Time of Our Lives

by Emily Wibberley

  Turning back to the crowd, I wonder what exactly Lewis imagined I’d do here. Dance with a random girl in this poorly converted common room? Play drinking games with bros I’ve never met before in my life? Experience a real taste of college? The truth is, I don’t understand how people do this. What combination of effortless ease and bravado, confidence and poise permits them to walk up to people in dark rooms, play anonymous games, and try things they’ve never tried before.

  I’m not that person.

  Theoretically, I could be. Nobody on this campus knows me—it’s possible I could be whoever I want. Everyone certainly says college provides the opportunity to “reinvent yourself.” But I don’t know if a dimly lit fraternity and a different zip code can summon from me something that’s not already there.

  I don’t have to find out, not tonight. I promised Lewis I’d come to this party, but that’s all. I only have to be here, not present.

  Pertinacious (adj.): persevering in one’s course of action to return home to New Hampshire in the morning, even when what’s required is hanging out within the confines of a college party.

  I head for the stairs. If I’m going to remain in this building the rest of the night, it’s essential I find some peace and quiet. Everyone’s streaming down into the basement, but I go up. While I doubt I’ll find the upper floors entirely peaceful, they have to be better than down here.

  The stairs open onto an empty hallway. Tight doorways run the length with little whiteboards hung on each one of them. I walk idly and read what’s written on them. Janine needs to study. If you hear music (or sex) behind this door, KNOCK AND YELL AT HER. I find crudely drawn hand turkeys and end-of-year countdowns. On one I read an extensive conversation of song requests for the person who presumably plays guitar in the room.

  I figure I’ll read my dictionary until Lewis texts me he’s ready to leave. Finding nowhere to sit, I settle for the floor near the windows on one end of the hallway, opposite the door to the outside fire escape. While uncomfortable, the patch of hardwood is out of the way and wide enough for me to stretch my legs.

  Leaning on the wall to lower myself to the floor, I glance out the window. In the frigid night, packs of partygoers stumble down the front steps. Laughter and shouts echo up from the quad over the vibrating rhythm of the music. My eyes sweep the view of old houses and fresh-faced students until I’m caught up short.

  Under a streetlight, I see her.

  Juniper hugs her arms over her chest, her hair unleashed from the ponytail I’ve come to expect and falling onto her shoulders. Her breath makes clouds in the cold. Matt’s nowhere in sight.

  I hit the stairs without hesitating.

  Juniper

  I DON’T DISLIKE parties on principle. I enjoy them, even. I love hanging out with friends, the way the normal routines and rhythms of the day ebb away into the endless expanse of night. It’s like entering this universal in-between, a place where pressures relieve and rules change and nobody needs to be exactly who they are.

  It’s just this party I’m not down with.

  I wasn’t opposed when Matt suggested we come here with Carter. I was even looking forward to checking out my first college party. But when we got downstairs, it took two drinks and one round of beer pong for me to realize this was no different from every high school party I’d ever been to. Except for the obvious differences—the more extensive alcoholic offerings, the absence of anything resembling a curfew, the venue not being someone’s parents’ house—this party is identical to the ones I’ll go to next week and the next week and the next. I don’t know what else I expected. I just didn’t think this would be exactly what I expected.

  Which is why I went outside. Out here, I can watch the campus in the nighttime. It’s better than nothing. Facing the cold, I zip up my coat and rub my hands together in front of my face, hoping to generate heat.

  I met my abuela on a cold night like this. I remember distinctly our car rolling for the first time into the driveway of the house I now call home. Heavy snowbanks sat on the slanted roofs and the windowsills. The lights were on in every room. When I hopped out onto the driveway, my shoes crunching the snow, the wind stung my cheeks and nose the way it’s doing now. I followed my parents up the path to the porch.

  The front door opened, revealing a woman framed in the doorway. She greeted my father with a crushing hug and my mother with a hesitant kiss on the cheek, which I know now was because she’d never met her son’s wife before. Her eyes caught on three-year-old Callie, held on my mother’s hip, and she leaned in to whisper inaudibly to my sister. When she drew back, her eyes had filled with tears. She looked down, and finding me and Marisa clinging behind me, she smiled.

