave up quickly. But months afterwards, one day sophomore year when we were bored in world history, we wrote a bunch of random phrases on flashcards, and shuffled them to create different poems. It was so easy. Here are the approximate ingredients, or at least what I remember offhand (feel free to suggest more!):

Night / inky darkness / abyss
Starlight / moonlight
Death / hell / eternity
Rain / tears
Blood / wine
Icicles / crystal / diamonds / shattered glass
Knife / blade / razor
Heartbreak / betrayal
Eyes / mask
Angels
Shadows / echoes / whispers

We’d started turning it into a madlibs type thing – Tonight the (noun) is (dramatic adjective), like (noun)/ I (verb) but (dramatic noun), etc. (“Tonight the moon is razor-sharp, like shattered glass/ I stared into the abyss but saw an angel’s mask”.) But then we were laughing so hard that our teacher figured out we weren’t actually making World War II study cards, and she made us stop.

So I have to write something for next week, but I figure if I can’t come up with anything, I can always resurrect our game. I don’t remember permutations very well, but I bet twenty words would last me all semester. Bonus: vampire-girl might respect me.

Anyway, I should start my Spanish homework, but it’s so tedious. I can’t concentrate on conjugations; instead I start daydreaming about “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius” and the effect that grammar has on every aspect of our lives. My medical anthropology books haven’t come in yet, or I would read them. But instead I’m sitting here by the heater, pretending its hot dry exhalation is the summer sun beating on my skin.

It’s not even close. So I’ll stare out of the window, watching snow flurries float down against the orange streetlight. They’re in big flakes, like dust drifting down from destruction from above, or confetti from some raucous party in the clouds.

I know that a new layer of snow will make everything look fresher, prettier. But sometimes I’m worried I’ll forget the original form of all those faintly menacing white lumps. I should do homework, but it’s more fun to think about what these abstract shapes could be. That bench = a treasure chest in disguise? The grass = a giant Twister mat? I know this doesn’t count as being more engaged, but I wish there was more to things.

(remember the look in your eyes? I know I do) and count the stars to measure time, the earth is hard the treasure fine, to the sea I crawl on my knees

2009-01-09T21:09:00.000-05:00

My break has gone by too fast. I go back to Bailey on Monday, and part of me is excited for new classes, a new semester, but most of me just wants to languish at home, sleeping in and making myself smoothies for lunch, staying up too late playing Wordscraper Blitz, letting hours collapse in inane IM conversations and endless Youtube videos. I haven’t done anything I meant to do: go running, clean my room, look for summer internships, start studying for next semester’s classes. Instead I just laze around and occasionally make lists, which feel productive enough in themselves that I never actually move onto my listed items.

So I make more lists. Excuses To Call Jason. Reasons Jason Is Better Than Paul. These are every bit as pathetic as they sound, and I can’t copy them here since they’re now a pile of confetti in my bathroom trash can. (Happy New Year.) So instead I made a new list: Lists I Won’t Make Again. And this basically turned into: 2009.

Yeah, kind of like resolutions, which totally makes me cringe, but, I’m trying to think of them as goals. Goals are responsible and mature, right? And I’m not going to tell anyone, just write them down where I can safely destroy them later, if necessary.

1. 1. Figure out something concrete with Paul, for the first time in my life. I guess it looks pretty concrete now: Paul and Savannah smiling for the camera and me lurking in the background, a bitter shadow, forgotten. But I still find myself thinking about him, reliving all those memories, and trying to figure out what went wrong. I’m going to either solve it or give up. Or try to, anyway.

2. 2. Stop being a hypocrite/do something real about all this shit that constantly blows my mind. How hundreds or thousands of people die every day for lack of something the change at the bottom of my purse could have bought. It’s like I’m frozen by the enormity of it all, but I’ve got to do something.

3. 3. Engage more. I watch too much, because it’s fascinating and I want to find the patterns of social situations, the movement and flow, but also because a part of me is scared of rejection or failure or whatever. I’m going to try and go to parties, take more pictures, reach out and see what there is.

I guess I’ve gotten some stuff done. I went to the dentist, and obligingly gurgled some small-talk answers about Bailey as the dentist sat poised, metal instruments glinting in the harsh lighting, waiting to resume scraping at every nerve in my mouth. Allie installed Photoshop on my laptop, so I can play with the pictures I am resolved (ugh) to be taking. I helped my parents disassemble our Christmas tree, branch by branch, and put it away in boxes, now stacked in a sad corner of our basement. I’ve read a ton of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and finished the Mercedes Lackey series, which left me with gorgeous dreams of flying, riding thermals and soaring above endless sand. I had a short awkward AIM conversation with Riley. I’ve (sort of) started packing to go back.

I brought way too much stuff home. I guess I was just trying to fill up my suitcase, or maybe I forgot that I have a closet here half-full with clothes, but it’s actually going to be a struggle to fit my Christmas presents. Not that I got much—a new laptop case, a gorgeous cashmere sweater, some jewelry (of course), and a miscellaneous pile of candy/scarves/gift cards – but it’s still a pretty big pile. And now that we’re charged for every piece of checked luggage, I can’t just shove it all into a second bag. I know the charges make sense—I spent awhile daydreaming yesterday about how much our economy would change if we had to pay for our trash by weight – but I still don’t want to pack. And this mountain of stuff in two suitcases isn’t actually any lighter or smaller when it’s shoved into one, but whatever.

Lately I’ve become a lot more conscious of the physical amount of stuff I possess. Usually I forget, of course, but then I’ll have to carry a hundred pounds of luggage home, or do my laundry and realize as I’m folding that I own enough socks for a small village. It’s pretty bizarre, and I keep thinking of this picture I saw once in a textbook of two different families sitting outside their houses with all their possessions. One was a middle-class American family, the other some developing country. And it was shocking.

I read a book once as a kid about this guy who limited himself to 75 possessions; whenever he got a gift or bought something new he’d get rid of something else. And there is something in that lightness that I envy. But it’d be impossible. I probably use 75 possessions just getting ready to go out to dinner. I could do without, I guess, but I like things. I still believe in their magic, and even if I rationally, academically know it’s just a lie perpetrated by giant corporations moving the economy, I don’t care; I enjoy the excitement, the aura, the hope.

Tomorrow I’m going to Atlanta with Allie to meet Rob and hopefully go snow tubing at Stone Mountain Park. Normally I’d have turned down this sort of invitation, but I’m trying to be more engaged, so I’ll see how it goes. I guess I should meet Rob; Allie’s sounding more and more infatuated each day. Plus, now I’ll have a story of something cool I did over break, which certainly won’t compare with everyone else’s skiing trips and weeks in Cancun, but it’s better than nothing. I thought my New Years Eve went pretty well, but it’s not much of a story.

Jason hasn’t called me again, but he’s sent me a couple emails— a gorgeous quote from a F. Scott Fitzgerald story he was reading, and a chatty one about his break and asking what classes I was taking the semester. I have no idea where this is going, but it’s good.

The other night I got back from dinner with Allie and wandered to the backyard and stared at the stars, thinking of him. I thought of how the stars were eight years away, and where I was eight years ago— on the brink of being a teenager, an awkward, gangly girl trying to navigate the labyrinth of middle school society.

In seventh grade I was happy; I was good friends with Allie and a couple other girls I haven’t spoken to for years. We collectively had a gigantic crush on an eighth grade basketball star, a tall boy named Aaron who had spiked blond hair. We’d have sleepovers and gossip about how we might get him to notice us, what we would do, what we would wear, how far we would go. We had code names for the cute boys and the popular girls in our class, and during school we’d pass around a notebook with gossipy details we’d overheard or hypothesized. We put makeup on each other while waiting for our buses to pick us up each afternoon, then frantically wiped it off on the way home.

It was so innocent. A year later I’d meet Paul, and the four of us would drift apart; Olivia and Sandy got real boyfriends, and Sandy moved up to the elite crowd and didn’t speak to us for months. So it was me and Allie, with a new notebook, writing bitter equations all throughout Algebra I: Sandy + highlights + pushup bra + tight sweaters = popularity. And then there was Chris, and then Allie met Jackson, and then back to Paul, always Paul.

Now Jason, Riley. The images of them all flickered through my thoughts, brief shooting stars against the backdrop of my mind, so many hands and lips and eyes.

And I thought about the light shining millions of miles away, and how my life will have inevitably changed hugely by the time I see it glowing in my sky. And maybe I’ll have forgotten everything I care about now, and they’ll only be distant names, faded like old newspaper headlines. Or maybe I’m built of these experiences, layered like sandstone, blended of the colors of these emotions, a delicate rainbow woven of these moments.

tonight we’re all time bombs on fault lines

2009-01-01T22:05:00.000-05:00

So. Welcome to 2009. I am sober and unkissed. (I hate the word sober. It has such solemn, dull connotations. “Soberly” is always an adverb accompanying the announcement of tragic news. Tonight was not tragic.)

Usually I hate New Years’. There’s not actually anything to celebrate, and it depresses me to see people so excited about resolutions that are doomed to flounder in weeks or even days. I know I’m not the one letting them down, but I can’t stand the disappointment, even from the sidelines.

On that cynical note, I think I am beginning to understand Christmas: gift-giving as an opportunity to manipulate someone into who you want them to be. This is why Allie’s mom always buys her expensive makeup in pastel shades: because she hates Allie’s messy eyeliner and chipped, paint-encrusted nails. Similarly, my mom always buys me jewelry: she wants me to wear it, wants me to be that put-together, skirt-and-pearls daughter I never was. My mom always buys my dad exercise equipment that, by February, ends up in the dusty graveyard of our basement: she wants him to work out and get back in the shape he was as a high school football star. Not all presents are like this, of course. But so many of them are these subtle pushes, delicate recommendations camouflaged in generosity and shiny paper.

My New Years Eve started out fine – I curled up with a book and some peppermint hot chocolate I’d gotten for Christmas, trying not to think about everyone I know having a marvelous time getting drunk and making out with each other. Allie is in Atlanta with Rob; she’d invited me to come along, but I don’t know any of their college friends, and I don’t really want to make the effort. There were a couple parties here that I considered going to, but when my parents told me they’d prefer if I wasn’t out driving, I didn’t complain. I’m sure Neil Gaiman is better company than any of my old high school friends, particularly when they’re inebriated.

Shadow had just met Mr. Wednesday when I got a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?” I said hesitantly, figuring it was probably a prank, or a telemarketer.

“New Years rituals. What do you think?” Jason asked immediately.

“Hey Jason,” I responded, grinning and sitting up. I’d given up on him calling; I’d figured he was ignoring me as payback for my Facebook slight. But apparently not. “How has your break been?”

“Adequate,” he replied. “What are you doing? Champagne, MTV, drunken reminiscing? Dancing? Mistletoe? Glitter? Countdowns?”

“Not exactly. I’m alone in my house, reading a book,” I told him.

“Not going out? You could have made a fortune babysitting, you know.”

“So could you,” I replied. “But you’re definitely at a party. Or those are some rowdy kids you are watching.”

“No, parents don’t trust me. My hair is too long. I look like a Communist or something. And I am at a party, but only to analyze sociological behavior, you know. Actually, I’m with some high school friends who I really like. But I need a break.” The background noise faded. “Okay, I’m outside. Go outside.”

“Why?”

“Just go. Don’t complain, it’s much colder here.”

I sighed, but put my book down, gulped down the last of my hot chocolate, wrapped myself in a blanket, and let myself out the back door. I stood in the backyard, shivering, and stared at the stars. “Okay. What’s up?”

“You looking at the stars?”

“Mmhm.”

“I’d show you some constellations if you were here. I used to love this stuff.” His voice was wistful.

Maybe you can when we’re back in New York, I almost said, but didn’t dare. “There’s a really lovely Bradbury story in which a family is flying through outer space over Christmas, but there wasn’t space for the Christmas tree, and—”

“And they take the little boy to the window to see a million floating candles.” I could practically hear him smiling. “I haven’t thought of that in years.”

“Isn’t starlight eight years behind, or something?”

“Something like that.” He sighed. “Where do you think the world will be in eight years?”

“You don’t sound very optimistic.”

“This holiday is too damn optimistic.”

“Well, maybe things will get better,” I offered.

“It just feels like we’re rushing towards destruction. And that we won’t even notice, and we’ll be popping champagne corks to the sound of explosions and gunshots. Fountains of champagne, fountains of blood. God, Charlotte, I’m sorry, that was really morbid. But now whenever I try and think about space travel as I used to, as a place of endless innovation and creativity, a new frontier or something, I think of Buy’n’Large.” He sighed. “I’m not usually like this. I worked retail over Christmas and it disintegrated my soul, or something.”

“Where did you work?”

He groaned. “The mall. Let’s not talk about it. I’ve become a pro at wrapping presents. But I’ve started hating presents or anything box-shaped.”

“Box-shaped?”

“Anything with right corners, basically. Every morning my Cheerios box makes me shudder. I woke up the other night and realized I’d been attempting to wrap my pillow in my sleep.”

I laughed. “I didn’t think you were ever going to call,” I said, changing the subject.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you were ever going to Facebook me. And unlike you, I was right,” he said, laughing.

“Well, I didn’t think you were going to date my RA,” I said bluntly. We sat in silence for a moment. I watched the light of a plane flicker across the sky.

“Yeah, that didn’t really work out, did it,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Did you read much else of Bradbury?”

“All of it. I told you, I was obsessed with space. I still have a really gorgeous telescope in my room at home. I used to think that it was magic.” I heard someone shouting in the background. “Hey, Charlotte, I have to go. My friends found where I’m hiding. Are you still outside? You must be freezing by now.”

“I have a blanket,” I said. “But I think I’ll go inside and make some more hot chocolate. Be safe, okay?”

“Of course. Thanks for listening. Good-night, Charlotte.”

I went back inside and curled up again for a good fifteen minutes, just basking in the glow of the conversation, that he had remembered to call me, until it hit me that Jason was drunk and probably wouldn’t even remember this the next day. My mind flashed back to the time during my sophomore year of high school that my friend Mary’s boyfriend had called me at 3:00 AM to tell me he was in love with me, and that he had been ever since the first time he had seen me, which was across the hallway one day when I was wearing a gray and pink sweater, and that he couldn’t stop thinking about me, would I come over? Please? Did I want to hear about what he would do with me? (At this point I hung up.) The next day he claimed not to remember a thing.

This could be just as stupid. And, of course, as I was thinking that, I heard the announcer on TV exclaim “Only 30 minutes until midnight!” And I couldn’t stop myself from imagining Jason kissing just about every girl I know.

So I texted him. “Would have appreciated that conversation when you were sober.”

He replied a few minutes later. “Let’s continue it later.”

And then a moment after midnight – “Thinking of you, Charlotte. Happy new year.”

there’ll be no angels gracing the lines, just these stark words I find

2008-12-24T01:38:00.004-05:00

Riley stood close to me as I unlocked the door, then stepped into the staircase after me. The harsh fluorescent lighting instantly dissolved the magic of the glittery snowy world outside. I sighed. Now he was just Riley, gangly, awkward, disproportionate.

He brushed the snow off my coat, then let his hand rest on my neck. “Goodnight,” I said softly, forcing myself not to cringe at his touch.

“Do you have to go?” he asked, drawing me into his arms.

“Yes,” I sighed, letting him hold me stiffly. “We’ll both fail if we don’t get any sleep.”

“You’re not going to fail,” he said, laughing. “You’ve practically memorized all of it.”

“It’s interesting!” I protested.

“I know, I have too,” he said, and quickly kissed my cheek. “Enough that I think I could still get an A,” he leaned in and kissed my neck, “even if we stayed up a little bit longer,” he left a trail of kisses up to my ear, “maybe even all night.”

“I really can’t, I’m sorry,” I said, stepping away. Riley looked down at me.

“Okay, Charlotte,” he replied. “But let me know if you ever need anything, okay? I miss your smile.”

I nodded, and then we hugged for a long time. And buried in his arms again I closed my eyes and for a moment was grateful.

So I’ve been home for a few days. I haven’t done much; I’ve taken several long, hot, glorious showers, lots of naps, and read a lot. I’m reading a Mercedes Lackey series about dragon riders, and it is captivating. I want that world so much: heat rising from white sand, to soar through the air on the back of a beautiful creature who loves you, to name my dragon after the sunrise, love, redemption, hope. Instead I sit at the kitchen counter and make endless cups of hot chocolate, wrapping my hands around the mug and dreaming of sunlight.

I can’t stop thinking about kissing Riley. Part of me feels like he took advantage of me. But part of me thinks it was the most beautiful thing to happen to me in weeks. I really don’t see myself dating Riley. But then another small voice inside me asks, why not? So I’m avoiding talking to him until I figure it out. I texted him and said I was confused, and he’s been unbelievably nice and patient. Which makes me feel worse, because I know I’m just putting off the inevitable. Or maybe I’m waiting to see what’s going on with Jason.

Jason said he would call me, and he hasn’t. It’s only been a couple days, so I shouldn’t feel slighted, but there is a sour bitterness growing inside me. Paul never called when he said he would, and then he lied to me. Audrey cheated on Mike. Is it naïve to hope for something pure?

