Chapter Three
Kennedy
Bramwood is in bloom and it's beautiful. Bright pops of blue and orange flowers are tastefully planted in front of buildings and next to doors. But it’s also hot. And humid. Very humid.
August in Michigan means no matter how beautiful the walk is, I’m sweating by the time I make it to my destination.
Today: astronomy. As a poli-sci major I still have earth science credits I need to take in order to graduate, and astronomy seemed like the safe choice to balance out my heavy course load this year (contemporary political thought, logical and mathematical thinking, and global macroeconomics).
The doors to the lecture hall slide open and I’m hit with a blast of ice cold A/C.
I let out a sigh of relief as I step further into the cool building and head down to the middle-ish row, shimmying my way down the aisle of cramped seats until I get to the exact center; my preferred seat for any class.
I’m pulling out my laptop and textbook from my backpack when I see a figure standing oddly close to my seat out of the corner of my eye, glancing up to find Will’s head of curly brown hair and goofy grin looking down at me, backpack straps slung over both of his shoulders.
Without a word, he drops his bag next to mine and takes the seat to my right.
“I didn’t know you were taking this class,” I say.
“Are you joking? I was the one that told you about it.”
“That was Miranda.”
“No, it was me,” he says, pulling out his supplies from his backpack. “I told Miranda and you about it last semester. Remember,” he bumps my elbow, “everyone on the hockey team takes this class for an easy A and to fulfill the science requirement.”
I think I do remember him telling us about this class last year while I was over at their house. Must have slipped my memory because I’m pretty sure he was shirtless.
I crunch my nose at him, narrowing my eyes and flashing him my best angry face, “You’re right. I hate when you’re right and I’m wrong.”
He cups his hand around his ear and leans slightly in my direction. “What was that? Can you say that louder please? Did you say I was right and you were wrong?”
I can’t help but smile when I roll my eyes. “Don’t get used to it, bucko.”
Will barks out a laugh before he lowers his voice, “Did you just call me bucko? Why was that weirdly offensive?”
“Yeah, I did. What’re you gonna do about it, bucko?”
“That’s it, I’m leaving,” he whispers while pretending to stuff about a hundred things into his backpack.
We’re both laughing when the professor turns on her mic and starts class from the podium.
Today is like most syllabus days and goes by pretty quick with nothing out of the ordinary being discussed.
I’m happy to find this class will be easy for me: no graded assignments, just a quiz once a week and a final exam.
I’m excited—I’m an excellent test taker.
As long as I take good notes during class I probably won’t need to study much.
“I’m meeting Miranda at Serendipity in, like, forty five, you wanna come?” I ask Will on our way out of the lecture hall.
Serendipity is our (my) favorite cafe. It's this eclectic bookstore, cafe, coffee shop combo that has a certain cool girl vibe that I’m into. Pretty much everyone else likes it, but doesn’t love it the way I do.
Will and I spend the entire walk to Serendipity complaining about the heat and humidity. We arrive about twenty minutes before I’m supposed to meet Miranda so Will and I grab a table.
Inside, the sounds of lightly clattering dishes, a milk steamer, and the griddle wash over me and feel comfortable, routine.
I come here several times a week. This place feels comfortable and safe.
It's also one of the only places I know I’ll never run into Carter, which is a huge plus.
He hated how they serve the food and drinks in old mismatched dishes from thrift stores.
He used to make faces and mutter under his breath about how grossed out he was.
He once refused to eat his bagel sandwich because the plate was chipped and he was convinced that proved the plates were dirty.
Luckily, neither Will nor Miranda complain about coming here, but I know the scene is not really their thing.
Serendipity hosts poetry readings, book clubs (I used to attend every Tuesday), and artist meet and greets.
Will once described this place as a cafe for “indie art hoes.” I couldn’t agree more.
Will waits in line to put in our order while I wait at the table for them both.
Miranda arrives in a cloud of tropical sunscreen and a white Bramwood U golf dress and visor. She is on the Bramwood women’s golf team and nationally ranked. Apparently Lucy, their mom, was growing super athlete babies in her womb with the two of them.
Will arrives moments later with a number for our table and tells us he ordered the usual for both me and Miranda. After they both take a seat, she leans forward over the table, lowering her voice, “So tell me everything.”
I glance toward Will then drop my forehead to the edge of the table. Will clears his throat next to me and says nothing, a gesture I’m thankful for. I can feel both their eyes on me and I wish the earth would rip open and swallow me whole.