  “You don’t know me,” she said, her voice weathered and warm, “but I’m your abuela.”

  I blinked. I didn’t know the word. Since I didn’t meet my dad’s family until I was seven, even now I have only a fragmented fluency in Spanish. When we moved to Springfield, I didn’t know a word. I knew nothing of my dad’s family’s culture. Not their food, their traditions, their histories. To this day, I consider those things part of my life but not of me. They’re ours but not exactly mine.

  “Your grandmother,” my abuela clarified.

  I didn’t know what to say. Marisa, who hadn’t yet exited her shy phase, stood stock-still in my shadow.

  “This is my sister,” Abuela continued when a taller, sterner woman entered the doorway. “Your tía Sofi.” I had no idea how familiar I’d become with the expression on Tía’s face then—reserved and wary, with a kind of proud and loving protectiveness. “We’re very sorry we’re only meeting you now. We have a lot of missed time to make up for.” Her expression turned a touch conspiratorial. “Do you know I make a really special meal for everyone in my family every year on their birthday?”

  She looked from me to Marisa, who hid even closer behind my back. “But my birthday is in October,” I said.

  “Yes,” Abuela replied, “and I have seven years to catch up on.”

  I’ll never forget what I felt then, the tentative unfolding of curiosity and surprise and excitement of my own, and the edges of this new indescribable thing I could only begin to understand then. In the span of only minutes, I realized I had a new person in my life who would change everything. It felt like discovering a continent.

  “You made me a birthday cake?” I ventured.

  “Better.” Abuela’s eyes gleamed. “Have you ever had a tamale?”

  I shook my head. Abuela led me inside, and the smell enveloped me.

  My phone vibrates, distracting me from the recollection. I pull the phone out and find a text from my mom. She wants me to check in, and I reply quickly, describing the dorm and my day. I look up, watching the quad from under the streetlight where I’m waiting. Waiting for . . . I don’t know what. I feel restless.

  I didn’t come to Brown to be bored in a fraternity basement, and I didn’t come outside to relive old memories. I’m in a new city, on a new campus. I have only this week before I have to return home to everything I know in thorough, inescapable detail. I want to explore. I want to walk through Waterplace Park, over the Venetian-inspired bridges on the river. I want to visit downtown, admire the architecture, people-watch. Instead, I’m spending another night playing beer pong with Matt and Carter like I’ve done countless nights before.

  I’ve had enough of lingering under this streetlight in the freezing night. I’m going inside to find Matt and ask him if we can venture into the city instead of partying for the rest of the night.

  I walk with purpose into the frat, fighting through the throng to reach the stairs to the basement when I’m caught short.

  I recognize the head of red hair on the other end of the crowd. I remember cannoli and conversation and the possibility we’d cross paths again.

  Fitz.

  For F. Scott Fitzgerald. He’s pressed
to the wall, openly uncomfortable, not holding a drink. He looks incoherent with the revelry surrounding him, in the midst of the party but not part of it, despite the short blonde talking to him. She’s wearing a pink tank top with white Greek letters on the front, and I nearly laugh at how she clashes with Fitz’s crisp button-down and discomfited demeanor. The blue book I remember from the BU information session protrudes from his front pocket. Of course he brought a book to this party. He read during the presentation. Why wouldn’t he read here?

  The girl keeps touching him, grabbing his wrist and poking his arm. It’s obvious she’s flirting with him. Obvious to everyone except Fitz, that is, who appears confused and lightly agitated, his eyes flitting from the girl to the room. I wouldn’t have expected him to be the kind of guy who’d attract college-girl attention as a high-schooler. Now that I think about it, though, Fitz is kind of cute. His wiry build, his keen, refined features. He has a subtle, soft intensity I understand one could potentially find attractive.