I ran into Jason the day before I left campus. I was on the way to check my mail; he was walking out of the student center, directly towards me, on the same snow-plowed sliver of path I was carefully treading. We stopped in front of each other.

"You never messaged me, so I went to message you the other day, and we aren't even friends," he’d said immediately. I couldn't tell if he was kidding or if he was actually angry.

"I deleted my Facebook," I protested. "Not just you! I would never do that."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Why'd you delete it?"

I sighed. "I figured I should stop looking at my ex-boyfriend's profile to try and figure out where I went wrong and... move on with my life," I said, looking up at him.

"Move on," he muttered, with a bitter laugh.

"What?" I said flatly.

"Riley?"

My stomach dropped. "How do you know Riley?"

"Charlotte, Bailey is not that big of a school. He lives a few floors up from me, he’s in my politics class, and he went to high school with my neighbor."

"Listen, Jason. Riley and I...” I shook my head. How had he found out? Who did Riley tell? “It's not important. Please believe me."

He looked at me silently for a long moment. "Why do you care whether I believe you? We barely know each other. Let's stop playing, okay. You don't have to be nice. You know I don't go for that shit."

"I'm not being nice," I said, fighting through tears. "He's just a friend. It's not going to happen again. And if it did, it's not like you should care."

"I guess I shouldn't," he said quietly.

We stood in silence for a moment. An icicle fell off a branch nearby and shattered on the sidewalk.

“Well, have a good Christmas,” he said, turning to walk away. “I’ll call you sometime.”

“Okay,” I said, too quietly for him to hear. He walked off into the snow, and after a minute I followed, walking in the footprints he had left in the untouched lawn. Why? I asked myself with each crunching step. Why all of this? I don’t know if I wanted to ask Jason or myself. Or what I even wanted him to answer.

I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas. Technically it’s Christmas Eve already. I miss Christmas as a kid, that excruciating, furious excitement that started sometime in early November and increased with each day. Christmas used to be so magical for me. I can remember the taste of it but I can’t remember why.

I’m not even sure if I believed in Santa Claus. But I fiercely, unstoppably believed that my deepest dreams could be hidden in a present underneath the tree. Every year there was always something that had captivated me – a certain doll, or toy, or sweater. It was never anything too expensive or outlandish, but still, I never got anything I’d really dreamt of. I’m not even sure I ever properly asked for it. But every year, I believed I might get it. I believed in that promise of infinite happiness wrapped in shiny paper and tied with ribbon. And I don’t remember ever being disappointed with what I did get.

I still enjoy Christmas. I love making cookies, I love peppermint hot chocolate, I love the decorations on the streetlights. And I’ll enjoy Christmas morning. I’ll maybe even feel a spark of excitement tomorrow night on Christmas Eve. But it’s not anything like it was. I’m not even sure what I want this year, but I don’t think it fits in a box.

I haven’t seen Paul. He texted me while I was in the airport; apparently he’d seen something on CNN about delays in LaGuardia. I replied that I thought I would be able to leave tonight; he sent back, Glad you’re safe and coming home. Miss you lots. And as much as I have other things to distract me, as much as I dream about soaring through the sky over the strong wingbeats of a crimson dragon, I can’t stop turning those words over and over in my mind.

Author's Note

2008-12-19T23:54:00.003-05:00

Hi all,

Charlotte will be updated within a couple days. I am back in the States now and am excited to have more time to work on this blog over my winter break. Be on the lookout for a few changes, including an upgraded layout. You also may notice that I am posting from a different username. From now on comments can either be directed at Charlotte or at me (the author), and they will be answered accordingly. As always, I welcome your feedback and constructive criticism, and appreciate all the time you spend reading and commenting on Charlotte :)

Happy Christmas,

Bekah

things you'll never understand, little white shadows that sparkle and glisten

2008-12-12T19:50:00.004-05:00

I’m almost done. I had my anthropology final today, which should have been easy, but I kept getting distracted with daydreams about Riley. I still probably did okay, but I had to proofread my essays three times to make sure I didn’t get too carried away in my thoughts and write down something incriminating.

We had a study group last night. That shouldn’t have been a big deal, right? We had one before the midterm and it was fine. I’ve hung out with Riley three or four times since then and it’s always been fine. So why did anything happen now?

The obvious reason: Paul. But I can’t quite figure out my motivations. Am I moving on from Paul? (The porcupine inside me screams NO.) Am I trying to make him jealous? (Obvious counter: how will he know? And the silent underside of that: would he even care?) Or did it just… happen? Fate, happenstance, chance, luck? Bad luck? I don’t know.

At least it’s something new to analyze, to examine, rather than every possible facet of every interaction I have ever had with Paul.

I didn’t really want to go to the study group, but I’d told Audrey she could have the room, so I didn’t really have a choice. So I took my first shower in three days and threw on a sweater and unwashed jeans. I started blow-drying my hair, but I realized I didn’t have time, so I dashed on my coat and left, awkwardly running into Will in the hallway.

Will, for some unknown reason, is trying very hard to charm me. I’m not sure if it’s because he feels guilty about sexiling me so often, or if Audrey told him I didn’t react well to her cheating confession, or if he just decided he should befriend his girlfriend’s roommate, but every time I see him he acts really excited to see me and asks me how I’m doing and cracks lame jokes. Before this he had never spoken to me. Anyway, I escaped him by telling him I was about to be late for a review session. I’m sure he didn’t really want to stay and talk anyway.

So I walked quickly to the student center, wincing at the cold. The six of us met in a corner by the coffee shop. We dragged a couple couches together and sat down, scattering our books and notebooks and Styrofoam cups of coffee across a table. I bought tea. It seemed ascetic. I briefly considered fasting.

Anyway, the study group was unexceptional. Mostly, the four other people frantically scribbled down notes as Riley and I debated the readings. I bought a giant oatmeal cookie, which was fantastic. So much for the fasting. Pretty soon it devolved into mocking our TA, gushing about how hot our professor is, and complaining about our other finals. Then we speculated about where we’re all going to live next year; our housing lottery is in February. I’m not really sure what I’m going to do. I’d like to live with Alice if I can’t get a single, but I haven’t mentioned that to her yet, or to Audrey. I assume Audrey has better friends than me, but I don’t want to be the one to say I don’t want to room together next year.

Around midnight a couple of the girls got up to leave, and a few minutes later the rest of us decided to go back to finish studying on our own. Four of us left the building together, but Riley and I somehow fell behind. We were talking about Geertz, not exactly romantic, but then he abruptly asked me if I was okay.

“Huh?” I responded eloquently.

“Are you okay? You seem a little out of it.”

“I’m just tired. You know, finals,” I replied automatically.

We walked in silence for a moment. “You sure?” Riley finally asked.

“You don’t believe me?” I said, laughing, in an attempt to sound playful. But somehow the laughter got caught in my throat, and I choked back a sob. Riley stopped and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Charlotte, what’s wrong?” he said softly. I didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t speak anyway. He drew me to him gently, wrapping his arms around me and holding me silently. I didn’t resist, and breathed in deeply, my face against the rough wool of his coat, forcing back the tears that stung my eyes. He stroked my hair.

I drew back a minute later. “Thank you,” I whispered. Somehow, for a moment, he had dulled the ache inside me.

Riley looked at me for a moment, his hand still at my waist. I watched the moonlight streak silver on the snowy lawn. In the last week, the world had become blanketed in white. I had barely noticed. It was lovely.

Then he reached up and stroked my cheek. Somehow his hand was warm, even in the bitter cold. I lowered my eyelashes. (Did I know what was happening? Did I care? Or was I under some kind of spell? Was it the moonlight, the glittery sky, the shadows on the snow?)

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Charlotte. You’re so beautiful.”

And then he leaned in and kissed me. And I kissed him back. It was cold and soft and warm and I was kissing him, trying not to think, trying to preserve this perfect moment of a boy’s mouth against mine in this magic landscape of snow and starlight. I was kissing him like it was the first thing I had really felt in week. I was kissing him like this was what I’d wanted all semester.

It started to snow as we walked silently back to my dorm, big fluffy flakes drifting through the air, melting on my face, glittering on my coat. All I could think of was everything the snow was burying, layers and layers of white transforming everything into lumpy shapes. I wanted it to come down faster, to cover up the past, to fill in our footprints as we walked. And something new burned inside me, some mixture of pain and desire, some bittersweet wish I was too scared to put into words, a raw longing, a sadness growing heavier with each step.

pass like light through dust as memories fall fleeting like pain

2008-12-07T13:25:00.000-05:00

So Audrey and I just had the most awkward conversation. She’s still in here, typing away at her MacBook, probably telling all of her friends how awkward it was. She’d just come back from somewhere — lunch, I guess — and I was sitting at my desk, staring out the window, watching the tree branches tremble against the listless gray sky. It’s been cold lately. I sort of vaguely nodded at her — speaking has become an effort this week — but she sat down and pulled her knees to her chest, tugging at her boots and looking at me apprehensively. “Charlotte, I have to talk to you,” she said anxiously.

“What’s up?” I said, trying to muster a concerned expression.

Seriously, I thought she was going to say something about her dress for some fraternity formal, or something, but instead she blurted out, “Mike and I broke up over Thanksgiving.”

The shock on my face was genuine. I turned towards her. “What?”

“I just…” she faltered. “You were saying the other day how you don’t have Facebook anymore, and… I thought you should know.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to adjust my face into an appropriate expression. What the hell? “I’m sorry?” I offered. She grimaced. “I mean. Good?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s not a big deal,” she said quickly. “Actually I’m sort of dating someone else now, so it’s really okay, I’m okay, really.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Will?”

She flushed and grinned. “How’d you know?”

“You’re freaking obvious,” I said, laughing. Audrey was practically glowing. At least she was happy.

“I didn’t want you to hate me for that,” she continued. “I know it was like, really bad. And totally inconsiderate to you. But please. Don’t judge me, okay?”

“It’s your life,” I replied unconvincingly.

“Yeah, but you like, probably lost all respect…” she trailed off.

I shrugged. “It just sucks to be cheated on,” I replied. “I would know.” I felt tears sting my eyes, but managed to blink them away. “I mean, whatever. Forget it. I don’t know your situation.”

“So would it be okay if Will and I, like, had the room to ourselves sometimes?” she asked, staring at the carpet.

So that’s why she brought it up. “Yeah, I guess,” I replied. “When?”

She started picking at her fingernail. “Tonight?”

“All night?” I said, letting my hesitation creep into my voice.

“No, no, just like, an hour or two,” she said earnestly.

I told her it was fine, and we arranged for me to be gone by 8:00.

I feel bad for not being able to talk more with Audrey about Will. I wish we could bond over it, tell stories and secrets and squeal and giggle, but I don’t see how that’s possible. Maybe if, at the start, she had confided in me about what she was doing. But even if she had, I know I wouldn’t have been the giggly confidante she would have wanted— I’d have been too hesitant, too doubtful, too unable to pretend what she was doing was okay. I guess she sensed that months ago.

I suppose it’s not really the end of the world if my roommate isn’t my best friend. I still think I’ve gotten pretty lucky, given some of the horror stories I’ve heard. A girl on Allie’s hall apparently walked in on her roommate having sex on her bed; there are rumors that a girl in a dorm across the quad is a kleptomaniac. One of my friends from Whitney got stuck with a roommate who proselytizes at every turn. Brittany and Alice are getting along now, though, since Brittany isn’t having her nightly yelling phone fights anymore.

I didn’t tell Audrey about Paul, although I think Alice must have given her some explanation, since she stopped asking if I was okay. I can’t really fake it with Audrey, since she sees me all the time, but with everyone else, it’s pretty easy to pretend like I’m just stressed out about finals, or tired from pulling an all-nighter, when in reality I’ve done nothing but slept, gotten up to stare at my computer screen and stare out the window, then get back in bed and curl up in the comforting warmth of my quilt.

Anyway, finals are rushing closer and closer. I’ve managed to do a little of my work, although my mind still feels syrupy, choked and thick. I have a rough draft for my final English paper, and I stared awhile at Spanish flashcards last night. I need to look over my Econ notes, but that’s my last final, so I have awhile. I told Riley I’d come to his study group next week, the night before our anthropology final.

Maybe it’s good that Audrey is sexiling me; I haven’t been getting out of the room enough. I’m still sleeping about twelve hours a day, and moping in bed for even more. And it’s so cold outside that I’m avoiding it as much as I can. I’ll probably just go mope in Alice’s room, but even getting down the hall seems like a big event to me right now. I just don’t want to move, as if that will help. I have this strange idea that all this will heal if I stay perfectly still.

It still hurts so much that I almost can’t believe it. I’ve never felt physical pain from despair. But this feels like something spiky is inside me, gouging me with every breath. Like I swallowed a porcupine. At other moments I think I will get used to it, this bitter ache festering within me, just a heaviness I will learn to carry, but other moments I think I could collapse with the pain.

I know it will get better, I know every word I’d tell someone else in my position, but no matter how much I repeat those things to myself, it doesn’t help. I haven’t spoken to Paul since that night; Alice deleted his number from my phone, although I could easily look at my texts to get it. I’ve stopped reading his texts, though, since I know them all by heart. I’ve started writing him emails several times, but I don’t really have anything to say. Maybe I’ll email Mike. He could probably sympathize.

there's a flaming red horizon that screams our names

2008-12-01T21:00:00.001-05:00

So I’m back at Bailey. Everyone keeps asking how my Thanksgiving was. I know it’s only small talk, but it seems cruel. I’ve been saying it was fine, and that I’m just really tired. The words almost feel natural now.

I skipped classes today and slept. People were being loud in the hallway, so I tried to listen to my iPod, but songs from Paul’s CD kept coming up. So I shoved my head under my pillow. It didn’t really block out the noise, but it felt good.

I know I should get started writing my final essays, and studying for my exams, but I can’t bring myself to do anything. I stared at a blank Word document for about half an hour after dinner (Alice had literally dragged me out of bed to go get food), but every sentence I wrote was so bad I had to delete it immediately. I don’t have anything due for over a week, anyway, so I have plenty of time. I can’t imagine feeling much better anytime soon, but I’ll worry about that later.

The sunset was beautiful on my flight back yesterday. Somehow it made me more upset than before—I’d been feeling sort of numb and detached, but then seeing the sunlight streaming over this huge sloping meadow of clouds, something broke inside me. I wanted so much to be outside, walking in the sky, leaping on the clouds, floating, weightless. Instead I sat with my face pressed against the window, hollow, aching.

and as your fantasies are broken in two, did you really think this bloody road would pave the way for you

2008-11-27T19:36:00.004-05:00

Paul is dating someone else.

Not just is. Was. Has been, for practically a month now, but he “wanted to tell me in person”. It didn’t seem like he wanted to tell me at all, but that doesn’t really matter. He also waited because he “didn’t want to hurt me”. As if it didn’t hurt to have him sitting that close to me and be able to push me away. As if it didn’t hurt for him to sit there and let me walk away. He said he “still cares for me, it’s just complicated,” but it didn’t look like it was hard for him at all.

We met last night at the park, for what I thought was going to be a nice walk and then dinner. He hugged me enthusiastically when I first saw him, and we walked down to the lake, talking and laughing. He led me over to a bench. The sun was setting, the vivid explosion of colors reflected in the water. I thought he would kiss me. But instead he just sighed and flatly said, “I have to tell you something.”

So much for my Thanksgiving break. The first 24 hours of it were nice, at least. Now I just want to be back at Bailey, where I can walk around at three A.M. or disappear all day and not have to tell anyone. Instead I had to endure a three hour dinner and makes pretenses at gratitude for everything in my life.

I feel like a horrible person for not being able to be thankful on Thanksgiving, especially with CNN blaring updates from the Mumbai terrorist attacks. I know that, from the perspective of most people in the world, I’m privileged beyond imagination. And it’s totally hypocritical of me to relax in my heated, carpeted, safe, pleasant house and say that money can’t buy anything important. But in some sick way, I want to be desperate right now, cold or hungry or poor or something. I want to have something important to aim for and fight for, not a boy who doesn’t care, who hasn’t cared for months now.

I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. How I can I ever believe anything was real? I used to console myself by thinking that no matter what, we had our memories, we had those gorgeous sun-lit afternoons. But now everything is crumbling, dust and ashes. And as much as I stare at footage of flames and bloodied victims, I can’t bring myself to feel grateful for anything. How can I ever trust anyone again? This is the world: terror and loneliness and this inexplicable choking anxiety. Everything else seems like a vague dream.

I spent months counting down to this, and now all I want is to get back to Bailey. Not for any real reason, but at least it’s distracting. At least it’s different.

The worst thing is, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s my fault. He cheated on me, but I cheated on him too. Not really, not like he has, but I can’t know what I would have done with Jason if I’d had the chance. Maybe in some sick karma way I ruined everything.

Her name is Savannah. She’s dark haired, pretty. Her ‘About Me’ quotes Rilke. I might like her, if I wasn’t so excruciatingly envious. I read their wall-to-wall. Then I deleted my Facebook. I need to stop spying on other people’s lives and try and build my own.

