plates of eggplant parmesan. I think of stacking pages of student dissertations on Hawthorne and Melville and Twain.
Even if you wrote every memory imaginable on to a memorial a million feet high, you would fail to capture infinite others.
I walk from the Carrie Tower onto Prospect Street and gradually explore the rest of the campus. The brick buildings blend together, especially under the ubiquitous blanket of frost. They’re undeniably impressive, colonial and imposing in a way I know characterizes the college dreams of countless of my classmates. I barely taste the sandwich I get for lunch in the student center, my eyes drifting to every unfamiliar face that enters.
Heading onto one of the campus’s identically tree-lined roads, I wrestle down a growing dejection. I’ve circumnavigated dorms and paused in front of libraries, passed gleaming genetics buildings and entered empty foyers. No sign of Juniper. I’m left to confront why I’m, okay, obsessed with this girl. I could distract myself from this college tour if I were wondering when or whether I’d run into her. With the chance we’ll reconnect pretty much gone, it’s only me and the emptiness of this idea of my mom’s. I don’t want to concentrate in public health. I don’t want to read in the Ruth J. Simmons Quadrangle. I don’t want to remember Carrie Brown or her husband.
I head downhill for the bed-and-breakfast.
When I reach the room, I find Lewis napping. With the feeling only starting to return to my fingers, I decide I need a shower to warm up. Standing under the scalding water, I systematically remind myself of every reason it’s good I didn’t find Juniper. Now is definitely not the time to be interested in a girl who could live in Georgia or Ohio or wherever and who has elaborate plans involving possible PhDs in California or London. Oh, and who has a boyfriend.
I step out of the shower and pull on clothes. When I open the door, Lewis is putting on his shoes.
“You have dinner plans?” I ask. It’s nearly seven, and it occurs to me I’m going to have to find dinner for myself. I remember walking past a pretty promising burger place near campus.
“We have dinner plans.” Lewis jumps up. Glancing into the mirror over the desk, he runs his fingers through his hair. “I have a friend here who mentioned a party at one of the coed frats. We’ll find a restaurant in town, then head to campus.”
“Yeah, no,” I reply. I don’t even enjoy high school parties. The idea of going to a college one with Lewis doesn’t improve the prospect.
My brother ignores me. “It’s time to quit moping,” he continues. “You have to get out and experience a real taste of college.”
“I’m not moping,” I say, frustration flaring in me. It’s only partly true, but I’m not taking orders from Lewis.
Lewis’s expression changes, solemn and searching. “Look, I know you’re having a hard time with the Mom thing—”
“The Mom thing?” I interrupt.
“It’s shitty,” Lewis continues, undeterred. “But you have to start living your life. Mom and I are both worried about you.”
The casual way he invokes Mom pisses me off. He doesn’t know the first thing about what worries her. Knowing would involve visiting or phone calls or even a damn email every now and again. There’s no way he’s worried about me, either. If he were, he could’ve visited or called or written me.
But those thoughts are weapons for a battle I’ll never fight. “Living my own life wouldn’t include going to parties,” I say instead.
“How do you know until you try?” Lewis counters. “You might meet a girl there who’ll make you forget whoever you were hoping to see in Providence.”
I don’t bother wondering how he knows I didn’t run into Juniper. He’s probably guessing. “Forget it,” I say. “I’m not going. You don’t need me there to get wasted.”
“This isn’t about me getting wasted,” he replies. “Well, it’s mostly not about me getting wasted. Just try something, Fitz. For once, try something.”