  I shake my head, smiling, and head downstairs. Matt’s where I left him, playing beer pong with Carter and a couple of other guys in the hallway. When I sidle up next to him, Matt places the ball on the table and hooks an arm around my waist. “Hey, babe,” he says. He smells like beer and sweat.

  I tug gently on his shirt, pulling him from the table. “Can we talk?”

  He nods. “Give me a minute,” he calls behind him. I catch annoyance in the expression of the tall, unequivocally handsome Indian guy on the opposing team.

  “Do you want to head out?” I ask once Matt’s followed me into the stairwell. “I was wondering about visiting Waterplace Park. It looks kind of cool, and I heard it’s great to walk around in at night.”

  Matt checks his watch. “We just got here, Juniper,” he says delicately.

  “I know,” I reply, repressing impatience. “It’s just, we’re leaving in the morning. I want to explore the city a little more. Don’t you?”

  Matt looks back to Carter, who’s laughing with the other guys. Matt’s expression is pained, and the realization settles onto me.

  “You’re having a good time,” I say softly, understanding what I hadn’t when I pulled him from his friends. Matt’s usually really generous and receptive to what I want to do. He’s a good boyfriend that way, and I know he’s conflicted. He wants to tour the city with me, but if he’s hesitating, it’s because he really wants to hang out with his friends too.

  “Yeah, I am,” he admits. “Could we stay one more hour and then go?”

  He’s compromising, and I want to feel happy and appreciative, knowing he’d rather hang out here the rest of the night. Instead, I feel the painful pull on my heart of having to compromise in the first place.

  I nod. “Sure,” I say, chasing disappointment from my voice.

  “I could introduce you to the guys. We could play a round together if you want?” Matt offers, obviously excited. “I know you’re good. I could use you, Ramírez.”

  I don’t want to deflate his enthusiasm. I don’t want to be the girl who puts her foot down, who crushes her boyfriend’s plans. I just really don’t want to play beer pong, either.

  “Maybe later.” I try to sound cheerful. “I’m going to walk around a little.”

  I know Matt can tell I’m withdrawn. He watches me warily until Carter calls his name behind us. “Traverson, you coming back?” When Matt doesn’t reply, I push him lightly toward the table.

  “Have fun,” I say. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  He pauses, reluctance written on his perfect features. I muster a convincing smile, and finally he nods and rejoins the group. From the stairwell, I watch his face light up as he claps Carter on the back and picks up the game.

  I’m happy for him. He’s toured schools for me, endured presentations he has little to no interest in just because I want to. I’m happy he’s enjoying himself tonight, reconnecting with his old friend, recapturing the fun they had in high school.

  That’s exactly the problem, though. This is what’s important to Matt. This is what thrills him. Hanging out with Carter Wright the way they did in his basement and their baseball clubhouse, and at parties back home. Matt’s found what he wants.

  Whereas I’m still searching. Still figuring out which place will thrill me.

  I head upstairs, feeling forlorn. Usually I enjoy the rumbling momentum of impending changes. Not tonight. I walk up another flight of stairs to the next level, not because there’s anything worth seeing upstairs—just for the peace and quiet.

  Fitz

  I THROW OPEN the front door, and Juniper’s nowhere to be found. The path under the streetlight is empty.

  It took me ten minutes to get outside. When I made it downstairs, I tried to maneuver through the group of girls holding drinks clustered in the foyer. Unfortunately, one rounded on me and I ended up politely trying to extricate myself from the utterly unilateral conversation. Over the thudding of the music and with the thought of Juniper distracting me, I only caught the girl mentioning some semiformal coming up this week. Finally, one of her friends beckoned her into the room with the countertop bar.

  I flew to the door. Now I’m searching the quad in the cold. No Juniper.

  Not giving up, I decide to check the rest of the house. From the foyer, I take the stairs two by two to the basement. I don’t find Juniper, only the wall-to-wall crowds I left when I went upstairs. But I do notice Matt playing beer pong with—Lewis. Wonderful. I check the taproom, where Lewis first took me when we got here, then return upstairs. She’s not on the dance floor, not by the bar, not near the table with the computer and speakers passing for a DJ booth. She’s nowhere.