All of my friends are sending cute “Happy thanksgiving! ♥” texts; I don’t want to ruin someone’s evening by calling them and bawling for hours. I know I should talk to someone, but whenever I reach for my phone I want so badly to call Paul, just to yell at him, how could you? How could you? And the words I’m too scared to ask: was it ever real? You and I, was there ever anything? Or am I just your stand partner, someone to play with?

I reread all the emails he’s sent me in the past month. Saying how much he wanted to see me, hold me, hang out with me, see me smile. How he loved me. Part of me wants to forward them to Savannah, but I know he’d find some way to explain it, and I know he’s convincing. I’d just come off as bitter and desperate, which is pretty accurate.

I just want to sleep. And sleep, and sleep. But I’m dreading the feeling I’ll get when I wake up and it dawns on me again, crushing me all over.

so here I am alive at last and I'll savour every moment of this

2008-11-19T15:26:00.001-05:00

I’m going home in six days. Six days. I’m really looking forward to it— Paul, of course, but also just being home, being able to walk to the bathroom without shoes, to wake up to a pantry full of food instead of a cold trek down to the dining hall for powdery eggs and burnt toast, to take a shower and feel clean afterwards, not contaminated. And to see my parents, and Allie, and to drive again, to have that gorgeous speed and freedom and loud music, and to walk through Christmas-decorated stores and revel in the space of the suburbs.

I love Bailey, but I’m so glad to be going home. I’d considered staying here for Thanksgiving break— the flights are a fortune, and I’ll be home again in two weeks, anyway. But this will be perfect— just a little taste of comfort and relaxation before the stress(?) of finals, and then I can look forward to an entire month of it. (Having never been stressed about finals, I don’t know how awful it’ll be, but we’ll see.)

Paul and I haven’t specifically planned when we’re seeing each other, but I’m home from Tuesday night to Sunday morning, so there’s plenty of time. We haven’t been speaking as much these past few weeks, but he still sends me gorgeous emails most nights, and anyway it’s been busy with the end of the semester approaching. .

I can’t believe my first semester of college is almost over. I’m 1/8 done, practically. How bizarre is that? We registered for spring semester classes the other day; I’m taking

Medical Anthropology: it was my favorite unit we’ve done in the intro class, and my gorgeous brilliant professor is teaching it. (And he knows my name—I ran into him the other day when I was walking up the stairs towards the academic quad, and he said “Hi, Charlotte.” It made my day.)

Spanish: I have to. I love the idea of foreign languages in theory, just because I have this vague idea that I’ll learn words that don’t have any translation in English, and will discover something totally new and shocking and fundamentally transformational, like a new color or sense. In practice, though, I’m a little bored by it.

Introduction to Creative Writing: It sounds interesting. I’ve never been much of a writer, but hopefully if it’s an intro class, no one else will be either. Then again, our fall issue of one of our literary magazines just came out, and it is seriously unimpressive. I think Whitney could have created something just as good. So maybe I won’t be that bad after all.

Introduction to International Relations: I don’t know anything about the world, but I guess this is a good time to start. And Alice is in that class, so hopefully she can help me out.

Creative writing counts as an English elective, but I don’t think I’m going to keep my intended English major. I just can’t stand how fake it is. Some of the books we’ve read have been good, but I can read on my own. I just feel like it’s all this huge farce that someone made up hundreds of years ago, and over time people actually started believing it.

Seriously, why can’t we read books to have a glimpse at someone else’s life, and leave it at that? I’m sick of finding symbols and interpretations that I’m certain the author never intended. I don’t gain much of a deeper understanding of the work by explicating all these themes. And I’m sick of poems that suck. It’s like shit modern art, one line on a blank canvas or a pile of dirt on the floor – just an ugly jumble of words with no meaning.

I saw an art exhibit once of these scribbled drawings that a five year old could have done, and the description said something like “and if you think you can make something like this, then why haven’t you?” The answer seems so blatantly obvious—because it’s awful and worthless. Be creative, innovate, definitely. But there’s no value to something just because no one’s ever done it before, or claimed it as art before.

I know a lot of the black-garbed sad-looking girls in my classes would sigh and say that I don’t really appreciate literature, and adopt some kind of sorrowful, deep-eyed expression of condescending pity. Maybe I don’t appreciate it, I don’t know. But why should it have to be painful or arcane? I’ll let them wallow in their profundity, I have better things to do.

I don’t actually have much to do, other than a whole lot of laundry, but it’s okay. I was worried that college would be stressful, but it’s so much less stressful than high school. No curfew, no one to ask permission before I do something, so much less drama with friends, more interesting schoolwork (although a lot more of it), much less worrying about Paul. Granted, I’m not exactly doing anything crazy with my new freedom, other than some late-night wandering around campus, but it’s nice to know it’s there.

Anyway, I don’t think Audrey has an eating disorder, but I don’t know. She goes to dinner, so I assume she eats. I’m more concerned about this Will thing that is apparently still going on. I hadn’t heard about him in awhile, but on Saturday night I came back from dinner with Alice, Jay, and a couple of Jay’s friends (Thai food—absolutely fantastic!) to find them cuddling on her bed.

The door had been locked; I thought she’d be out. I apologized and offered to leave; they told me I didn’t have to, but I ended up going over to Riley’s dorm and hanging out until two A.M. When I came back they were both asleep in her bed, or pretending. And she’s supposedly still with Mike. I can’t believe she’s doing this. I guess I’ll have to confront her about it soon.

And Jason and Callie broke up, according to Facebook. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. But I can’t tell if I’m glad it happened, or if I’m glad I don’t care.

a dollar under water keeps on dreaming for me

2008-11-11T15:38:00.003-05:00

So Thursday afternoon I walked slowly down the hallway, my heart pounding, my stomach sinking. All day I had been dreading talking to Callie, and it was starting to drive me crazy. And Paul had called, which left me feeling awful. He’d quickly asked me what was wrong— I guess he had sensed that I was stressed out — and I told him about the display we tore down, and Callie wanting to talk to me. “But that’s not really that bad,” he kept telling me. “You shouldn’t worry, nothing’s going to happen. At the worst they’ll give you a warning.”

But I couldn’t tell him how Jason complicated everything, which just made me feel more sick and miserable. I don’t really care about Jason, I know. He’s just a diversion, although I do like him as a person, as a friend. He’s real, he thinks, he surprises me. Most people always say exactly what I predict they will.

When I was a kid I imagined I was the only real person in a world full of robots, and if I screamed at God he’d freeze everything and come talk to me. I always kept that certainty secret, in reserve, just in case I needed it. But Jason says things I’ve never heard anyone say, talks to me like no one else does. If I screamed at God that I was sick of playing this game, I feel like he would understand.

But that’s silly, I’m sure he’s like this with everyone. And either way, it’s not like he comes close to Paul. I’ve had a million great conversations with Paul, countless hours spent laughing and blissfully unaware of time passing. And even when I don’t talk about Paul, he’s always there, this undertone to my thoughts, a constant presence in my mind. And Paul has always been there. Paul talked to me when I was gangly and had braces. Who knows what Jason would have done.

But deep down I know if Jason meant that little, if I only wanted to know him as a friend, I wouldn’t feel bad telling Paul about him. But even so, what is there to say? We’ve had all of two conversations.

So trying to shake Paul’s words from my mind, I went down to Callie's room and knocked softly on the door, biting my lip and hoping she wouldn’t answer. But just as I was about to walk away, the door opened. She was wearing pajama pants and a faded grey t-shirt. “Hey Charlotte, come in,” she said, stepping back to her bed and wrapping a blanket around herself.

I had never been in Callie’s room before, but it was much nicer than the rest of ours. She’d hung quilts on her wall and had a real bookcase next to her desk. There were pictures taped all over the wall, but none that were of Jason, as far as I could see. That was a relief. And, of course, she had twice as much space since she had a double to herself. I sat down on her desk chair, wondering if she would say something or if she’d make me start, if maybe she’d stare at me until I confessed. I tried to take a deep breath.

“So I saw you guys taking down the display,” she began. I felt the blood drain from my face. “No, don’t worry,” she continued, laughing. “I’m so glad you did. I can’t believe they put that up. How disgusting. I had nothing to do with it, just so you know.”

I nodded at her numbly. I didn’t think I could speak, although I wouldn’t have known what to say.

“Anyway, let Alice and Brittany know I’m not reporting them or anything like that, if they were worried. I’ve told the quad director someone did it in the middle of the night, and that I don’t think it’s worth putting back up.”

“Okay,” I managed.

“But I wanted to ask you about Audrey. Is she doing okay?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, the weight in my chest lifting.

Callie frowned. “I mean, she’s always been thin, yeah. But I’m worried something’s wrong. She was throwing up in the bathroom the other night… she said it was just something she ate, but I’m not sure I believe her.”

“She bought a scale,” I added thoughtfully. “But she definitely still eats, as far as I know.”

“Okay.” Callie sighed. “Just try and keep an eye on her, will you? I don’t want to accuse her of anything, and I don’t think I could talk her out of it anyways. But this kind of thing can get out of hand pretty quickly.” She stared off into space for a moment, then shook her head quickly. “Anyway, I guess that’s it. And seriously, good work on taking down that bullshit display. So is everything going okay for you?”

Aside from how I want your boyfriend? “Yeah, I’m having a good time,” I told her, and was relieved that my smile felt genuine.

“What classes are you taking?” she asked.

I was beginning to recite them when someone knocked on the door. “Yes?” Callie called out.

And then Jason walked in, stopping short when he saw me. “Sorry,” he said, backing out.

“No, come in,” Callie said, her voice somewhat flat. “Charlotte, this is Jason.”

“We’ve met,” he said briefly, still standing in the doorway.

“I’ll keep you updated, Callie,” I said, getting up.

“Okay, thanks,” she replied. “Come see me anytime.” I nodded and slipped past Jason out the door. He turned sideways to let me pass, then looked at me for a long moment. I shrugged and walked away, not looking back.

Back in my room I collapsed in my chair. Why had she sounded so dismal when he came in? I considered walking down the hall to see if I could overhear anything, but quickly decided I didn’t want to hear, no matter what it was. And it didn’t really matter either way. I called Paul back, told him what Callie had said, agreed that he was right that there was nothing to worry about, and felt better.

I also finally hung out with Riley Sunday night, which was amazing. I’d Facebook-messaged him that morning telling him I’d finished all my work and could hang out whenever, and he replied telling me to come over to his dorm anytime that night. So I went over around nine, sort of hesitantly, really only going so that he would stop asking. I figured we’d talk awkwardly for an hour and a half and then I’d go.

When I got there, Riley was sprawled out in the lounge with two other guys and a girl. Two of them were in our anthropology class; the other was his roommate. They were arguing about military metaphors – we’re reading Susan Sontag right now. After that we talked about whether robots would make better doctors, then about robot armies, then about psychosomatic illnesses, then the election, then the meal plan.

By that point it was nearly midnight and we were all hungry, so Riley and his roommate dashed off to buy food before our convenience store closed at midnight. They came back with armfuls of random food—“sorry, we were in a hurry and didn’t have time to think,” Riley gasped out, dumping it all on the table in front. They’d gotten a bag of Doritos, a box of raspberry Pop-tarts, some rice-cakes, organic peanut butter, cookie dough, a jar of pickles, and a bag of sour gummy worms. By then I felt like I’d known these people for years, not hours. We quickly devoured the pop-tarts and Doritos; by this point we were watching MTV and criticizing all the music videos.

I didn’t come back to my room until four A.M. I don’t know what made the night so great. The conversation was good, but by two A.M. none of were making a lot of sense anymore. It was good to sit and laugh with people, but I do that all the time. I think maybe it was the sheer randomness of it all, the craziness of eating pickles out of a jar at three A.M. and arguing about U.F.Os. Time is another barrier we shatter at college, with our deliberate carelessness, our courage and boundless energy. I know that, in a way, that night was as stupid as going to a dance in my underwear. But it was really great. They told me to come back anytime, that they hang out a couple nights every week.

I have no clue when they actually do their homework, but I’d love to spend more time like that. We’ve been talking about liminality in anthropology class lately, this sort of ambiguous existence between multiple identities (refugees, for example), or a time within ritual in which normal social boundaries dissolve (apparently, because it’s happening in ritual time/space, kissing people under mistletoe doesn’t count as cheating).

I don’t know if people actually view it that way. I’ve never seen mistletoe anywhere since awkward middle school parties, and generally if you kissed someone under the mistletoe, it was because you very much wanted to and had contrived it carefully. But liminality is a captivating idea, this notion of complete flux, of a fluid, permeable identity, watching and being, on borders of two worlds.

a thousand points of light or shame, baby, I don't know

2008-11-05T20:43:00.007-05:00

So Callie wants to talk to me. I just ran into her in the bathroom; she was getting out of the shower as I was brushing my teeth. I nodded to her as she walked past me, wrapped up in an aquamarine towel, but then she turned to me. “Hey Charlotte, come see me sometime tomorrow, okay? I’ll be in my room all afternoon.”

I managed to nod again, then collapsed against the wall as the door closed behind her. My first thought was Jason – what had he told her? But then I remembered the ‘Healthy Living’ display, and my stomach sank. She had seen us. She was going to report me, fine me, make Jason hate me, get me expelled.

I’ll probably just get off with a warning, I know, but I’m still anxious about it. And she hasn’t said anything to Alice and Brittany, which makes me more nervous. Maybe it is about Jason.

Anyway, Obama won. I guess that was expected, but I was still looking forward to Election Day. It was the first time I’ve voted — even if I unceremoniously voted a couple weeks ago – and I was excited to watch history.

I watched most of it in Alice’s room, with Jay, Brittany, and Brittany’s friend Carole. We’d gotten a lot of food, and it was fun for awhile, just watching CNN, munching on chips and salsa and talking. Brittany has been really friendly to me ever since we all tore down the hallway display together, and it’s really nice. And for once it felt like there wasn’t anything else I should be doing, that this election was so much more important than my papers and problem sets and midterms.

CNN announced Alabama for McCain pretty quickly, which surprised no one. Watching the votes tallied on the screen, I irrationally waited for a moment when I would recognize mine, even though I knew it was crazy. Did they count absentee ballots first? Or last? Did they count them at all? Did it matter either way?

I don’t know what I was expecting to feel, but I quickly forgot it as we broke into the box of Oreos and watched the drama of Virginia unfold. But then Paul called me. I’ve barely spoken to him all week, so I went into the hallway, but it was even louder there than in Alice’s room, so I ended up going into the staircase.

“What’s up?” I finally asked, sitting down gingerly on the grungy concrete stairs.

“Well, it looks like Obama’s going to win,” Paul started off, his voice hollow.

“Probably,” I replied. “You don’t sound very excited.” Paul has been a closet Obama supporter for awhile.

“Well, right. I just had to pull my roommate out of a fight,” he said bitterly. “My hall was all watching it in our lounge, and when Obama took Pennsylvania, Justin was pouring shots for everyone, and then this guy said something about the country being destroyed by Arabs, threw the shot back in Justin’s face, and said he wished someone would just shoot him and save us all. Justin’s probably got a broken nose, and the other guy had to go to the hospital to get stitches. There’s spilled vodka and broken glass all over the lounge, and when I got back to our room someone had written SOCIALIST on my door in Sharpie. This is so fucked up.”

“Wow.” I swallowed. “You’re safe, right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He sighed. “How are things at Bailey?”

“Fine,” I replied. “I was watching it in Alice’s room.” We were silent for a moment.

“Well, I should go, I don’t want to keep you.”

“No, it’s fine, I can talk,” I protested.

“No, I should go make sure everything’s okay. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

But we haven’t really talked in eight days, I wanted to tell him. But instead I just said goodbye and sat for a moment in the staircase, listening to the muted shouting from the hallway.

On my way back to Alice’s room Alan gave me a semi-drunken hug after nearly colliding with me in the hallway. Then he stepped back and looked at me. “Charlotte, baby, what’s wrong?”

I shook my head. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

“You weren’t going for McCain, were you?”

I imagined someone slamming Paul’s head against a wall and cringed. “No.”

I ended up staying in Alice’s room for another couple hours, but I couldn’t stop imagining terrible things happening to Paul. I wanted to talk about what had happened, but everyone was increasingly jubilant with every new state, and I didn’t want to break the mood. I texted Allie, but she didn’t respond. So after the networks formally called it for Obama, I went back to my room to see if Paul was online.

He was, and apparently everything had quieted in his dorm— their RA had confiscated the alcohol and given out warnings, and assured Paul they weren’t going to charge him for repainting the door. I meant to go to bed early— I have an English essay due on Friday that I wanted to work on this morning— but I ended up staying up until nearly three A.M. IMing with Paul, mostly copy-pasting Facebook statuses to each other. Most of my Bailey friends were pretty predictable – “YES WE DID”, “proud of my country”, and so on. But my former Whitney classmates were quite different.

From Allie’s youth pastor, my friend’s mother, and many others:
“is very concerned”
“is thinking this country is in a lot of trouble... pray for our nation”

From several of my black classmates:
“is MY PRESIDENT IS BLACK!!! CONGRATS OBAMA”
“is saying MY PRESIDENT IS BLACK!!!”
“is YEAH we got a black man for president!”

