six #2
“I’m sure it must’ve been hard to move in the middle of senior year,” he said, apparently determined to fill the empty space
with or without my help. “But I think you’ll like it. The food is way better, for one. And the weather. This is a pretty good
place to end up, whatever you’re leaving behind.” He ended the sentence with an upward lilt, like he was cracking the door
open to a question.
I was leaving things behind, although less than I would’ve a year ago. It turned out relationships needed nurturing. I hadn’t been
the best at that over the past semester.
I couldn’t admit this to Alan, especially now, but the worst part of moving had been realizing that by the end, I didn’t have
anyone, really, to say goodbye to. The embarrassment still clung to me like an invisible cobweb. At least no one here would
have to know about that.
My eyes traveled up from my bowl, and I found him staring at me.
Instantly, I recognized that look on his face, the one that preceded every time someone was about to give condolences for the terrible tragedy that befell my family, followed by the light curiosity around how my brother had passed, since my parents had been so tight-lipped about it.
“You know, I’m sorry about Sam,” he said.
My insides clenched automatically. It used to be something I just managed to suffer through quietly each time I had to go
through it. It was more about making the other person feel like they had done the right thing; after all, it wasn’t like hearing
their sorrys actually made me feel any better. It was merely a performative ritual that we all did for the sake of upholding societal norms around grief.
Both of us, following a prewritten script. But the more time had passed, the more I hated it. Sometimes, I wanted to do something
dramatic in response—throw a fit, run away, be honest about how little their words meant to me.
I thought about doing that now, letting out all the ugliness I kept inside. But Alan’s eyes were deep and sincere.
Whatever I was going to say evaporated. There was a difference between him and those other people.
He had known Sam. Same as he had once known me. That was worth something, at least, even if it was a long time ago. I held
a small, precious fistful of gratitude for it. The world was filled with people who did not know him, and now they never would.
“Thanks,” I said. “What did your parents say about what happened to him?”
“Nothing, really. That he died in his dorm room. They said your parents didn’t say why. They guessed it was an undiscovered health condition. Complete shock.”
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that my parents were still keeping it to themselves.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened. It doesn’t really matter anyway, because at the end of the day, he’s gone, right?”
he said.
I took a sip of tea, its bitterness rolling around my tongue. “Can we not talk about this?”
He blinked. “Yeah, of course. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s just, like, I don’t really even know you very well anymore, and I got forced into this trip out of nowhere, and I’m
not going to get into the deep stuff with you in the first two hours, you know.” An understatement, to be sure. I hadn’t gotten
into the deep stuff with anyone before, not even my own parents.
He blushed, and I felt kind of bad. I had sounded sharper than I meant to. I thought maybe I had shut him up for good, but
he wasn’t one to give up so easily.
“Sorry. Keep it entry-level. I get it. Let’s start with that, then,” he said. “What classes are you in?”
“US Government, Environmental Science, Statistics, PE, Journalism II, Band. And AP Lit.”
“Cool. I’ve taken US Government and Environmental Science. I’ve got notes if you need them.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I looked down at my lap. “That might be nice.”
I had two assignments in each I’d have to complete while we were gone. One of them being the group project I had to coordinate with Morgan on. I had already cratered my grades last semester. I couldn’t afford to do poorly this semester with easier classes.
“You must be in one of the other AP Lit classes. We can cross-check to see if we’re reading the same stuff. Probably yes,
I’m guessing. I’m supposed to be reading A Streetcar Named Desire this week,” he said.
“ Heart of Darkness .”
“I read that the first week. Maybe we can swap notes as we go through the semester. Start a study group together.”
“Hm,” I said noncommittally.
“Sorry,” he replied. “Not entry-level, huh? I’m scaling it back.”
That triggered a smile—a begrudging one, but real.
“What are you taking, then?”
“AP Lit. AP Chem, AP Calc, AP Euro, PE, Orchestra, AP Macroeconomics.”
“I see.” A full suite. No wonder my parents talked about him like he was a deity. “I was in AP classes too back home,” I supplemented.
Once it left my mouth, I felt hot with embarrassment.
It came off so defensive, like I was insecure about myself or something.
And I really didn’t want to seem insecure to him.
Was I jealous? Not really—the high-pressure path Sam and, presumably, Alan were on filled me with anxiety.
But I still felt a twinge of something. I knew my parents would worry less about me if I were like that.
“Oh?”
“The counselor wouldn’t transfer me into the equivalent,” I mumbled.
“What? That can’t be right.” He was indignant. “You should talk to them.”
“It’s not a big deal. It’s my last semester anyway.”
“Some of the colleges might care that you dropped down into easier classes second semester.”
I shrugged. I wanted to move on from the subject. “Depends on the college, I’m sure.”
“Where did you apply?”
“Haven’t submitted my applications yet. That’s the point of this trip, isn’t it? To see if I like the ones on my list?” I
thought about my parents’ nerve-pinched faces as we had talked about my applications. All the pressure Alan couldn’t see,
underneath my tidy explanation. “What about you?” I asked.
“Mine are all in. I applied to everywhere on our list that we’re visiting. Plus, early acceptance for Stanford.”
So he was organized and focused enough to have committed already to a college at the time of application. We truly were at
opposite ends of the spectrum. It was almost hilarious. Perhaps my parents had planned this all on purpose. “Don’t you find
out about early acceptance soon?”
“Yeah. Very soon. Could be before the end of this trip.”
“High stakes,” I said. “Although maybe not, for you.”
“I’m mentally preparing for it to go either way. Although I did a summer program at Stanford between junior and senior year that’s application only. Usually people who are picked for that program do get in.” He was trying to sound casual and modest. But I could sense the anticipation in his voice.
I turned away, suddenly irritated by this conversation. This was why I couldn’t talk to anyone my age about college applications.
The things they were worried about seemed so banal. So ridiculously unimportant. I couldn’t really care about the aesthetics
of different quads or whether one school had better Greek life than another. Other people didn’t know the worst that could
happen. I did.
“Let’s get back on the road,” I said, gathering my napkins and trash onto my tray to take up to the garbage can.
“Good idea,” he said easily, oblivious to my clouded mood. “Don’t want to hit that LA traffic at rush hour.”