  I move toward the stairs, figuring there’s a chance I’ll spot her from the second-story window the way I did before. Maybe I’ll catch sight of her heading in the direction of one of the other buildings. Careful not to cross paths with loquacious sorority girls this time, I walk to the upper level and pass the whiteboards and closed doors, heading toward my window.

  Where I find her.

  She’s sitting in the exact spot under the window I had marked for my own solitary reading plans. Her head is tipped back against the wall, eyes closed.

  “There you are,” I say unthinkingly, not meaning to say anything at all.

  Her eyes fly open and fix on me. Immediately, I read the sadness in them. The emotion doesn’t render her features any softer, only shadowing the usual sharpness of her expression. She blinks, and the despondency vanishes.

  “There I am?” she asks. Her tone is edged with accusation, and if I’m lucky, perhaps a little amusement. “Were you looking for me, Fitzgerald?” She gets to her feet, leveling me an imperious eyebrow.

  Hardly anyone calls me Fitzgerald, but I don’t bother correcting her. My name somehow doesn’t sound awkward on her lips. “Um, no,” I stammer. She’s wearing a light pink sweater tonight, the color of a blush. “How could I be looking for you? I had no idea you were at this party. I wasn’t even sure you were at Brown.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say. Her eyebrows flatten over narrowed eyes. “You followed me here?”

  “Juniper, how could I have guessed you’d be at the random party my brother dragged me to? I only saw you from the window earlier.” I’m eager to dispel her suspicion, to ask her why she was sitting up here alone, whether she likes Brown—anything. Everything.

  She shakes her head. “No. Not this party. Brown. Yesterday you heard Matt mention we were going to Providence. Did you follow me here?” Her voice is wary, almost nervous.

  I understand why. There’s a word for following a girl you hardly know across state lines. Creepy. She’s right to be nervous. I take a step back, wanting to give her space. I will my body language to communicate, Hey, you could leave at any time, and I will in no way be weird about it.

  “It’s purely a coincidence we ended up at the same sch
ool again,” I assure her evenly. “Just serendipity.”

  She blinks, her unease fading beneath surprise and something else. Understanding? I’m not sure. It doesn’t last long. She juts her chin at me, dissatisfied. “If it’s just a coincidence, why didn’t you say anything yesterday when Matt mentioned we’d be coming here?”

  “I don’t even remember Matt saying that,” I lie. It’s unfortunate, but better than admitting I was too nervous in front of her boyfriend to tell her I’d be in Providence too.

  “He did,” she says stonily. Her eyes flit to the side. “You and I were talking about college. Then Matt came up and mentioned dates at Mike’s, and I said, ‘When we’re not busy.’” She nods, having found what she was trying to recall. “And then Matt said, ‘I checked out of the hotel. Do you want to get dinner before we head to Providence?’” She returns her gaze to me triumphantly. “You definitely knew where we were headed.”

  “Whoa,” I say, blinking. Distantly, I’m aware she’s just caught me in a lie, but I’m too impressed by her perfect recall to care.

  Her cheeks turn bright pink, and I become suddenly very aware of the smooth skin of her neck. The freckles brushing her jaw. Like she’s annoyed by her blush, she doesn’t drop her eyes and instead pins me under her scrutiny. “Okay, so I have a pretty good memory,” she says. Her voice is determined, but I notice a hint of bashfulness in her tone.

  “That sounds like an understatement.” I want to ask her more, but not if it’s something she’s embarrassed about.

  “Did you follow me to Providence?” She crosses her arms, obviously refusing to be distracted. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to someone so wholly single-minded.

  “I didn’t follow you. I swear my itinerary had me at Brown today too,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mention it yesterday because, well, frankly—could your boyfriend be any more intimidating?” Her lips thin into an unamused line. “Besides, I wasn’t even sure you’d be at Brown. I just hoped you would be,” I continue, not wanting her to cut me off or walk away. “I’ll admit, though, just the chance I might get to see you again did increase my interest in the tour.”