From several of my white classmates:
“is voting for McCain because he is not a baby-killing socialist”
“is hoping America doesn’t elect a towel-headed terrorist”
“is not sure why I’m gonna work today, the money I earn will be given to the person who sits on their ass”
“is considering dropping out of college, who needs a degree any more?”
“is we’re all fucked”
“is moving to Australia”

and, worst of all:
“is not happy to have a monkey for a president”

I couldn’t stop refreshing the status updates page, stuck in a kind of awed horror. I wonder if my Bailey classmates would react much differently if McCain had won. I guess at every “historical” moment of transition, there will be people afraid, angry, dissenting. But it just makes me miserable that I’m a part of this mess.

And I don’t know who to talk to; I’m worried everyone here will brush off Alabama Republicans as automatically ignorant and backwards. The thing is, they aren’t. These are people who I chatted with every day, copied their homework, borrowed their notebook paper, saved seats for them at lunch.

It probably won’t really matter. Obviously no one will really move to Canada or Australia, and everyone will get back to their normal lives soon. People were partying in the hall pretty much all night, but today everything has been basically the same as before. I guess I should just get off Facebook, but I’ve been writing this miserable English paper all afternoon, and it’s such a good break/distraction.

Riley called me the other night to ask if I could come hang out – apparently he got my number off the Bailey directory, which I didn’t know existed — but I had to finish a problem set, and was waiting for Paul to call me back. But I told him I’d call him back sometime this week, so we’ll see what happens.

It would be nice to talk anthropology with Riley, but I’m really just looking forward to Thanksgiving break. I just want to be back in my own bed, my own room where I don’t have to worry about random people walking in, my own shower where I have real privacy and don’t have to worry about foot fungus, a few days respite from essays and obscure literary theory, my mom’s cooking instead of this terrible dining hall food, and more than anything, timeless afternoons to spend cuddled with Paul. And then there is Christmas to look forward to. It’s colder now, and even with all the stress and uncertainty I can feel the magic hovering in the air, this indescribable crisp wonder soaking into the world around me.

the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold

2008-10-29T17:21:00.005-04:00

I saw Callie and Jason today. I was curled up in a gorgeously worn-out leather chair in my favorite corner of the student center, where sunlight streams in through the window and tree branches throw shadows on the floor, drinking hot chocolate and reading an ethnography. We’re doing a really fascinating medical anthropology unit right now. So I was sort of staring into space, vaguely aware of the tree branch shadows swaying on the floor in front of me, thinking about Hmong culture, when suddenly they appeared in the steady stream of people walking through the student center.

They were walking quickly, holding hands. Jason leaned over to say something to her, and then she was laughing, radiant. They were both wearing coats and flushed from the cold. They looked perfect, like they were in a movie, or someone else’s daydream. I couldn’t breathe. Callie glanced my way and I quickly turned back to my book. The last thing I wanted was for them to come over and talk to me. I counted to ten and then looked up again. They were just walking out the door, Jason sliding his arm around her shoulder, Callie leaning into him.

I stared at my book, not reading anything, feeling bizarrely numb. I took a deep breath and forced myself to keep reading, even though I could barely notice the words. I blinked and suddenly my vision was blurry. God, Charlotte, do not cry. I put my book down in my lap and took a sip of my hot chocolate, staring outside and blinking away tears.

“Charlotte!” I looked up. Riley was standing above me, a cup of coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. “Mind if I sit down?”

I shook my head, smiling and swallowing hard. “Not at all.” I was relieved that my voice came out normal.

With effortless grace he slid his backpack off, sat down on a chair beside me, and tore into his bagel. “Fadiman? That book is insane,” he said after swallowing. “Can you imagine how heartbreaking it must have been for her doctors?”

“Don’t tell me, I haven’t finished yet.”

“Yeah, okay.” In another giant bite, he finished his bagel. “Let me know when you’ve finished, though, I’d love to discuss it, if you’re interested.”

“I think we’re going over it in tomorrow’s lecture, but sure,” I replied.

“It’ll probably just be review for people who didn’t read it.” I shrugged. “Okay, well I’ll let you get back to reading, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He stood up and flashed me a smile. “I’ll save you a seat.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling back. He walked away, then turned around and grinned at me before turning the corner. I stared after him for a few moments, then opened my book again. It’s about this girl Lia, a toddler with epilepsy in California, who can’t get proper medical care because of cultural and language barriers. When I think about that situation, refugees whose way of life has been totally stripped away from them, doctors who know how to save this girl but can’t communicate with the parents, parents who believe their daughter’s illness is a sign of favor from God, I wonder how I can ever be so miserable over something like Jason dating Callie. I have so much to be grateful for. But as much as I repeat it to myself, I really can’t fathom that most of the rest of the world is living in such different conditions. At the same time, though, I’m scared of finding out too much. I have a sense that this is the kind of information that will change me, and I don’t know how.

I looked up, but Riley was out of sight. Maybe it would be good to talk with him. At our study group before our midterm, he’d seemed really intelligent—so intelligent that I was sort of wondering why he’d organized the group, since he certainly didn’t need it. But he would probably appreciate my anthropology raves more than Allie or Paul.

So tonight I was sitting in Alice’s room with Jay, vaguely working on my econ problem set but mostly just sitting and talking. They were sitting next to each other on her bed, and for the first time I realized maybe there’s something between them. I don’t think anything’s actually happened — I know Alice would tell me – but they both looked like they were enjoying their politics essays a little more than the essays deserved. I don’t know if I’ve just been oblivious all along, but they’d be really cute together.

But sitting there, drawing production possibility frontiers and watching them tease each other, reminded me way too much of Jason and Callie. I hated myself for being jealous, but suddenly that seemed like the nicest thing in the world, to be able to sit on a bed with a cute boy and laugh and know something real was building, something that might have a neat, clean, plottable trajectory.

I dug my phone out of my pocket, thinking I’d text Allie, when all of a sudden it started ringing. It was Audrey. “Can you let me in? I don’t have my keys.” Glad for an excuse to get out of Alice’s room, I slid my shoes back on and went downstairs.

She was carrying a bulky package. “What’d you get?” I asked after letting her in.

“It’s fucking freezing,” she replied, holding the door open for a couple of people straggling in behind her. “A scale.”

“Oh. Why?”

“You know, freshman fifteen and all…” By this time we were at the top of the stairs, and my eyes lit on the ‘Healthy Living’ display.

“Audrey! It’s because of that display?”

“Charlotte, I was putting my jeans on this morning and they were so tight!”

“That’s probably because you just did laundry, I really don’t think you’re gaining weight.”

“You don’t understand, I have never felt cold weather before,” Audrey protested as I unlocked our door for her. “I don’t think my body can handle it, it’s thinking it needs to hibernate, or something, and it’s making a extra layer of fat for insulation. I can feel it.”

“I hate that freaking display,” I said as I walked back into Alice’s room. “Audrey just bought a scale. We’re going to have a hallway epidemic of anorexia.”

“So let’s take it down,” Brittany, Alice’s roommate, said from her desk.

“Yeah,” Jay agreed. “We should. Civil disobedience and all.”

“Okay. Then let’s go,” I said, turning and walking boldly down the hall, not letting myself think about what I was doing.

We all stood for a moment in front of the display, until Alice muttered, “Hallway’s clear,” and I reached out and tore down a page in front of me, one of the football-length charts. Then we were all reaching out and ripping away, grinning at each other, not speaking. In a few moments everything was laying in crumpled piles on the floor, except for the title page. Then Alice reached out, crossed out the text, and scrawled with a green marker, LOVE YOUR BODY ♥

We all stepped back and stared for a moment. “Should we pick up…” I murmured, jerking my head towards the rumpled paper on the floor. But just then we heard a door open. I looked back instinctively. It was Callie’s.

“GO!” Brittany hissed, and we all dashed into the staircase and ran madly down the stairs. We finally stopped in the basement landing, panting.

“Do you think she saw us?” I asked once I’d caught my breath.

“Probably not,” Jay said reassuringly. “Not unless she dashed out and looked immediately down the hallway, which I doubt. I’m sure she had other things on her mind.”

“I don’t really care if she does,” Alice added. “I’ll take credit for it. Gladly.”

We all stood there grinning at each other for another perfect moment before turning and walking back up the stairs.

I want so badly to believe that "there is truth, that love is real"

2008-10-23T05:16:00.005-04:00

I was on my way to Econ today when I felt my phone vibrate. Hoping it was Paul—I’d texted him earlier— I shifted my books to one arm and dug it out of my pocket. It was Allie.

“Did you hear?”

“What?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Get this. Eric and Lacey got engaged.”

I stopped abruptly in the middle of the path. Someone on a bicycle whizzed past, narrowly missing me, and I started walking again, shaking my head. “That’s absurd. They’re probably joking. We’re only eighteen. You saw it on Facebook?”

“Well, there’s a billion pictures of it, a monstrous diamond…”

“Where did he get the money for that?” Last I knew, Eric worked at Chick-fil-A.

“I don’t know. They’ve only been together for like seven months! Prom! God! And just last year we were copying each other’s physics homework. And now she’s going to be his wife? Everything’s changed so much. Everyone’s gone insane.”

“Yeah, pretty crazy,” I agreed. “But hey, I’m on my way to class, so…”

“Okay, yeah. Love you!”

I realized after I’d hung up that I should have asked about Rob. Allie and I exchange emails most days, but we hadn’t spoken in over a week. Lately things had been improving between the two of them, but she was still upset that he had hooked up with three different girls at the start of the semester, even though he’d promised her over and over that it was stupid and didn’t mean anything. She keeps agonizing about how although she still likes him, she couldn’t understand why he would do that, and now she apparently can’t trust his judgment at all, and what if he does it again? And can she date someone who treats women like that? Etc, etc. I sympathize, I really do, but at the same time, he’s been so nice to her, and I want to think that he did learn his lesson. And he’s being really patient with her now. I don’t know what else he can do.

All through class I couldn’t stop imagining what I would do if Paul proposed to me. Or how he would do it. I know this is ridiculous. He hasn’t even asked me out. But it’s more interesting than market externalities and the Coase theorem. I wouldn’t, couldn’t say yes. It’d be totally irrational. My parents would probably think I was joking.

But then I can look back and think, I have liked him for so long. Ever since eighth grade. And it hasn’t gotten dull. We’ve been crawling along at a snail’s pace but it’s perfect, usually. I have to believe in us, or else what am I doing in this quasi-relationship? The time I spend with him is beautiful. And we’re getting better at the time apart. And isn’t that the point of marriage? To promise there won’t be any real time apart? There are so many moments when I think it could work.

And if Eric and Lacey have done it, why can’t we? Lacey was in my third-period language arts class our senior year, so I got updates every day about the Prom drama. I know all the details of how her friends dropped him subtle hints to ask her, the argument over limousines, the crisis two weeks before when he hooked up with some cheerleader named Katie, the drunken hotel room sex after the dance.

At the time I thought they had the most sordid, empty, fake relationship possible, although the daily gossip definitely helped pass the time. Now, looking back, that seems so innocent. Married? I can so easily imagine Lacey planning a wedding. She would love it. But I don’t really understand their connection. I can’t believe I know how this started, as a name on a Possible Prom Dates list written in pink sharpie at the bottom of a page of notes about Wuthering Heights.

I walked back to my room in a sort of daze, imagining all sorts of romantic scenarios with Paul (at the park at sunset, at a nice restaurant, after making me dinner, even just as I’m laying in his arms watching a movie…) I’d gotten to the point of deciding our wedding songs (roughly the entire CD he made me for college, which, incidentally, is at the top of my iTunes most-played list), by the time I was back to my dorm.

After walking up the stairs, though, a new display on the bulletin board right outside the staircase grabbed my attention. I guess the building RAs put it up. The title is Healthy Living: How Not to Gain the Freshman 15, but it’s essentially just a collection of diet tips. There’s a list of how many calories are in certain foods, and then how long it would take to walk off those calories. One football field to burn off one M&M! 200 to burn off a piece of pizza! Or something. “Healthy living?” This isn’t encouraging anything but calorie obsession. Worse, all the foods I eat every day at the dining hall are on there— pizza, cheese steaks, hamburgers, fries, cookies. I could walk football fields from now until Thanksgiving and not be done.

But I know it’s not really accurate. First, we need a certain amount of calories. I shouldn’t feel guilty every time I eat. But regardless, these numbers are going to be totally different for everyone. People’s bodies absorb different caloric quantities from food. Besides, these stupid football-field estimates don’t account for a person’s weight or gender. The other day I read that the calorie counts on fitness machines are also largely incorrect, and the more you use one machine, the fewer calories you burn, because your body naturally becomes more efficient. Those are interesting facts, more interesting than their list of “helpful tips”: drink lots of cold water, don’t eat after 8 PM, fill up on fruits and veggies, eat slowly, eat off a smaller plate, brush your teeth after every meal.

I can’t believe they put this up. What is this, school-sponsored anorexia propaganda? A plot to save the dining hall money? There was nothing about “healthy living” on there, nothing except food and exercise in terms of weight. And I have to walk past it every time I leave the dorm. Which will a) make me feel fat, b) make me feel guilty for whatever I had for dinner, c) wonder if I’m gaining weight, d) make me think of Callie, e) wonder if Jason likes her because she’s thinner than I am.

Clearly that’s stupid. If he actually did choose a girlfriend based on skinniness, I wouldn’t want to date him anyways. And I don’t think I’ve gained too much weight. I’m not eating that well, but I’m walking so much that it shouldn’t matter. My clothes still fit fine, anyway, which is my main concern.

And I finally voted yesterday, for Obama, unsurprisingly. It was Colin Powell’s endorsement that convinced me. Not because I care about Colin Powell, or really know his background, but what he said about Muslims is exactly what I’ve wanted to hear all campaign. I don't know, it would be so nice to believe in something transformational. I just can't tell if there's any substance behind the hype. Not of Obama specifically, but of the whole notion of politics and the candidates' completely manufactured identities. Anyway, I still cringe when I walk past the campaign tables in the dining hall, but they’ve started focusing on battleground states, so I don’t matter to them anyway.

it seemed as if the streets had melted, it seemed as if the air was scented, I wish all of time could be like this

2008-10-14T17:04:00.004-04:00

I’m tired, but it’s a good kind of tired, a sort of dreamy, surreal state. My English class was cancelled today, so I’ve been sitting here in my pajamas reading stuff online. It’s totally unproductive, but I just had my Spanish midterm yesterday and my Econ midterm the day before, so it feels good to have a break.

I’d been looking forward to sleeping in this morning — I’ve been cramming like crazy these past few days – but then we had a fire drill in the middle of the night. Apparently people were smoking pot on the third floor and didn’t open a window.

I was sound asleep and at first, the shrill piercing squeal of the alarm freezing my thoughts, I had no idea what was going on. For a crazy moment I thought a girl was screaming, but then I Audrey cursed and I heard someone’s door slam down the hall. I sat up and reached for my phone. 4:48 AM.

I pulled a hoodie and sweatpants over my pajamas, slid my shoes on, grabbed my keys, and stumbled out the door, Audrey right behind me. In the hallway blue lights flashed in sync with the scream of the alarm. People were straggling out of their rooms and stumbling towards the staircase, in various states of dress/undress.

The flashing lights, the shrill alarm, and the rush of people all felt like a nightmare, but once I stepped outside the door the sound of the alarm faded significantly. The fresh air felt amazingly pure and refreshing, instantly clearing my head. People were streaming out of all of the dorms in the quad, merging into a great mass trudging toward the nearby parking lot. I took a few steps, but with a sudden urge I didn’t understand, I slipped away from the group and quickly turned the corner of the dorm building, and stood in the dark shadow right against the wall.

I watched people walk out of the building, and turn away to go towards the parking lot. The building was still squealing its shrill alarm, muted by the thick brick walls. Looking around, I walked silently to the back of the building, up a slight hill, and carefully pushed through a layer of evergreen trees, ending up on a side path going toward the main academic quad.

I didn’t know what I was doing. It felt like a dream, like I’d woken up into some other world that was slightly different, cooler, muted, tinged with silver and glitter. Everything felt cleaner. I walked slowly down the path, being careful not to step on any leaves. I didn’t want to make a sound. I didn’t feel unsafe, but I knew somehow that a sharp noise would break the magic.

The wind rustled through the trees. A few stray leaves drifted down around me, dark shadows faintly illuminated by silver moonlight, and settled on the pavement with a soft whisper. I turned to face the wind, letting it whip my hair back. I imagined it soaking through me, cleansing me, purifying me.

But soon I got cold, even with my hands shoved in my pockets and my hood up, so I went back to my room. Audrey was huddled under her covers, completely passed out. I wasn’t really tired, though, so I checked my email, which led to Facebook, which informed me that Leah just had her baby (and posted two full albums within 48 hours).

So I had to look through those. And I have to admit, as much as I’m freaked out by this spate of pregnancies among my former Whitney classmates, part of me is jealous of Leah. Hayden is beautiful. And I know a baby is a lot of work, but it almost looks easy— all there is to do is take care of this little warm snuggly thing. No essays or worksheets or midterms or RAs dating your crush (yes, it’s Facebook-official).

