“I’m sure,” she says. Excitement comingles with decisiveness in her voice. “I’m not missing this.”
He rolls his eyes affectionately. “Yeah, I know, Juniper.” They walk down the street in the direction opposite me.
Juniper. I wonder what having her momentum would feel like—literally running into someone because she’s intently focused on what interests her, then charging on to whatever she can’t stand missing despite the coffee. It’s enthralling, her indefatigable energy.
I fight for a moment to imagine having her curiosity, her hunger, for college and the possible futures it represents. I fail, of course. But it’s possible I’m briefly better for having put in the effort.
I’m staring, I realize, watching Juniper and her boyfriend. I don’t want to become that guy. Remembering plans of reading, I divert my eyes from the couple. There’s still twenty minutes before the information session begins. Plenty of reading time.
Except I don’t want to read. I want to wander. Not the campus, necessarily—I figure I’ll just explore in one direction and take in whatever I find until I have to return for the information session. I’m going to have nights in hotels not talking to Lewis to read James if I want.
I follow the road until I reach a tree-lined lane of brownstones. They’re grandiose and imposing, fire escapes curling over their curved stone windows. This street’s quiet. I hear only the hushed whisper of the wind through the icy branches of the trees, even though I’m just blocks from Commonwealth. For a moment I think I’ve finally escaped the reach of the campus, until I notice plaques for student living on the doors. Is every dorm here insanely nice?
I check the time, finding I have only five minutes until the information session. Grudgingly, I pull up the campus map on my phone and double back toward the admissions office. Before I’m even near the building, I find I’m slowing my pace. The prospect of sitting through the session, enduring details of the campus life I’ll never live dispensed by stock-photo-ridden PowerPoints, taking the tour guided by an overzealous freshman . . . It’s too much. Lewis won’t know if I ditched. The only way Mom will know is if I tell her.
I have better things to do than this presentation. Find a decent breakfast, for one.
I’m lingering outside the building, searching for the nearest Panera on my phone, when I hear familiar voices.
“In here,” Juniper says, walking quickly toward the door next to me.
“I’m coming,” her boyfriend replies. He races in front of her and opens the door with a dramatic flourish, earning a laugh from Juniper. She doesn’t notice me. As she passes him in the doorway, he pulls her to him, giving her a quick kiss.
My earlier thoughts of breakfast and exploring dissipate. Resolve fading, I follow them in.
Juniper
IT DIDN’T FEEL real until now. Well, not this real. I can’t deny that every time I’ve thought about college or the idea of leaving home, it’s felt like a new version of real, like a developing photograph.
But my first on-campus information session definitely is one of the most real versions. I hold on to every statistic, every detail, even the ones I know won’t figure into my decision. The percentage of students coming in nationally and internationally, the number of graduates in government and in science, the well-regarded journalism program. The information flows comfortingly over me. This is exactly where I want to be right now.
Even if I’m increasingly conscious of the smell of espresso wafting up from under my seat, where I stored my cardigan. Marisa’s cardigan, if I’m honest. I’d hoped I could stuff it into her wardrobe when I got home without her noticing I’d stolen it. But as soon as she sees the giant coffee stain, she’ll know what happened, and she will retaliate.
I’ll deal with her later. Right now, I’m determined to focus on the presentation.
When the admissions officer opens the room to questions, my hand is the first one up. I’m called, and I project my voice to the front of the room. “What opportunities exist for double majoring?”
I don’t need to glance over to know Matt’s enjoying this. In AP Bio last year, he bet me I couldn’t not be the first person to raise my hand in every review session. Of course, I lost. For winning, he requested a complete Lord of the Rings marathon, an obligation I grudgingly fulfilled over the summer.
Whatever. He knows I’m eager.
“It depends,” the officer replies. “Do you have a prospective major?”
“I’m really interested in architectural studies,” I say. “But I’m considering combining the major with physics.”
I want to be an architect. I want to pull buildings up from the earth, stretch skylines from the streets. Whatever I do, I want to shape the future. I want to create. I considered painting and thought about writing or drama or journalism. Finally, I found myself enthralled with architecture’s union of opposites. Art and science, mismatched pieces that decided to defy expectations and fit perfectly.
“Definitely.” The officer nods. “The physics program is demanding. If you’re interested, though, double majoring is well within reach for the dedicated student.”
I thank her. The questions continue, prospective students with inquiries on study abroad programs and sports, dorms and dining halls. When one guy wants to know whether the freshman have intramural baseball, I glance at Matt, knowing it’s something he would be interested in.
Except he’s not listening. He’s looking at his phone. Craning my neck, I find he’s exchanging rapid-fire texts with Nathan Fletcher, who I’ve hung out with enough times to know is probably playing video games with Vincent Zhong and the Klarov brothers in his basement back in Springfield. I frown, nudging Matt’s knee, and whisper, “Hey, you might want to listen to this.”
He looks up, focusing halfheartedly on the discussion. I wait for the moment curiosity kicks into his eyes, but it doesn’t happen. His gaze quickly returns to his phone. Frustrated, I watch a new message from Nathan pop up on the screen.
After a couple more questions, the presentation ends, and everyone shuffles to their feet. Everyone but one boy three rows from the back. He remains in his chair, writing in a paperback book, while the rest of us head for the doors. His red hair stands out in the room, and when I pass him, he glances up for a heartbeat and his eyes meet mine. They’re startlingly blue, set in narrow, freckled features. It’s a face seemingly sculpted in its precision, with high cheekbones and a serious, contemplative mouth.
I’m the one to break our eye contact, walking on with the crowd.
The admissions officer divides the room in two for the campus tour. Because we’re on different sides, the boy and I don’t end up in the same group. Finally, in the bustle of everyone finding their tour guide, he closes his book and joins the others.