When I’m in college, I’ll be finding my place and finding my people anew. And with every day I’m connected to my family only through FaceTime and phone calls instead of breakfasts and carpools, I’ll be deciding what parts of home to hold onto. How I’ll put myself together from the pieces of my past and my present, of old friends and new, of my family, of the two cultures I grew up in.
The pressure won’t just be about fitting in with everyone else—it’ll be about figuring out where I want to fit in. The newness of college will force me to reconsider who I was and refigure who I want to be. Whether I want to keep doing student government. Whether I’ll have every meal in the dining hall or will want to cook for myself. Whether I’ll find friends who speak more Spanish than I do or less. It’s inevitable in transitions, and it’s daunting. There’s a loneliness in feeling like you no longer know yourself, one that looms large when facing the enormity of the future.
I want peace and quiet to pull myself together, far from the students streaming from Sharples, returning to libraries and dorms. From touring the campus with Fitz, I remember exactly the place I need. I walk in the direction of the woods.
It’s not snowing. The night is cloudless, stars spilled on the seemingly endless black of the sky. I huddle in my parka, resenting the cold. It’s skin-searing, intense enough to reach through the fabric of my jeans. While I wish I could stay out here longer, I’m no stranger to New England winters. I know I have to get inside soon.
I find my destination on the edge of campus. The Scott Outdoor Amphitheater sits in the midst of the forest behind the college, the semicircular stone steps smothered in snow. I read online they hold commencement here. For a second, I picture this place full of people, proud parents and jittery younger siblings. The image couldn’t be in sharper contrast to right now. It’s empty, completely quiet.
I wipe snow from the edge of one of the steps and sit. Alone, I let the tears sting my eyes.
In all my college research and anticipation, I never considered the day-to-day details. Having friends, fitting in, finding my place. I never wondered whether I would ever feel lonely, because when I’m home, with nine people in the house, loneliness feels impossible. I never imagined I could feel lost.
For the first time, I wonder if college won’t be everything I’ve envisioned. The thought is harrowing. Worse, if I go to college far from home, far from my family, and I feel this way, I’ll really be alone. Tía will be right.
It’s infuriating. I bitterly wipe the tears from my eyes, hoping if I rub hard enough I’ll force this feeling out of me.
It doesn’t work. The tears don’t stop, and the feeling remains, stuck deep in my chest.
Fitz
SHE COULDN’T HAVE gone far.
I search Sharples Hall for Juniper, scouting every table, every conglomeration of Swarthmore students enjoying the post-Scream solidarity. I don’t find her, which is weird. The Primal Scream and midnight breakfast are exactly Juniper’s thing. Figuring she might’ve gotten a call from her family or wanted a minute outside the slightly claustrophobic dining hall, I go out in front of Sharples.
No Juniper. Eventually, I start walking into campus, no sense of where I’m going.
As I wander aimlessly down a path, my boots crunching the salted pavement, my phone buzzes.
I’m at the amphitheater.
I spin and jog toward the outdoor amphitheater Juniper pointed out on our tour. I can’t think of a single reason she would be there now, in the middle of the freezing night, except the possibility of some other campus tradition I don’t know about. I’ve heard some schools partake in winter streaking, which admittedly is not something I’m eager to witness. But if Juniper’s there, I’ll willingly risk naked butts.
When I near the stone steps, I see her immediately. It’s not hard. She’s the only person here. Sitting in one of the rows, she’s illuminated by starlight, her huddled posture strangely small and forlorn in the empty theater.
I walk up to her slowly, not wanting to startle her. She says nothing when I sit next to her. “What are you doing out here on your own?” I ask.
“I wanted to watch the stars,” she says. Her voice is off, tight and overly nonchalant. “It’s a really nice night.” She doesn’t look at me, her face turned to the sky. I study her. Shadows and moonlight mingle along her neck, her cheeks. The clouds drift, revealing the moon, and the light touches Juniper’s features. Her eyes are puffy. Only slightly, with the barest hint of red rimming the edges. She’s been crying.
“Yeah, it’s beautiful tonight,” I reply. I don’t know how to comfort her, or if it’s even my place to comfort her. Would it be prying to ask why she’s upset? I get the sense she doesn’t want me to know she’s emotional.
She shifts, angling her legs toward me. “Did you have fun tonight?”
I don’t want to talk about my night. But this is Juniper. She directs the conversation exactly where she wants it. “I think I sort of did,” I answer, trying to come up with a way to turn the questions on her without being demanding or insensitive.
She smiles faintly without a trace of pleasure. “That’s great. Did you find Cara?” Her tone is . . . jealous? I know some guys find jealousy flattering. Immediately, I learn I do not enjoy it on Juniper. The idea she is hurting over something I have done—it’s the furthest thing from flattering.
“Juniper, what’s wrong?” The question escapes me before I can think of a way to bring it up lightly.
Sure enough, her expression hardens. “Nothing. I’m fine,” she says quickly. A tear trickles down her cheek, and she turns away, hurriedly wiping her face with the back of her hand.
“Hey.” I reach for her, wanting to take her in my arms, but she leans away.
Her shoulders start to shake, her breaths turning clipped and wet. “God, I hate this,” she says between sobs. “I shouldn’t even be crying. It’s so dumb.”
I touch her arm. Just a brush of fingertips on the hem of her sleeve. It’s nothing—the suggestion of comfort, a reminder I’m here and I care. It’s so much less than I want to give her. “Whatever it is, it’s not dumb,” I tell her.
Her sobs subside a little. “You shouldn’t be nice to me. I was awful to you last night.” She meets my eyes, tears clinging to her cheeks. “I’m sorry I said you use your mom as an excuse.”
All day, I waited for her to take her words back. To acknowledge she’d gotten me wrong. But it doesn’t matter to me now. “I’ll admit you were direct,” I say with a hint of humor, “but you were right. I do hold myself back.” Her tears have stopped, and it’s possible her shoulders have drifted toward mine. “Like with Cara,” I go on. “I liked her in eighth grade and was planning to ask her out.” I make the past tense explicit, hoping she understands. “Then I found out about my mom, and I gave up. I thought I did it to spare her from having to deal with my problems, but now I think it’s because I was scared of risking something else that might hurt me.”