I know it’s much more complicated than that, and there’s no reason to think Leah has a perfect love life. But in her pictures, she looks like the happiest girl in the world.

I ended up going back to bed around ten, right as Audrey was getting up. I still haven’t figured out what’s up with her — according to Facebook, she’s still with Mike, and I don’t know how to ask her what’s going on without sounding like a prissy bitch. I haven’t seen Will for awhile, but last Thursday I ended up getting out of my Econ review session way earlier than I expected, and as I walked back to my dorm I had this sudden awful vision of me walking in on Audrey and Will. I ended up detouring to the library for half an hour.

People are starting to talk about Halloween costumes. I’m looking forward more and more to Thanksgiving, although Paul has been a little vague when I bring it up. I know it’s ridiculously early to make plans (although I wouldn’t mind, to be honest). I just hope for once it won’t be difficult.

Plus, by Thanksgiving the election will be over and done, so I won’t be constantly harassed by the obnoxiously pushy Bailey for Obama students, or the (admittedly much more timid) Bailey for McCain contingent.

I should be excited— this election is historic, or so I’ve been told (isn’t every election historic?), and it’s the first time I can vote. But I’m sick of it all. At Whitney I considered myself a Democrat, because I’m pretty liberal on social issues and I’d never want to align myself with the Confederate-flag-hanging, gun-toting, abortion-fighting, gay-bashing Republican Club. (Once I asked my friend Kelly what they did, and apparently they just got free bumper stickers and spent three meetings arguing over T-shirt design. Granted, NHS wasn’t much more productive, but still.)

But now at Bailey I keep meeting all these pretentious, arrogant Democrats, and they’re just as close-minded and unappealing. I don’t want to be a part of that. I know I should vote based on the issues, but after reading about both sides I can’t really understand them. And even if I can be certain about an issue—for example, I’m pretty certain that same-sex marriage should be legalized (and, eventually, will be) — I don’t know how to prioritize that issue with others. And lately, whenever I read the news I feel like the world is ending. I haven’t voted yet; my absentee ballot is hidden inside my desk drawer so that people in my room can’t see it and ask me about it. Then again, it’s not like my vote matters anyway; Alabama is something like 60% McCain.

It’s getting cooler. I’m excited but also dreading it. Over the weekend Alice, Jay and I went shopping; I got a winter coat and a couple sweaters. Jay is this guy who lives upstairs; I’m not really sure how we know him, but he’s really nice. We had a good time, and it was a much-needed break from studying.

I love my coat (I’d describe it but coats all look the same to me), but I really miss shopping in the suburbs. I’m so used to huge stores and open space and parking lots. In the city I feel constantly rushed, pushed from all sides, always flustered and hurrying. It’s exhilarating, but exhausting.

Right now it’s definitely still autumn, though, and it’s absolutely beautiful. On Sunday I walked around campus taking pictures; I’m going to send them to Allie to see if she can use them for anything.

I keep gushing to her about how anthropology is so fascinating; I think a lot of it has to do with seeing the world through different eyes. I keep thinking she’ll understand, because that seems to be what she does through art. Transforming the mundane into something beautiful and surreal. For example, my book quotes this one Ju/’hoansi who had been taken to Zambia and seen the outside world for the first time:

"Then a strange thing happened. The road transformed itself. A giant black snake with a smooth back came up, and we rode on his back. He twisted and turned but we always stayed on his back; we never left him. Riding on that snake's back we went as fast as the wind.

[...] Metal is everywhere. When you twist metal, water comes out. You sleep on metal. When night comes giant metal flashlights as tall as trees come on and make the black snake's back shine like day. The people of this country refuse night. They reject it and push it back with light. Even in their houses there are flashlights everywhere.”

And then there was this picture in the book of a Ju/’hoansi woman sitting with a cauldron-like pot that she was stirring with a long thick stick, and it immediately reminded me of the oompa-loompas in the jungle in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. In a flash, it was so clear— that this is how we envision primitive people.

I’m so afraid of getting bored with life, of slowly turning into an adult exhausted by jobs and taxes and responsibility. So maybe this fascination stems from weakness, fear, but still, it’s so exciting. I have an Anthropology midterm in a week, but I’m not worried at all. This guy Riley talked me into coming to a study group he created, which I don’t think I need, but hopefully discussing the material will be interesting.

I watch the people and the cars, it's slow motion; they're beautiful like breaking glass not yet broken

2008-10-06T19:25:00.003-04:00

I’m doing a lot better, so much better that I’m fairly certain I never really cared for Jason at all. This isn’t anything like it felt when Paul started dating Ashley. Probably because Paul and I are still doing well. And now that it’s October, Thanksgiving break seems much closer. I’ll be home for four days, and I know we’ll see each other. Maybe things will be different— better— than they were over the summer.

We had a really nice conversation the other day about how scarcity is the essence of all problems— political, moral, theological, everything. It probably wasn’t that stunning of a revelation, but it was great to be able to have a lively conversation and feel so close, even though we’re so far away.

But a part of me still aches when I see the late afternoon sunlight streaming over the trees in the quad, when I pass Callie in the hall. I keep trying to imagine Jason drunk and saying dumb things to paint over the Byronic-hero image of him I can’t shake from my mind. Occasionally I can conjure up some fleeting frat-boy vision, but it always evaporates quickly.

But I shouldn’t need that anyway. Jason was always a dream, right? We had a couple of good conversations that, looking back, weren’t really that exceptional. He’s probably the type of guy who sounds interesting and unique until you spend a few days with him and realize he repeats himself a lot. He’s cute, but lots of guys are cute.

The thing is, I have to turn in a damage report to Callie – a tree branch ripped our window screen – but I’m terrified I’ll interrupt her and Jason. I’ve been putting it off for days. I’d decided I would slide it under her door, but I know if she’s there she’ll notice and invite me in to talk, and I really don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to look at her room, her bed, search for traces of him, try and figure out why she’s so magical. So instead I’m left having this awkward internal debate over when she and Jason are most likely to be in her room.

I could try and pass the form off to Audrey, but things are a little awkward right now. Last night I was doing a Spanish worksheet while she was clearly getting ready to go out— straightening her hair, carefully putting on her makeup, and trying on shirt after shirt in front of the mirror— when her phone rang. She immediately turned off her music and sat down on her bed. “Hey Mike! …Yeah, alright, but I can’t really talk right now, I have to go to a study group,” she said, sighing. “Yeah, it’s the Soc group project, it’s like, so ridiculous, seriously.” I could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Mmhmm. Okay, sweetheart, love you too.” She snapped her phone shut, switched her music back on, and went back to the mirror.

I’d barely gotten through my next conjugation when her phone rang again. “Hey!” she answered. “Yeah, I’m almost ready. No, not here… yes, I think so… okay, I’ll be over in like ten minutes, alright?”

She finally decided on a low-cut teal sweater. After slinging on a couple necklaces and spraying a cloud of cloying perfume, she grabbed her purse and let the door slam behind her. No books, no notebooks, nothing. I briefly entertained the possibility that Will was in her group project, but then she never came back last night, and when she came in at nine AM in her clothes from last night, she didn’t explain anything.

I’m pretty sure she’s cheating on Mike, but I don’t know if I should tell him. It’s not really my business. But doesn’t he have a right to know? What bothers me the most is how sweet she was to him on the phone—right before making plans with someone else. She sounded so convincing. Couldn’t she have just not answered the phone?

Anyway, I haven’t seen her much tonight, so maybe she’s out with Will again. Or maybe at the dance. Bailey has a dance tonight advertising a “the less you wear, the less you pay” policy. I’d seen posters for this but didn’t actually think it was real, until a few hours ago when I was walking out of the bathroom in my towel and Alan started yelling at me from down the hall. “Charlotte!” he yelled. “You wearing that to the dance, Charlotte? Or got something better? I have some bubble wrap if you want any!”

“Uh, no thanks,” I mumbled back, and hurried down the hall, but not before Alice’s roommate, Brittany, the crazy one, stepped out of her room in matching black lacy lingerie. “You could give me some bubble wrap, Alan,” she cooed. “Want to help me make my costume?”

Alan looked her up and down. “Don’t look like a bad costume to me,” he replied. Brittany pranced past me, and I briefly stuck my head in her doorway. Alice looked up from her computer. “What the fuck?” I mouthed, and she shrugged. I guess Audrey could be a lot worse.

So I’ve spent the last hour or so in my room with the lights off, sitting by the window, watching people walk nearly-naked through the quad. I know this sounds incredibly disgusting and creepy, and it will look really shady if Audrey walks in, but it’s just so interesting to watch. People really aren’t embarrassed to parade around in their underwear (or saran wrap, or bubble wrap, or nothing at all). I guess it’s not a whole lot more revealing than bathing suits. But I don’t think I could ever do that.

It seems so bizarre, but I can kind of understand how it would be liberating to just go absolutely crazy. I just don’t get why this kind of craziness is expected at college when it’s taboo everywhere else. Why should we feel so trapped? We have practically the easiest life imaginable— our food is cooked for us, our hallways vacuumed, our bathrooms scrubbed. There’s even a laundry service, if you want to pay for it. We have basically no responsibilities at all. So what is it that makes us so desperate to get away from our daily lives? Is it just the drive to flaunt everything we’re being trained to grow up to be – respectable, intelligent, classy?

At Bailey I’m constantly meeting people who shock me with their accomplishments, their aspirations, their intelligence, their experiences. But to me it’s exhilarating, it makes me want to run up walls and shout from rooftops, not take off all my clothes and grind against some stranger.

But who am I to criticize? Isn’t this the heart of cultural relativism? In my anthropology class we’re reading about the Ju/’hoansi, a society of the Kalahari Desert in Southern Africa. Their children engage in sex play exactly like in Brave New World. They have no concept of virginity at all. I don’t know if Huxley made it up or had read about it, but either way, to realize that actually exists completely blows my mind.

I wish I had known that in our stupid abstinence-only health class in high school, just to spark a more interesting debate. Every time I go to my anthropology class, actually, I learn something new and bizarre and I want to tell everyone I know, just to shock them. I don’t know why; knowing all this doesn’t really change my life. I just want them to think, to be awed. Although part of it is the mystery, I know. With parts of this bizarre dystopian-novel culture proving real, what else might exist in some exotic corner of the world?

In cynical moments I think of The Fifth Child and worry that I’ll be like Ben, the throwback brute who finally finds his true society only to heartbreakingly realize it's long extinct. But most of the time I feel like this new world has just been opened up to me, a secret garden, fresh and inviting, utterly captivating, glistening with morning dew and quiet promises of so much more than I could ever have imagined.

I'm trying to believe in you; this world sold its fate for parking lots and drunk sincerity

2008-09-30T13:51:00.002-04:00

I cannot believe this. Jason and Callie are together. CALLIE. My RA. What the fuck?

I don’t know it for sure. Maybe they’re just hooking up. But that’s even worse. I just ran into him as I was walking to the bathroom and he was coming out of her room, adjusting his collar and looking generally disheveled. We nearly collided, and then both stopped abruptly, staring at each other.

“Charlotte,” Jason finally said. I couldn’t speak. I just nodded. “I didn’t know you lived here. Funny seeing you again…” he trailed off awkwardly.

“Hilarious,” I muttered, turning around and fleeing into Alice’s room, a few doors behind me.

Alice was lying on her bed reading Plato. “What’s up?” she asked, carefully placing a bookmark in her book. Then she looked up. “Shit, Charlotte, what happened?”

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts, and sat down at the foot of Alice’s bed. “I just saw Jason coming out of Callie’s room, looking like he’d just gotten dressed…”

“Jason and Callie?” Alice raised an eyebrow. “You think they’re…?” I nodded miserably. “Interesting. So… what happened to Paul?”

“Nothing! It’s not so much that I thought Jason liked me, we’re barely even friends.” I sighed. “Or that I even liked him, really. I guess I just liked the idea of him, knowing he’s out there, and this destroys all of that.”

“Callie’s nice,” Alice said neutrally.

“It just all seems so hopeless and stupid.”

Alice held up her book. “We’re all doomed, it’s okay. According to Plato, we used to be these crazy-looking round creatures with four arms and four legs, but then, as punishment for disobeying the gods, Zeus sliced us in half.” Alice’s face was glowing. “Very much like original sin, actually. And so we wander the earth, looking for our other half so that we can be complete again. But since there’s been intermarriage throughout the generations, our true partner may be partially present in more than one person. So it legitimizes both true love and adultery.”

I briefly imagined myself connected to Jason, then to Paul, but got distracting trying to imagine how we’d walk. “Sorry, Alice, that doesn’t really help.” She shrugged and tossed me a half-eaten Hershey’s bar from her desk, which I nibbled on as she filled me in on the latest antics of her crazy roommate. But then she had a recitation to go to, so I went back to my own room.

I wouldn’t be so devastated, but after all this time, I finally ran into Jason an hour or two earlier. He was probably on his way to see Callie, I realize now.

I’d been walking along the quad, on my way to dinner, when he shouted my name. I turned to see who it was, but the late afternoon sunlight was blazing over the trees, completely blinding me. And then he walked out of the sunlight, light streaming off him like he was some kind of god, grinning at me. He reached out to hug me, and maybe it was just everything combined in that moment – the smell of freshly cut grass, the crispness of autumn in the air, the gentle warmth of the late afternoon sunlight, and his arms around me, even if only for a moment, but it was so sweet, so perfect.

“Why haven’t I seen you before this?” he said as we broke apart.

I shrugged, fumbling for something clever to say. “How are you liking Bailey?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve succumbed to the powers of small talk.”

“Sorry, bad habit,” I smiled. “But it’s not inherently a meaningless question, only if you give a meaningless answer.”

“Okay, fair enough.” He paused. “My philosophy and politics classes are fantastic, my French professor is a pretentious jerk, I love the library, but I hate the presence of the upcoming election because no one will say anything that the New York Times hasn’t already said. Most people I meet are rich spoiled brats who on the one hand never shut up about their summer in Paris or Rome, but who on the other hand still seem to be traumatized by their rejections from Harvard and Yale. But all of this shit is more often entertaining than aggravating, so whatever.”

We talked for a few more minutes, and then he told me he needed to go. “But we should definitely hang out sometime, okay? I know people always say that, but I actually mean it. Facebook me, okay?” I promised I would, and then went off to dinner, unable to stop smiling.

I wonder what he would have told me if I asked where he was going. Callie? I can’t believe it. She’s sort of pretty, I suppose, in a subtle, sort of delicate way – average height, light-brown hair, lovely dark brown eyes that redeem an otherwise thin, pale face. She’s a junior studying Sociology. I haven’t really spoken to her much since orientation, but we make small talk sometimes when we’re both brushing our teeth at night. Callie’s nice enough. She just seems so... average. And Jason seems— seemed— so exceptional, immune to this stupid college culture of random hookups and meaningless sex.

Anyway, I still have no idea why Audrey was crying the other night, but when I came back from class this afternoon she was in her chair sitting in some guy’s lap. He had his arms around her, as if she might fall off if he wasn’t holding on to her. She awkwardly introduced us; his name is Will. It’s not like I really walked in on anything, they were just sitting there, but still, what about Mike? I angled my computer away from their view (although they seemed too entertained by their Youtube videos and cuddling to notice my presence), and quickly checked her Facebook. She’s still apparently “in a relationship” with Mike. I guess I’m no one to judge, since I’ve spent plenty of (apparently wasted) time dreaming of Jason, but… it’s not like anything was ever going to happen.

So now I’m sitting in my room alone, trying not to cry, because I don’t know when Audrey is coming back and I don’t want her to walk in on me crying. I had a good conversation with Paul last night, but he hasn’t returned my calls or texts tonight, although it would really help to just be reminded of how good we are together, even if we still aren’t actually together. He seems so far away, and I don’t want to think about what he’s doing instead of talking to me. So instead I’ll sit here hoping the phone rings and read his Facebook wall, read Callie’s Facebook wall, read Jason’s Facebook wall, and try and figure out what I’m missing.

In the stairwell some guy is shouting at his girlfriend on the phone. “No, that is NOT what happened!” he keeps screaming. “Just LISTEN to me for one— no— NO, I can’t fucking believe YOU are doing this to ME!” If he didn’t sound like such an obnoxious prick, I would go out there and commiserate, maybe explain Alice’s crazy theory of separated souls. But he sounds like the kind of creep who would leer at me and make up some very nasty pick up line about how we could manage to “reconnect” in some other way, wink wink. He probably deserves what he’s getting. But that doesn’t really make me feel any better.

the world is but a canvas to the imagination

2008-09-25T05:59:00.003-04:00

I was in here after lunch trying to finish up my anthropology reading for tomorrow when Audrey came in, groaning. “It’s raaaining,” she moaned, kicking the door shut to look at herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair was plastered to her head, her jeans soaked.

“Hard?” I asked, switching off my music and turning to look out our window. I’d been listening to Capriccio Espagnol, from the CD Paul had made for me, and hadn’t even noticed.

