“So tomorrow we head to the University of Virginia,” Juniper announces beside me, pulling me from thoughts of endless afternoons. She’s looking at the Notes app on her phone, where I know she tracks our itineraries. Her hair isn’t in a ponytail today. It hangs down her shoulders in loose curls that change color in the sun. Dark brown with golden blond at the edges. “Then I have us driving back to Boston, but the drive is nine hours, so we’ll stop somewhere for the night and see one more school,” she goes on. But my eyes are lost in the kaleidoscope of colors in the hair tucked behind her ear. “Fitz, are you listening to me?”
I meet her eyes. “No, sorry. You’re just very distracting when your hair is down.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks color. I don’t think I could ever be used to the wonder of being able to make this girl blush. She slips the hair band from her wrist and puts her hair back into a high ponytail. “There,” she says. “Less distracting?”
I let my gaze wander to her newly exposed neck. “Not at all,” I reply.
Laughing delightedly, she shoves me. I lean forward to kiss the skin beneath her jaw, which I know from last night is warm and soft.
My phone rings.
I brush my lips against her neck. She shivers, giving me half a mind to toss my phone onto the icy lake. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s my mom. Usually, I’d feel slightly guilty to be reminded of her in a moment like this. Guilty that I’m kissing a beautiful girl in a city hours from home, contemplating a future far away. But the only thing I feel guilty for is not calling her yesterday.
In one distant corner of my mind, I’ve noticed how aside from telling her about extending the trip, I haven’t kept in touch with my mom in the past couple of days quite as often as I normally do. I’m well aware why. Juniper and the genuine interest I’m taking in this tour have distracted me from things back home, for better or worse. It’s liberating, but somewhat unnerving, how easy I’m finding it to put behind me the problems that usually preoccupy me.
“Be right back,” I promise Juniper, then stand and walk a couple feet away. “Hey, Mom,” I say when I pick up.
“Hi, Fitz. You . . . didn’t call yesterday.” She doesn’t sound upset, just curious. Maybe slightly concerned. “Everything okay?” she asks.
“Everything is great,” I reassure her, my eyes fixed on Juniper. She doesn’t notice me as I watch her steal into my bag of fries.
“I’m so glad,” my mom says. I know she means it. Her tone matches the pleased expression I can’t see but know she’s wearing. “Are there any schools you’re considering applying to?” The question comes out delicate and hesitant. I can’t say I don’t know why. I remember my words to her when I left for this trip. My certainty that I would only be applying to SNHU.
“Yeah, actually,” I reply. The declaration feels foreign, in a good way. “I think I want to look into linguistics programs. Possibly Carnegie Mellon.” Just thinking of the day in Pittsburgh with Juniper, the lecture, the books I’ve perused, makes me look forward to next year in a new way. Not to mention, the day we went to Pittsburgh was the day I first kissed Juniper, which gives the whole recollection an irreplaceable luster.
“Linguistics?” she repeats. She sounds startled for a second. “Of course,” she says like she’s just realized how obvious it is. “I’m happy for you, Fitz. Tell me about Carnegie Mellon.”
I describe everything to her. The campus, the class, the city. It’s extraordinarily freeing. This is the kind of conversation I’ve known my friends have had with their parents and college counselors, the kind I overheard when Lewis got home from touring BU with Dad. I just never thought it was one I would care about having. My mom was the main reason I resented this trip, but every day, the resentment has faded a little.
While I’m watching Juniper, she turns in my direction. Our eyes meet for a brief, boundless moment.
Then she gets up to throw out our trash. I know she’s anxious to move on to the next item on our D.C. itinerary. A museum, if I had to guess. I make my way over to her.
“It sounds perfect,” my mom says. It’s nice, how obviously proud she is. “I think you’ll do really great in sociology.”
I pause, halfway to Juniper. “Linguistics,” I say.
“Hm?”
“I said linguistics,” I repeat, ignoring the roaring in my ears.
“When?” Mom sounds confused, if cheerful. “You were just saying how you were interested in sociology. The Carnegie Mellon program.”
The bottom drops out. “I was saying I was interested in the linguistics program, Mom. Remember?” Remember. Remember. Remember.
“Uh. Of course. I misspoke. Linguistics. You were saying you’re interested in Carnegie Mellon’s linguistics program,” she repeats, an automatic stiffness to her voice.
I want to believe her. I want to un-know the things I know. To have never read that one of the earliest symptoms of Alzheimer’s is forgetting recently learned information. Information like appointments, or names. Or what college major your son says he’s interested in.
But I do know those things. They douse my veins in icy worry.
“Mom,” I say casually, hiding my dread. “How has your memory been?”
“I’m okay, Fitz,” she replies quickly. “Don’t worry about me. I want you to enjoy your trip.”
The worry flashes into anger. I know she’s evading me. “Can you honestly tell me that you’re really okay? That you’re not having early symptoms?”
“Fitz—”
“Mom,” I cut her off. “Tell me the truth.”
The silence on the other end of the line says everything. “I wanted to wait until you were home.” Her voice is different now, unrecognizably shaky. I sink onto the nearest empty bench, my legs unsteady. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Juniper noticing. She starts to walk in my direction. “This was expected, okay?” Mom continues. “You don’t have to worry. I’ve just been presenting early symptoms for a little while. Sometimes I forget the newer students, miss the occasional deadline, that kind of thing.”
“Have you gone to your doctor?” I ask. It’s the first question I can think of, and I grasp onto it, my only lifeline.
Juniper sits down next to me without speaking. Her expression is wrought with concern.
“Yes. We have a plan. I’ll share it with you when you come home,” she reassures me, except it’s anything but reassuring. It’s worse, in a way. It means her symptoms have gotten severe enough that she went to her doctor without telling me.