“Oh no, it was bad? Don’t tell me it was bad. Adrian’s way too hot for it to be bad,” she says. I lift my head up from the table and send her a look.
She asks again, “What happened?” She glances from me to Will, “Wait, what happened? Do you know?” she asks Will.
From the corner of my eye I can see him shrug.
“I told him to go get me a drink knowing that he’d go inside and not come back out, then I smoked weed with Claire and went home. It was a total failure of a night.”
“So the night went a little tits up, that’s okay.”
The server walks over with our drinks and food, saving me from having to give any more details about my inability to be like how I used to be.
Old Kennedy would have had Adrian eating out of the palm of her hand in five minutes flat.
The server sets down two sandwiches in front of Will which should not surprise me but does.
Miranda looks between Will and I over the rim of her coffee. “Two sandwiches, Will? Really?”
He pats his belly, “I’m a growing boy.” He takes a monster bite of his first sandwich and Miranda reaches out to tug on my wrist. I drop my hands from my face and lift my eyes to meet hers.
She grabs hold of two of my fingers. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You won’t stop being anxious unless you start doing things that make you anxious and then see that it wasn’t as bad as you thought.
Even the other night wasn’t as bad as you thought, hmm? ”
I know I’m being dramatic when I cover my face with my hands again, but this is how I feel: stupid and lame. And I don’t care what Miranda says about it not really being that bad, because to me it sucked. “I hate this version of myself,” I mumble into my palm.
“Stop it,” Miranda scolds, mostly love in her voice, “you’re being extremely dramatic right now. You’re still incredible and amazing. I think you’re overthinking it. You just need to practice putting yourself back out there.” Miranda bites into a fry, “That’s all.”
“I actually agree with Miranda on this one,” Will says.
I hum out a reply and take another bite of my food, hoping to avoid talking about this anymore.
Luckily for me, Will seems to pick up on my hesitancy to continue down this line of conversation and switches the topic to his hockey schedule.
Miranda replies with her golf schedule, and I spend the next thirty minutes putting in game dates and golf tournament locations in my calendar.
After lunch we go our separate ways and I head back to my apartment.
I spend the rest of the night thinking about Will and Miranda’s words.
About how I need to practice putting myself out there again, force myself to feel uncomfortable.
I understand the concept, a little like exposure therapy in some ways.
I’ll do things that feel scary and then eventually they won’t feel scary anymore and I won’t be counting the number of people in a room that I think have seen my naked pictures.
I’ll be able to just enjoy myself and have fun.
The problem here is I’m scared. I’m not even trying to deny the fact that it’s scary.
I’m scared about what people are thinking about me, what they see when they look at me.
Do they see Kennedy or do they see my naked tits?
I try to watch TV to distract myself from the thoughts circling through my mind.
It doesn’t work. I try to read a book. It doesn’t work.
I take a shower, and then try to read again and then eat a bowl of cereal.
But literally nothing I do distracts me from the fact that right now I’m stuck and I don’t want to be.
I want to feel like my old self, to get my mojo back, if you will.
After one more attempt at reality TV, I kick off the blankets wrapped around my legs and walk over to my backpack and pull out my laptop. I take it to my little love seat and sit crosslegged with my laptop resting in the cradle of my legs.
I start scrolling through all the pictures I have saved to my cloud and looking at everything I used to do.
I looked so happy. I was happy.
The knot in my chest is too tight. Looking at old pictures of myself is causing tears to threaten to spill over.
I almost have to close my laptop and stop.
But I don't. I force myself to take a few big breathes through my nose and continue.
I have to do this. I know it deep in my bones that if I ever want to feel like Carter didn't permanently ruin my life, I have to take back control of my life.
I have to do things even if they're scary, even if people might know me or recognize me. I have to do it anyway.
It takes me a good portion of an hour to figure out exactly what kind of things I want to try and force myself to do again.
Things I know I love. Things that make me terrified to try again.
Things that feel raw and vulnerable in a way I don’t really know how to articulate.
But things that I think will simultaneously help me find myself again while also helping me shed the power those pictures have over me.
I save the list I created to my notes before putting my laptop away and getting back into bed. Under the covers with the lights turned off, I reread the list on my phone over and over; a strange sensation in my chest as I go down the list.
1. Go on a date
2. Be in a bathing suit in front of others (during the day)
3. Go to a hockey game (and not let Carter ruin it)
4. Go dancing at SixtyForty
5. Re-join book club