“Yeah, it’s crazy out there. I can’t believe it, I’m soaked, thank God I don’t have class this afternoon...” By this point I’d put my book down and was putting on my shoes. She stared at me, breaking off her litany of complaints, which had continued to her lack of proper rain boots. “Charlotte, what are you doing?”

“Going outside,” I told her, grinning.

“You like the rain?”

“Yeah.” Well, sometimes. Sometimes it’s just miserable. But sometimes – it’s wild, it’s powerful, it’s the biggest adrenaline rush I know.

I grabbed my keys and dashed out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, outside. The rain was pouring down. It was like stepping into a shower. I immediately took off, sprinting along the quad. I think I was laughing. Running through the university in the rain – this was Bailey as I had never known it. A few straggling students were out, walking quickly with their heads bowed against the assault of rainwater, some girls holding books over their heads.

Lightning flashed in the distance. Moments later, thunder crashed. I stepped in a puddle and felt the cool water immediately soak through the mesh of my running shoes. Water was streaming down my face, and I could feel that my shirt was soaked through. But my feet were pounding the pavement, and I was screaming along with the wind, incoherently, but triumphantly. For the first time, I felt like I really belonged here, and was a part of this place. And more than that, I felt like I owned it, like Bailey was mine, as I took long, glorious strides, stomping in puddles, lifting my arms in reflexive praise. I know it was dangerous to play outside in a thunderstorm, but I can’t remember the last time I felt so exhilarated.

I was all the way across campus by the time the rain slowed, and I paused for a moment, catching my breath, before turning around to walk back to my room. My adrenaline had slowed, but I felt incredibly peaceful, as if everything inside me had been calmed and refreshed. The entire world seemed refreshed. I walked on, smelling the rich soil, entranced by the gleam of the wet marble on the buildings. Somehow everything I’d been worrying about had slipped from my mind – my Joyce paper, Paul, my Spanish quiz. Then as I was almost back to my dorm, the sun broke through the clouds, and there was the faintest shimmer of a rainbow in the sky.

The high lasted for hours, but now I’m worried about Audrey. She seemed fine when I came back drenched and grinning; she’d changed into dry clothes and was having a cup of tea. I left to take a hot shower, and she was gone by the time I came back. I made myself some hot chocolate, finished my anthropology reading, and eventually left to get something to eat. But when I came back from dinner she was sitting at her desk, staring at her blank computer screen, tears running down her face.

I probably should have said something. But before the door was even fully open she’d quickly turned away and gone over to rearrange the plants on the windowsill, keeping her back to me. So I took my time slinging my bag on my bed, hanging up my jacket, and turning on my computer before I said anything. I mentioned something totally insignificant about the cheese steak I’d had at dinner (which incidentally was fabulous – anything remotely healthy at our food court tastes awful, but the cheeseburgers and cheese steaks and French fries are AWESOME), and she replied in a normal tone of voice. By the time she actually turned to face me her eyes were a little red, but it was barely noticeable.

She’s in bed right now; I can’t tell if she’s listening to her iPod or sleeping. I know I’m probably overreacting and there could be a totally mundane explanation, like allergies or something. Then again, if it had been that innocent, I feel like she would have explained herself. But maybe she just wanted some privacy. Maybe she’s shy about crying. But she was just sitting there, staring at nothing…

Audrey and I get along well, but it’s still pretty weird living with a stranger. If it’d been Allie, I’d definitely have asked her what was up. But I don’t know Audrey that well. Living in constant contact with so many other students has created this totally bizarre situation in which we know lots of intimate details about each other, but in other moments feel like total strangers. It’s like there’s this constant pretense that our lives are only now beginning, here at Bailey, but then I stop and imagine this person at high school, this person having a family, and it’s all so weird. I know how Audrey sleeps and what brand of tampons she uses, but I still don’t really know her at all.

Outside in the quad people are screaming, laughing, singing. I hear this every night, but somehow tonight it feels menacing. Tonight campus feels like a prison. I don’t want to be inside my room, but I don’t want to go out in the quad. I called Paul, but he didn’t answer, and I can’t talk with Audrey sleeping anyway. I keep thinking of Lord of the Flies, chaos and scary rituals in the dark. I just want someone here to talk about something real, not to bond over drunken chaos and raucous commotion. It makes me miss Jason, even though I know my conception of him is mostly illusion and irrational hope. For all I know he could be out there too, smashing bottles on the sidewalks and having sex in the bushes.

this is how we’ll dance when they try to take us down

2008-09-19T20:18:00.003-04:00

A/N: Sorry about the delay in updating. I’ve just moved to London to spend a semester at UCL, and I haven’t had internet access until now.

Forget English, I’m going to major in Anthropology.

Unfortunately I can’t really forget English, as I need to start researching my Joyce paper. But I am totally enthralled with anthropology. I signed up for the class pretty randomly, but if the rest of the semester is anything as good as today, I’m sold.

First of all, my professor is gorgeous. He’s got dark curly hair and this amazing smile. He’s so young that I initially thought he was a TA. Not that I’m actually going to go lusting after my professor, but in case class ever does get boring, he’s easy to look at.

“Our study of anthropology,” he began, “will revolve around our effort to make the strange seem normal, and the normal strange.” He went on to talk about how when we travel to other countries, all their practices seem strange and sometimes disgusting. But, he continued, when those people travel to our country, our practices seem equally bizarre. “People tend to think their cultural practices are the right way,” he said, breaking into a gorgeous smile. “In anthropology, we call that ethnocentrism.”

Ethnocentrism, cultural relativism, ritual, culture shock; my notes are mostly just a list of terms, but swirling around them is this invisible magic, this tremendous glittering potential.

It’s like I’ve just been given a vocabulary for thoughts I’ve always had, for ideas I was never before able to connect. Of course other people’s cultures seem normal to them. But still it’s crazy to think about people actually believing in Greek mythology. And then to then turn around and imagine future people learning our religions as crazy fairytales – it’s absurd.

I’ve always loved thinking of things like this. I’d daydream during class about how the Egyptian burial process is really so similar to our embalming – and how creepy and disgusting both can seem, if you step back and think about the actual process (eye-caps? Sewing our lips shut?). Or how our makeup and piercings aren’t fundamentally different from exotic photographs I’ve seen of people with sticks stuck in their face and nose and paint streaked across their skin. I can’t look at them without cringing, but to them, our beauty ideals must look bizarre. Or how eating beef could seem as horrendous to someone else as eating dogs seems to us. Or the disdain we have for arranged marriage, although an outsider could easily point out that marrying for love hasn’t proven very successful.

I don’t even know when all this started. As a kid I had this strange assurance that everything I was surrounded with was the best, because I was perfect and the only person alive, and the whole world existed for me. Of course the U.S. was the best country in the world, of course our democracy was the ideal form of government. That’s what we were taught, right?

I don’t know what cracked that childhood certainty. I’m sure it happened in small pieces, little fragments over time. I remember once reading that less than twenty percent of the world speaks English, and being totally overwhelmed. Before that I’d probably have guessed less than twenty percent didn’t. I didn’t have any idea there was so much else out there. I’m not even sure I really believed in other countries until I was ten or eleven and started reading the newspaper.

It’s distressing to see your Panglossian ideals dissolve in cynic realism, but at the same time, it’s totally freeing. When everything sucked, I could sit and promise myself there’s something better out there, there’s more. I always daydreamed of foreign languages spoken on rain-slicked streets, that allure of brisk anonymity, some vague fantasy of another life that was out there, waiting, foreign men in dark coats, or colorfully dressed women cooking outside on a dusty street, unfamiliar rhythms pounding in the background. And here it is. Maybe, if I can slice away the layers of culture everywhere, I can find something universally true, something actually real.

I know I’m hoping for too much. I know none of the cultures we’ll study will offer me any kind of exotic paradise. But even just naming things as culture is so unbelievably empowering. It’s like it totally removes their authority. We spent awhile in class brainstorming everything that makes up culture, but it’s too long to list here, because it’s pretty much everything.

After class, Alice and I walked back to our dorm together. She had more to say about the professor’s good looks than his lecture, but then brought up that our ethnocentrism is so critical to our society. “Our government policies all value our lives, our jobs, more than those of foreign people in foreign countries,” she pointed out. “If everybody actually did think all human life was equal, wouldn’t things have to be different?”

I don’t know much about our government policies, but it’s great to be around people who can actually contribute to an intellectual discussion. At the same time, though, I wish so much that we could have had classes like that at Whitney. Why couldn’t we have studied anthropology? That would have actually made us think.

For example, one of the slides was about race and evolution, and had some pictures from human zoos. At first I was just relieved no one shouted out anything obnoxious, which certainly would have happened at Whitney. But discussing scientific racism might really have helped there. I’m sick of all the “diversity” shit here – we have far too many councils and discussions and panels and hotlines. Sure, Bailey is diverse, but everyone is still essentially the same because they are

1) highly intelligent
2) almost certainly liberal
3) most likely rich
4) probably from New York or LA

So it isn’t really diversity at all. And it’s not so hard to be nice to people of other races or ethnicities when they’re so much like you.

I think about Whitney a lot, probably because Facebook compels me to stalk everyone I know. Leah keeps posting more pictures – endless baby showers, professional studio portraits, everything. And in the last week I found out two more girls I knew in high school are also pregnant. They all look so happy in their pictures. (Why are there so many pictures?) But I wish I could turn back time and give them more, give them this anthropology class, something to awe them, show them that there are other ways to live. Although for all I know, they could look at me the same way I look at them – pitying me, wishing I could have a better life.

I sent Allie a Facebook message raving about my anthropology class. She’s finally starting school, which she loves so far. She’s still seeing a lot of Rob, although it’s not as serious as she’d like. Apparently he said something about “wanting to enjoy the first few weeks of college”, which really set her off. I don’t know where it’s going, but at least she’s stopped making comments about Paul.

But Paul’s been calling me a lot. We talk pretty much every night, often for well over an hour. It’s just so good to have someone who knows me, really knows me, who I can complain to about Bailey, or make fun of stuff, and not have to worry if I’ll offend him. And he’s been really nice. Last night I made some comment about this girl Jenny who keeps commenting on his Facebook wall – she’s platinum blonde and reminds me unpleasantly of Kayla, although of course the thumbnail is too small to really tell – and Paul laughed and told me none of the girls he’d met were as pretty as me. Maybe it didn’t mean anything, but it was so nice to hear.

We always mention that we miss each other, and say “love you” at the end of our conversations. But I still can’t really tell what’s going on. Part of me thinks that we need this time apart, to grow individually as people, and then we’ll be able to have a stable relationship. But I can’t really believe that. I think I’m perfectly ready for a relationship. I just don’t understand why I’ve never been good enough.

cutting through just like champagne petals, sprinkled over the blackest sea, urban stars will shine, electric

2008-09-08T01:17:00.003-04:00

My classes have been okay. On Tuesday I had my English class and my freshman seminar. I was paranoid of getting lost and being late, so I got to my English class way early, and chatted awhile with a few of the other students. They were nice, but I felt totally out of place. Before long our conversation turned to literature. I was able to keep up for awhile, because I’d read everything we talked about – The Stranger, Catch-22, Midnight’s Children – but then the conversation turned to all the papers everyone had written on these books, and how much they adore literary analysis, and when they are planning on declaring their English major.

I might major in English. That’s what I’d been telling people all summer, right? But I didn’t know people actually enjoyed all the explication and analysis. I thought it was just the price to pay for getting to read. And although I’ve always known Whitney was a joke, I didn’t know I’d be this far behind. I’ve never even heard of post-structural binaries or the Lacanian linguistic unconscious – which my classmates were apparently writing term papers about in high school.

I’ve never even written a term paper. At Whitney, I wrote one 5-page English paper each semester, which I generally did the night before, inspired by Sparknotes, and I always got 100s. Now I’ll be writing a 7-10 page paper every three weeks, with real research, real analysis. I really hope I don’t fail. Our first book is A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I’ve already read it and can’t stand it, but I’m sure my classmates will find some deep profound meaning in its nonsense, and I guess I’ll also have to if I want to pass. At least my professor seems really nice.

Right after English was my freshman seminar, and as I walked there, I wondered why I’d even gotten in to Bailey. How in the world had I earned a scholarship, when I’d slept my way through high school? Would I ever be able to catch up? English was by far my best subject in high school – what else could I manage to major in? History seems straightforward, maybe I could catch up. Or maybe some kind of religious studies, put my Bible Belt background to good use.

But my freshman seminar was much less intimidating. I have lots of math and science majors in my class, who hopefully also haven’t heard of Derrida or Saussure, much less written term papers on their theories. We had an in-class essay the first day, and I don’t think it’s graded, but I’m sure I did fine. I wrote more than anyone around me, and it was easy.

Wednesday I had Anthropology, but our professor wasn’t there, so we just got our syllabi and left. It’s a huge class, but I managed to find Alice, and we walked back to the dorm together. I’ve been spending a lot of time with her; she’s been bringing her laptop into our room and doing her homework sitting on my bed. I think this might partially be because her roommate has frequent shouting arguments on the phone, but it’s still nice.

But aside from Alice and a few people on the hall, I haven’t really made any friends. I’ve met a ton of people, and even had second conversations with people I remembered from meeting earlier, but nothing substantial. So far, I have had this conversation about a hundred times:

“Hi, I’m [name].”
“I’m Charlotte.”
“Where are you from?”
“Birmingham.”
“You’re from the South? But you don’t have an accent!”
“My parents are Northern.”
“Oh.”
“Where are you from?”
“[location]”

And I awkwardly smile, because what can I say to that? I don’t actually care where they’re from, and I’m not going to joke about any location stereotypes, because I don’t want to hear about incest. So we’re both silent for a moment, awkwardly thinking of something else to ask, something meaningless but totally acceptable, like what dorm we live in or what classes we are taking. I wonder what they are really thinking during these conversations – trying to guess if I am going to be their friend, I suppose, if I am attractive or intelligent enough.

I wonder if Bailey thought they were getting a genuine Southerner, drawl and all. If I was supposed to be part of their cultural diversity, since I clearly can’t add much to their intellectual discourse. I feel like I disappoint people each time I’m not, like that’s what supposed to make me interesting.

I’m sick of all the small talk, although I’m glad that meeting people is so easy. And I suppose I prefer these simple scripts to the stress of having to invent something totally creative to impress each person I meet. But after awhile it’s so boring, and frighteningly automatic for Robot-Charlotte to take over, leaving whoever I really am to just curl up inside and go to sleep.

I still haven’t talked to Jason, although I saw him playing Frisbee yesterday afternoon on the quad. Several times I’ve started writing him Facebook messages asking if he wants to hang out, but each time I’ve deleted the message before sending it. I don’t want to sound desperate, like I can’t find anyone to hang out with in this first week when EVERYONE is trying to make friends. And then there’s Paul, of course.

I sort of wish we’d ended things before leaving for college. Or ended them more definitively. I’m never going to meet people if I’m too distracted worrying about the hot girls writing flirty messages on his wall. But the thing is, I would rather talk to Paul than to a lot of the people here. He called me last night, and we talked for an hour or so, and I was laughing and happy the entire time.

I hope that’s just because I’m not close to anyone here, yet. And it’s too soon to complain about that. It’s only the first week, I have to keep reminding myself. And there are good moments. It’s great to walk down the hallway in my dorm and have ten different people say hi to me. By Friday, walking towards the main academic quad almost felt like a comfortable habit. I discovered a really delicious pasta in the dining hall. I got up early Thursday morning and walked around campus for awhile, enjoying the precious solitude, listening to the birds chirp, admiring the fiery orange leaves against the crisp sky. The sunlight is different in the morning, and something about how it struck the buildings, bathing them in a warm golden glow, felt especially clean.

And it’s a relief just to be here. So many things could have gone wrong, and didn’t. I like my roommate, I’ve met nice people, the food is okay. And I have a cute boy to dream about, even if it’s not plausible.

But unfortunately it’s getting late, and I need to get back to Stephen Daedalus’ teenage torment.

windows down as the night blows in

2008-09-02T01:21:00.003-04:00

Classes finally begin tomorrow. I’m nervous, but I’m more than ready. No one really likes the orientation activities, as far as I can tell. So far we’ve had lots of “inspirational” speakers, an alcohol/safety lecture, a cookout, and a play. I don’t think this has any relation to what college will really be like, and I don’t know to what exactly this is orienting us, except to how much our theater program must suck. I guess some of the speakers were good, but hearing their accomplishments didn’t really cheer me up at all – just highlighted how worthless I am. Most people just text through half the events, or covertly listen to their iPods. I don’t know who plans orientation; they must know that it’s not that engaging. I guess our parents can be happy we’re having intellectual and cultural experiences, but most of the students seem more concerned with all the frat parties each night.

During one of the motivational speeches on Saturday, I spotted Jason across the auditorium. I tried to catch his eye for about ten minutes (well, looking at him was better than listening), but he never looked up from a small leather notebook he was writing in. I tried to accidentally run into him after the speech, but he left before I could get through the crowd.

I could Facebook him, I guess, but a part of me likes the distance, the untouched possibilities. I’m scared that if we actually spend more time together, that vibrancy he had in April might fade, and then I’ll be left with nothing. Paul and I have talked a little, but when I’m doubtful about him, it’s nice to have a dream to fall back on. Even if I know it’s all in my mind.

Orientation activities aside, though, I’ve spent a lot of time with the people on my hall, just sitting in each other’s rooms and talking, and this is much better. Most of our conversations are pretty banal – speculating about the election, comparing high schools, talking about all the other colleges we applied to – but it’s nice to just sit and talk. Everyone’s almost always in our room, so I’m never alone, and people I barely know are constantly sitting on my bed/at my desk, but I’m sure things will slow down once classes start. I still don’t feel particularly close to anyone, but I guess that will come with time. Audrey keeps leaving the room to talk to Mike, her boyfriend at home, but we’ve been getting along well.

Looking back, I have no idea how I made most of my friends at Whitney. There were just a lot of kids I had classes with for years and years, and somehow so much shared experience bloomed into something more. I guess this process accelerates in college, with so many people shoved together in this tiny building.

I also finally took a shower, late Friday night when I’d hoped most people would be out partying. This is easier said than done. I’ve already realized that showers here aren’t going to be as nice as home, where I’d look forward to showering as a respite, a moment to wash off the frustration of the day and relax. Now I would like that respite more than ever, since I have precisely no time or space alone here. But it’s become a whole ordeal.

I didn’t want to walk down the long hallway to the bathroom in my towel, even though plenty of other girls have been doing that. I would just feel way too exposed. And with my luck, my towel would fall down, or I’d trip and it’d go flying. Or some creep would “accidentally” collide with me, and I’d end up awkwardly splayed on the ground for everyone to see. Besides, I’m not sure how I’d manage to take my clothes off in my room, since Audrey and a bunch of other people were in here.

So I walked to the bathroom in my clothes, awkwardly carrying my towel and my shower caddy. I realized halfway that I’d have to walk back in my towel, but just sighed and kept going.

There was no one in the bathroom, which was lucky, because there was nowhere to get undressed. I stepped into a shower stall and pulled my clothes off as quickly as I could, trying my best not to touch the damp, sticky walls, then darted out and hung my clothes up on a hook. I dashed back in and realized I had nowhere to hang my towel. The hooks were too far away; I didn’t want to have to walk back out naked. I ended up hanging it over the shower curtain, hoping it wouldn’t get too wet. I set my caddy just outside the shower, and turned on the water.

A thick, steady stream of blissfully hot water… I let myself relax in it for a minute, visualizing all the stress I was washing away. But soon I started feeling guilty about wasting energy. How many rants had I already heard about global warming? I’m not in Alabama anymore, that’s for sure. Regardless, the shower wasn’t that peaceful anyway, once I realized that the shower curtain didn’t completely cover the width of the shower. I could see out perfectly, a good three-inch sliver. Which meant, of course, that anyone walking in the bathroom or looking in the mirrors above the sinks could see in.

I pulled the curtain taut to see if it would be wide enough, but it wouldn’t stay. I tried hanging my towel over the gap, but it wasn’t long enough to cover much of it. I figured anyone looking could still see my legs and plenty else, and it just made it weirder if I couldn’t see out too.

So I gave up, and reached down to get my shampoo, and realized that a gap wasn’t necessary when anyone in the bathroom could see me anytime I reached out of the shower. So I took my caddy into the shower, putting it in a corner in hopes of keeping it dry. Which was totally ineffective. The shower is way too small to have any dry corners. It’s barely big enough for me to wash my hair without slamming my elbows into the walls. I have no idea how I’m ever going to shave my legs.

And drying off was even worse. The damp, slimy walls are gross enough when I’m taking a shower, but at least then if I accidentally touch them I can wash it off. But the last thing I wanted to do was contaminate my clean, brand new towel. So after a very ineffective thirty seconds I peered through my sliver to make sure the bathroom was empty, and furiously dried myself off in the open bathroom. I’d just wrapped my towel back around me when Alice, a girl two doors down, came in.

“The showers suck,” she said with passion.

I nodded. “Yeah, seriously.” I think Alice is from Connecticut, but I don’t remember. She’s tall, with this gorgeous short feathered haircut I’d never have the courage to get. She was dressed up, some kind of sparkly black halter top and dark jeans.

“I’d wait a minute to go out in the hall,” she said through a mouthful of bobby pins. “About half the soccer team is out there, waiting on Alan, and I think they’re drunk.”

I didn’t remember which boy Alan is, but I definitely appreciated the advice. So I wrung my hair out in the sink as we made small talk about classes starting tomorrow. Alice is a political science major, but she’s in my anthropology class, which is great. It doesn’t meet until Wednesday, but at least I’ll have someone to sit next to.

The telegram said: who rejuvenated your eyes, boy?

2008-08-29T03:39:00.002-04:00

So I’m at Bailey.

The drive up yesterday wasn’t that bad. I sat sprawled out in the back seat, my legs resting on all my giant suitcases and boxes, and listened to my iPod while watching the world whir by. I dozed off a lot, and pretended to sleep for most of the time I was awake, so my parents couldn’t stress me out with their incessant questions. I tried to text with Paul and Allie, but neither were responding, and my phone kept going in and out of service anyway.

We got to New York around ten last night, which wasn’t bad. Our hotel was right by Bailey. I wasn’t really tired – I’d slept most of the day, and I’ve been staying up until two or three most nights anyway – so I wandered around the hotel, until I realized that all the floors were pretty much identical. So I went to the pool, taking off my socks and shoes and slipping my feet into the water.

It was soothing to sit there and drag my feet back and forth through the water, watching the small ripples fade out into the still water at the far edge of the pool. The room was warm, and the smell of chlorine reminded me of so many other pools – childhood summers spent taking swim lessons, the shrill whistles of the lifeguards and the constant scent of sunscreen – vacations by the beach, when I’d dash up to the hotel pool, cold and sandy, to rinse off from the ocean – pool parties in middle school, Marco Polo and sharks and minnows – at the pool with Paul this past summer, laughing and kissing in the water. Somehow, all of that has added up to me, here, now.

Breakfast the next morning was awkward, because there were lots of Bailey freshmen, and I didn’t want to meet people yet. So I quickly grabbed a muffin and sat at a corner table with my family, facing the wall.

Moving in was actually more tedious than stressful. My heart was racing when we entered the Bailey campus, but then I saw the barely-moving lines of cars. As we got closer, though, music was blasting, the campus looked beautiful in the sunlight, and I realized I was actually genuinely excited. As we drove past the giant marble buildings, the cobblestone walking paths, the rocky boulders jutting out into the blue sky, I daydreamed about what my next four years might hold. I’d probably have classes in that building. I’d walk in and out of that student center several times a day. I could sit on that bench. And on and on. None of my daydreams were very concrete, but there was a sudden inexplicable magic surrounding the buildings, rising from it like steam radiating in the sunlight.

When we finally crawled up near my quad, my parents let me out so I could go stand in line to get my room key. Of course, as all the building doors were propped open and Audrey had already gotten there, this wasn’t exactly necessary, but I did get to meet Callie, my RA. Then I went back to the car (still in line) and grabbed a suitcase, and went to search for Room 228.

The hallway – ugly, narrow, and poorly lit, with light blue walls – was absolute chaos. Huge boxes, stray sheets of bubble wrap, and piles of suitcases and duffle bags were heaped everywhere. It was impossible to roll my suitcase through all the stuff, so I picked it up and started walking sideways down the hall. I tried to catch a glimpse inside each room I passed, but I was having a hard enough time maneuvering the suitcase. Much of what I saw was pretty much identical to the hallway, except with a lot more people inside. I made eye contact with a few people and smiled, but didn’t bother to stop for introductions. Everyone looked pretty hassled, and the suitcase was all I could manage.

My room, though, was much calmer. I heaved my suitcase inside, and the bang of it hitting the floor made Audrey and her parents look up from where they were all crowded around her laptop. “Charlotte!” Audrey squealed, and jumped up to come hug me. I found myself grinning back, and then she was introducing me to her parents. “I hope you don’t mind that I chose my side of the room,” she said anxiously, gesturing to where her bed was already perfectly made up with a teal comforter and several pillows. “We can change it if you care, I was going to call you but I don’t have your number—”

“It’s fine,” I cut in quickly. “The sides are basically the same, I don’t care.” Audrey’s bed was on the side of the room where mine had been at home, but I’d get used to the other side. It’s not like anything else about the room held any similarities to my room at home, anyway.

The room was tiny, and perfectly symmetrical; two dressers, two beds, two desks, and then a window. Audrey’s fridge was in the back of the room near the window, the microwave on top of it. She’d already stacked a bunch of books on her desk, and hung a few posters on the wall. Her side looked unnaturally neat, but maybe that was just in comparison to the disaster of the rest of the hall.

I heaved my suitcase on the bed and attempted to start unpacking. It was mostly clothes, which I shoved randomly in the dresser next to the bed. A few minutes my parents came in, bringing more loads of stuff. The rest of the morning was pretty uneventful. My mom arranged all my clothes in my dresser, so I have no idea where anything is, and my dad hooked my laptop up to the internet, I have no idea how, and Audrey and I complained to each other about how hectic the hall was, until she left with her parents to go get lunch.

The day has been so rushed that I haven’t had much time to think. I went on another campus tour, this time with my parents; my parents spoke to other parents, and all the students awkwardly ignored each other after our initial introductions, as if we were so captivated that we didn’t want to miss a word. I pretended to be texting, even though I wasn’t, since Paul hadn’t responded to my first three texts that day.

My parents left that afternoon, and then we had a hall meeting, where we all introduced ourselves. Of course, I was the only one from Alabama, but what did I expect? No one really stood out, but as Callie droned on and on about safety rules and fire extinguishers, I realized all day I’d automatically been comparing boys to Jason.

Dinner was fine, just small talk with a bunch of people whose names I quickly forgot. It’s so weird to meet so many people and wonder who I will end up caring about. Our meal plans aren’t in effect yet, so we could eat whatever we wanted; I had a turkey sandwich and a few cookies, which was okay. After dinner a bunch of us went to some concert, a huge hall of freshman with blaring music and pulsing lights. Everyone I was with quickly dissolved into the crowd, but they’re basically strangers to me too, so it didn’t really make a difference. I danced for a few minutes, because I didn’t know anyone, and this kind of anonymity was interesting, like a dream. I know it was a Bailey-sponsored event, not anything like a real college party, but even so, it wasn’t the kind of thing I would have done in high school.

But after a few minutes of sweet oblivion I realized this creepy guy was staring at me, and I was getting really hot, so I left and wandered around a little bit before coming back in here. Audrey is still out. It’s nice to have the room to myself, even if I like her so far.

Even after writing all this down, I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe how far away I am from home. How far away I am from everyone I know. Today still seems like a dream. I’m doing okay, though. I haven’t spoken to Paul since he’s moved in – he finally texted me today, but just to tell me he was too busy to talk. Busy with what? With whom? But that doesn’t bother me as much as I would have expected. It’s as if the distance is sheltering me, like I’m too far away for him to hurt me any more.

you are like a sunset to me, you're all kinds of beautiful as you end my day

2008-08-26T02:14:00.003-04:00

I’m leaving in two days. I can’t believe it – in less than 48 hours I’ll be in New York. It’s so surreal that I can’t even bring myself to be scared. I’m realizing that throughout all of this, the acceptance letter, the visit, the decision, Audrey’s emails, everything, a part of me still thought Bailey was impossible.

Paul and I spent the afternoon together, which was lovely. So lovely that I’m not even sad yet that I won’t see him for months and months.

He had finally called me on Friday. I’d been waiting for days for him to call, but I could barely speak when I finally saw his name on my phone. He didn’t mention anything about Ashley or that disastrous night, only asked if I was free Monday afternoon. He was saying goodbye when I finally found my voice. “What are we going to do?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he told me. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Okay...” I said, hesitating, but he had already hung up.

I didn’t want to let myself hope for too much – a part of me even dreaded something terrible, like a surprise lunch with Ashley. (Although she’s already back at school – thanks, Facebook.) I was glad that he called, but Allie’s words still echoed in my mind – now that you and Paul are over. He’d called, and we would see each other, but what did that mean?

He picked me up around one P.M., kissed me and told me I looked gorgeous. I immediately relaxed. Things are definitely not over. “So where are we going?” I asked as he pulled out of my driveway.

“It’s a surprise,” Paul protested.

I rolled my eyes. “Clearly I’m going to find out when we get there, you can just tell me now.”

“I guess I should have blindfolded you,” he replied.

“That would probably make me carsick. Pleeease tell me?” I pleaded. He shook his head, grinning.

“The park,” I said a few turns later. He turned to me.

“How’d you know?”

“Nothing else is out this way,” I pointed out. “Unless you’re taking me to the car dealership, or the prison, or the highway, or Georgia...”

“Okay, fair enough.” A minute later, he pulled into the park. I got out and waited curiously as he heaved a huge cooler out of the trunk. “I hope you haven’t had lunch yet.”

I hadn’t. “That looks like a lot of food,” I commented as he slung a couple blankets over his shoulder.

“Wait and see,” he replied.

Paul carried the massive cooler to a large tree in the middle of a grassy field, and shrugged the blankets off his shoulders. “Put those down, will you?”

“We’re having a picnic?”

He turned to me and grinned. “Is that okay?”

I kissed him softly, then arranged the blankets carefully in the shade.

“Okay, sit down and close your eyes,” Paul commanded. I kicked off my sandals and sat down cross-legged on the blankets. He started rustling things and opening containers. I sighed happily as a breeze lifted my hair from my neck.

“Okay,” he murmured in my ear, kissing my cheek. “You can open your eyes now.”

I opened my eyes. Laid out on the blanket were two plates with a sandwich on each, two bags of chips, two apples, two oatmeal crème pies, and two bottles of cream soda.

“That looks delicious,” I said happily, turning to smile at him. He slid his arm around me and then leaned behind me. Suddenly music filled the air.

I gasped and turned around, then started laughing. Paul’s CD player was resting innocently in the grass. I felt my fingers automatically start playing familiar patterns. “The Bacchanale!” I gasped.

“Well, here we are, with food, drink, romance...” Paul smirked. He kissed me on the cheek. “It’s a CD of all the music we played together,” he whispered softly in my ear. “For you, so you can remember me at Bailey. But I figured we could listen to it now.”

“Cheers.” We clinked our cream sodas, and dug in.

After we finished all the food Paul stretched out on the blankets, and I curled up next to him, my head resting on his chest. I could feel autumn in the air, in the cool whisper of the breeze, in the occasional leaves fluttering to the ground, but with Paul’s heartbeat on my cheek, his hand in mine, it was impossible to be sad. We talked quietly for a few minutes, but soon Paul’s breathing slowed to a regular tempo, and I knew he was asleep.

I was so relaxed that I could have drifted off too, but I didn’t want the afternoon to slip by so quickly. So I listened to him breathe and watched the branches waving slowly in the wind. Clouds drifted above us, abstract puffs floating in a cerulean sky. Occasionally, a leaf would drift down to settle on the grass. Once a hawk glided across the sky, quietly majestic. The music went on and on, Vivaldi, Corelli, Händel, Haydn, then back to Saint-Säens, and my mind flickered through the years, all the days in orchestra, all the crescendos when I’d caught his eye.

Paul woke up a couple hours later. He asked if I’d slept, and I said I had, so that he wouldn’t feel guilty. It had been perfect, but he wouldn’t have understood. I was folding the blankets when he took the CD out, snapped in into a case he’d hidden in the cooler, and handed it to me. “I hear classical music is good for when you’re doing homework.”

“Don’t remind me,” I groaned. “I’m probably going to fail.”

“You are not going to fail. Charlotte, you’re brilliant, you’re going to be fine.” He paused. “Are you going to be in the orchestra at Bailey?”

I shook my head. “Not this year, anyway. Why?”

“Just wanted to make sure I’m your only stand partner,” he said, kissing me on the cheek.

His possessiveness was cute, but I don’t know how to interpret it. It’s not like he said, “Are you going to like anyone else? Are you going to kiss anyone else?” Of course, that would have been unbearably awkward, but still. We should have talked about it earlier; there was no way I could bring it up on this perfect day.

Paul had to be home for dinner; his parents wanted him home for his last night. I shoved away a flickering fantasy of being his girlfriend, who would probably be invited too. On the way home we stopped for ice-cream at Brusters, where we made fun of bratty kids and discussed the Democratic convention and the age of the Chinese gymnasts.

Other than when he gave me the CD, he never mentioned college at all. When he dropped me off, he hugged me for a little bit longer, and whispered “love you” in my ear. And then he was gone.

I wish I was leaving tomorrow, too. Now that I’ve said goodbye to Paul and Allie, there isn’t a lot to keep me here. And it’s bizarre to be in my room with all of my stuff packed away. Three more random people from Bailey friended me on Facebook, as well as my RA, Callie. She looks nice. This puts my total at 13 “friends”. I assume that the random people are just friending everyone they see. I hope they won’t expect me to recognize them or know their name, although since my life is at a standstill right now, I’m spending an absurd amount of time on Facebook. Mostly I’m just spying on people I knew from high school, but I’ve looked at a fair number of people in the Bailey network. I found one of the giggly girls from my tour group. Sure enough, she’s trading wall posts with a couple of the other girls from the group, and they are all SoO sToKeD!!!1. Agh.

But I need something to distract me, to draw me away from the fear and sadness that’s creeping up behind me. I’m waiting for it all to sink in, waiting for that awful loneliness and misery I’ve been dreading. But whenever I close my eyes I see the branches dancing against the sky, the hawk soaring in a perfect arc, and bits of papery orange fire fluttering down like confetti.

I drowned out all my sense away with the sound of its beating

2008-08-20T21:29:00.005-04:00

I can’t believe I’m leaving in a week. ONE WEEK. Where did my summer go? It seems like only a few days ago I had the luxury of three full months before me, a solid, impenetrable block of time glowing with infinite possibilities. I don’t know how I let the time slip by so fast, how I slid through it so quickly. Couldn’t I have somehow grasped it tighter, dragged it out longer? I’m afraid that time will start breaking off in great leaps, that I’ll blink and it’ll already be tomorrow, or the day after, or the day I’m leaving.

There are a few days left in the Olympics, but gymnastics and swimming are finished, and that’s all I’ve ever been interested in. Besides, every time I flip on the TV, I hear about someone’s lifetime work and dreams coming down to an eleven second race, a thirty second swim, a minute-long routine. Time is probably racing by for them too. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

Things with Paul are still uncertain. He texted me the night after he’d left to go see Ashley – please don’t be upset about last night, sorry our evening ended that way. So it was sort of an apology, but not really. It could just as easily be the sort of sarcastic apology I used to give my parents. It could very well mean I’m sorry you’re ridiculous or I’m sorry I don’t like you. I didn’t respond. I don’t want to act like it’s okay, because it’s not. But I don’t want to totally freak out and get into a huge fight, because we only have a week left together. Plus, it’s impossible to have a good text message argument with him; it tortures me to imagine what he could be doing over the long silences.

Paul leaves on Tuesday, a day before I do. Of course, he only has a couple hours drive, and mine will be all day. Most of my friends are already back at school; state schools down here start earlier than private schools up North. Everyone I’ve Facebooked with has been jealous that my semester is shorter, but I know I’ll envy them when I’m just getting settled in and they’re already happy and secure in their new college lives.

All summer I’d been glad Paul and I both have an extra couple weeks, but now I’m not even sure. I want to be anywhere but here, stuck in my house pacing the same path from my room to the kitchen back up to my room. Then again, I don’t know if I can put up with a roommate in this state, especially not one with Audrey’s apparent enthusiasm.

My parents keep asking why I’m moping, and why I’m not acting more excited for college. They’ve already paid my first (massive) bill, so I don’t want to look ungrateful. So I pretend that I’m just tired. I am, only because I sleep too much.

Sleep is a great escape, even if dreaming hurts. Either I have miserable dreams featuring Paul and Ashley, or Paul and Kayla, or once, my god, Paul and Allie – or, they’re painfully beautiful, Paul holding me and apologizing and laughing, or kissing me like nothing ever happened, and then I have to wake up alone and let the truth crash down on me.

Once I dreamt he’d texted me that he loved me and nothing would ever change that. In the morning I was halfway convinced it’d been real. But of course, my phone inbox was empty.

Allie doesn’t go back until September, because her school is on the quarter system. So at least she’s still here. I’m seeing her on Sunday; I’ve decided that if Paul doesn’t contact me before the weekend, I’ll call him. I’m definitely not going to leave without seeing him one more time.

All my stuff is piled up, taking over a corner of the living room; I’ve packed all my winter clothes, my school supplies, and my new bedding, and random piles of closet hangers and computer cables are strewn about the floor. My parents have planned out every detail of the drive. Audrey left me a short “I’m soooo excited!!” Facebook post, which I responded to with matched (fake) enthusiasm. I’m hoping I won’t be a massive disappointment to her.

Everything’s ready in place, but something’s dragging me down, keeping me dull and listless. As I watch the athletes pace around before their races, before their routines, I wonder if any of them feel the same way. If, as they’re standing in front of all they’ve ever dreamt about, they suddenly wonder how much it actually means, doubt whether they even want to go through it. But like them, there’s nothing I can do but wait as the sound of the starter’s gun draws nearer and nearer.

these words with no replies, stopping we's and starting i's, this need is killing me and taking me over

2008-08-15T13:43:00.004-04:00

I tried to call Allie after the ceremonies ended, but she was on the phone with Rob, and I didn’t want to ruin her evening. Besides, I wanted sympathy, and I was worried she’d react with I told you so. So instead I wrote her a long email about everything that had happened, and went to sleep, thinking bitterly of Paul and Ashley.

I’d just drifted off around 1:30 when my phone vibrated, jolting me awake. I reached for it, sure it’d be Paul, hoping it’d be some kind of apology. Who else would text me in the middle of the night?

But it was only Allie, gushing that Rob had invited her to Stone Mountain the weekend before they started school.

I lay awake for what felt like hours, wondering if Paul was still with Ashley. What could they have possibly been doing so late at night? Had he gone off and seen her after other perfect nights we’d shared? My stomach clenched as I remembered the night he took me to Brio Tuscan Grille. I rolled over, shoving my face in my pillow and trying not to cry.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because then I was dreaming that I was in the middle of a crowd of dancers, everyone wearing identical purple sequined gowns. We were all dancing, but suddenly I realized I didn’t know what I was doing. I stopped short for an instant, then desperately tried to keep up by copying the dancers beside me. But suddenly there was a spotlight shining on me, and a female voice I didn’t recognize spoke to the crowd.

“Charlotte.”

Suddenly all the other dancers fell to the floor, in an elaborate, graceful motion, ending in a dramatic pose with their backs arched and one arm pointing towards the sky. I was the only person standing. In a burst of sudden panic I tried to get down, like the other dancers, who were spread out as long as I could see, miles and miles, up and down long sloping hills, like purple wildflowers. I suddenly looked down and realized there was mud underneath my bare feet, mud and dead grass.

“You can leave,” the voice said, behind me. I turned and it was Ashley, in the same dress we all had on, wearing spiky silver heels, her hair elaborately curled. “You can go now, Charlotte,” she said, her voice kind.

I looked around at the sea of purple bodies, all splayed in identical positions, their arms pointing at the sky. I looked to the dancer to my right, and suddenly realized she was wearing a mask, a thin, ivory-colored mask that fit the contours of her face. “Go where?” I said, barely able to choke out the words. My mouth was heavy, weak, paralyzed.

Ashley’s eyes flashed. Suddenly her expression was cold, angry. I had a vague sense that everyone was now pointing their arms toward me. And then I was falling, choking on the mud –

I woke up and realized that the sequined gown was Ashley’s homecoming dress from the year she went with Paul. I rolled over, trying to shake the dream from my mind, and checked my phone. Nothing. I dragged myself over to my laptop. Allie had responded to my long ranting email with a long gushing email about Rob. Then at the bottom she added,

I’m really sorry to hear about you and Paul. I can’t believe he would expect you not to be upset about Ashley. Seriously, you know I don’t like him, and this only confirms my opinion that he is a slimy jerk, but I’m really really sorry that he did that to you. I love you and you definitely could have interrupted my conversation with Rob, I had no idea it was something like this.

But, maybe it’s good that you two are over now, since you’re both about to go off to school. Seriously, Charlotte, think about that guy you met at orientation, think about all the great guys you are GOING to meet when you’re at Bailey for real. You deserve so much better than Paul. And you don’t want to go into college this miserable.

I stared at the email, my stomach sinking. Over? Paul and I were over? Maybe I’d been unclear in my email. I scanned what I’d sent her. No, I wasn’t. I hadn’t even mentioned the ambiguous “we’re only friends”. Were we over? I reached for my phone, but pride took over, and I shoved it away.

I sat there staring blankly at the wall. I knew Allie was right – I shouldn’t go to Bailey this messed up. I won’t be able to enjoy college if I’m worrying all the time. I’ll probably fail all my classes if I’m worrying this much. The smart thing to do would be to definitively break up with Paul, in case that hasn’t already been taken care of, and then spend my remaining few weeks at home getting over him, and then go into college fresh and unencumbered.

College is the one chance I have to be whoever I want, an opportunity to totally remake myself. I could go to Bailey and make up a new nickname for myself, create whatever identity I want, and have a chance to make so many great first impressions. I could be anything I can pretend to be. I could dress myself up in any fashion and adopt that as my style. I could act a part until it became real. Or I could just go in determined to be a better, more interesting person than I’ve ever been before. But instead I’m going to go in flustered and breaking apart.

It’s really stupid. I know that, I can see it from that perspective. It’s all very clear. But I have no idea how to actually stop thinking about Paul, how to stop longing for him. And I don’t want to give up. No matter how hopeless it may seem.

it’s in the way you sell every word and phrase, leaving me to know how much the meaning weighs

2008-08-12T16:14:00.003-04:00

Friday night Paul came over to watch the Olympic opening ceremonies. Time is ticking away, of course, but I was determined to make the most of my last few weeks with him. The ceremonies were gorgeous, and it was lovely to be able to cuddle with him on the couch, to lean back and lay in his arms, to make light, aimless conversation while the TV threw scattered blue shadows across the dark room. When Paul and I are apart, all I do is worry about him and worry about Bailey. When I’m with Paul, though time seems to stop, to disappear. It’s hard to think about anything but him, and even those thoughts become slower, syrupy, thick and content.

But at 11:00, he squeezed my shoulder and murmured something about needing to go. I felt myself stiffen, even as he leaned down and gently brushed his lips against my cheek. “Why?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral. “There’s an hour left.”

“I didn’t know it was going to last this long,” he replied.

“It’s only 11:00!” I protested.

“I have to get home,” he said calmly.

“Why?” I demanded.

He sighed. “I have things to do.”

“Like what?” I tried to compose myself. “Is it really that urgent?”

“I have plans,” he said, reaching for his phone, which was resting innocently on the coffee table next to mine. He picked it up, not looking at me. I sat up slowly.

“With who?” I asked quietly, dreading the answer.

“Charlotte, please be reasonable,” Paul said softly, sliding over to put an arm around me. “We’ve had a lovely evening. Let’s not ruin that.”

I sat there, hating myself for relaxing under the slight weight of his arm, willing myself not to cry, and still painfully aware he hadn’t told me who he was going to see. “Would it really be too much to spend one evening entirely with me?” I choked out.

“I didn’t think the ceremonies would take this long,” he repeated patiently. I furiously wiped at my eyes.

“So you weren’t even going to tell me?”

Paul didn’t say anything, but wrapped both his arms around me, leaning down to brush his cheek against mine. I leaned against his chest, letting myself relax and pretend I could stay like that always. His heart beat against me. “Who are you going to see,” I said quietly, evenly. Did his heartbeat quicken? I probably imagined it.

“Ashley,” he finally said, sighing, and I immediately shoved his embrace away, starting to cry again. “Charlotte, please calm down,” he said softly. “We’re only friends.”

“You’re going to see her and you weren’t even going to tell me?” He slid over to me on the couch, but I jumped up. “Just leave.”

A part of me wished he would stay and tell me she didn’t mean anything, and hold me and kiss me and make me believe it. But he didn’t. He got up, shoved his phone in his pocket, and walked to the door. Then he turned around and looked at me. “Why would I tell you, when you react like this?” He let the door slam behind him. I stood invisible at the window, watching the lights of his car disappear into the night.

It wasn’t for another minute that I realized what he’d said before that. “We’re only friends.” Was he talking about him and Ashley – or him and me?

I flopped back down on the couch and watched the rest of the ceremony alone. There were barely 45 minutes left. The waves of costumed people danced, swayed, and beat on drums, moving in one solid mass, perfectly synchronized. Behind them, lights flashed, fireworks exploded in long glittery streams of neon color. Suddenly I desperately wished I could be a part of it, not for the glitter and attention, but for the anonymity, the lack of freedom, the perfectly planned routine. I wanted to have that artless grace, to be a part of that immense pulsing fantastical machine. To not have to think or want. To always know what would happen in the next moment.

I knew it wasn’t like that, that all the masked, costumed figures were people as complex as me, with problems probably bigger than me, that they had rehearsed each moment thousands of times until the beauty and color and magic had long been ground away. Perhaps at each turn and flourish a face flashed through their mind, too, their hungry child, the husband they couldn’t trust, the beautiful woman they would never have. Maybe the whole time they were inwardly miserable, even as they shimmered and flourished and shone.

But I didn’t want to believe that, so instead I dreamt I was a spinning, whirling part of the color and motion and glimmering shine. I dreamt I was far away, in a place where the language was something I couldn’t understand, where the air had a different texture against my skin. I closed my eyes and pretended to be caught up in something vivid and dazzling, the air rushing against my skin, spinning and whirling in some endless dance, moving too quickly to feel alone, moving too quickly to feel anything at all.

the joys they slammed down and no one in this town was bright enough

2008-08-08T00:15:00.004-04:00

Now that it’s August I can’t pretend college isn’t going to happen. The summer is disintegrating; even as I clutch at the last pieces they are slipping away, dissolving in my fingers, breaking into nothing.

I am trying to distract myself by thinking about the Olympics. Some of my earliest memories are from the 1996 Olympics; my parents made the three-hour drive to Atlanta to take me to a basketball game. I can’t recall anything from the drive or the game, but I remember walking around Atlanta that afternoon, the soft green grass at Centennial Park, the frozen lemonade my parents bought me, the fountains, the Coke misting machines. I think I was happy, but I can’t remember much, only a few vivid fragments of sun and grass and the cold sweetness of the creamy frozen lemonade.

But other than this vaguely Elysian memory, I’ve never been crazy about the Olympics. I’m just not that interested in sports. But now the Olympics provide a perfect barrier between me and Bailey. I don’t have any more summer months to hide behind, and some of my high school friends are already about to leave. But Bailey’s freshman orientation doesn’t start until late August – I’m not leaving until a few days after the Olympics end – so I can thrust the Olympics ahead of me, a shield against school rushing closer, closer, closer.

I’m torn between two visions of my future at Bailey. In the first, I am walking somewhere, on a street or a cobblestone path, surrounded by three or four friends and laughing. The air is crisp with autumn coolness, and everything feels fresh. I’m wearing jeans and a sweater, maybe a light jacket, and I’m carrying something, maybe a couple of books and a notebook. Everything around us is vibrant – the sky, the leaves on the trees, our clothes. We are walking purposefully, the autumn wind carrying our laughter through campus. Sometimes, in this daydream, I am walking past a bakery, and the air is filled with the aroma of freshly-baked bread. Sometimes, my friends and I are clutching lattes. Sometimes, I am with a boy, walking hand-in-hand through a tree-lined path, the wind blowing my hair back. This boy is always Jason, but I am convinced he’s merely playing the role of Boy Potential in my subconscious, nothing more.

In the second vision, I’m sitting alone on a hill. The world is grayer, desaturated; the silhouettes of bare trees rustle in the wind. The wind lifts the dry, curled leaves from the ground and sends them into brief swirls before they settle back on the ground, lifeless, their vibrant color faded. The faint sound of laughter drifts up to me, sounding fake, tinned, but still mocking. I am alone and cold and have no friends and hate my classes and am too miserable to do anything but sit there, shivering, as the bitter cold of winter sweeps through and kills all warmth and color, replacing everything with a slate gray the color of dirty snow.

This vision is always clearer than the first one, and I don’t know why. I am pretty sure I didn’t see any distinctive hills in April that I would associate with lonely depression.

I don’t know why I keep obsessively imagining these scenes, as if it’s preparing me in some way. And while I suppose these scenarios appear to create a logical timeline, I always imagine it as an either-or, as if it will always be autumn if I’m happy, but always cruel winter if I am not. I’ve tried to imagine myself upset in autumn and happy in winter, but aside from a few fleeting fantasies of snow-flurried walks and glamorous ice-skating dates, I failed.

I suppose it’s good that I can’t imagine myself unhappy in autumn, but I know I’m just lusting for cool weather. Each summer, at least by the end of June, I start dreaming of the crispness, the freshness, of autumn air, and of jeans and sweaters and cool-weather clothes. Then each winter, I find myself anxious for the liquid heat of sunlight, longing for the feel of it soaking into my skin. I probably should have outgrown this by middle school, but I haven’t. Still, this is the first year I haven’t wanted summer to end.

So since thinking about Bailey isn’t getting me anywhere, I’ve been obsessively following the Olympics, reading every article I can find about whose coach has cancer, who dared to wear masks in the polluted Beijing air, who's suspected of taking steroids, and myriads of other topics I would normally never care about. But there’s a part of me that believes that if I catch every moment, it’ll last longer, and the time before school starts will somehow slow down. Plus, Paul is gung-ho about the Olympics, so it’s also a perfectly neutral conversational topic, unlike everything else that’s been on my mind. I can’t imagine what he would say if I explained my two competing visions of my life at Bailey. He doesn’t show up in either of them.