Time of Our Lives

by Emily Wibberley

  She frowns and leans against the wall. Clearly, she’s skeptical, but she’s not leaving, so I’ll consider it a victory. I lean on the other side of the hallway, matching her posture. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “You don’t even know me. You should be excited about your tour because it’s your future, not because you might run into some random girl.”

  “Like I said, there are—”

  “—‘things more important than college,’” she says, cutting me off. “Ugh, no.” I stifle a smile at how easily she reproduced my comment from yesterday. “I am definitely not more important than college,” she declares.

  I shrug. “Maybe not. But you might be.” Even I’m aware of how much that sounded like a line when I didn’t intend for it to. First inviting her to have our cannoli together, now this? It’s not like Ben and Cooper and I spend our spare time practicing pickup lines. I would call myself friendly, not suave. Yet here I am, undeniably in the possession of game.

  I expect her to roll her eyes or grimace, but she doesn’t.

  “Okay, first,” she begins, “we just met, and unless you plan to stalk me down the coast, we won’t see each other again. Second, you should really prioritize college over girls. Third, we don’t even get along.” She hardly pauses for breath, each thought proceeding quickly and clearly one after the other. “And fourth, I have a boyfriend.”

  “None of those points are real impediments,” I say, grinning. “Except the boyfriend one. Which it’s interesting that you listed last.” I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I don’t know who this Fitzgerald Holton is. I kind of wish I did, though.

  Juniper ignores the boyfriend comment, which is probably for the best. “Do you really not think college is important?” She’s honestly inquisitive, no longer pressing her case.

  “It’s not that I don’t think it’s important,” I explain. “I just think it’s not as important as everyone says. Everything we hear this year is, Focus on college. This is the whole point of high school. This is the rest of your life. I just . . . think people need to remember other things are important too.”

  Juniper is grimacing now. I guess I’m not surprised. “Since you don’t know me,” she says briskly, “let me tell you, college is the dream I’ve devoted my entire life to for four years. It’s really important to me. I don’t understand anyone who has the opportunity to go but feels it’s not worth their time.”

  Her judgment sparks something in me. “It’s not that,” I say harshly, and then the words pour out, fast and free and uncontrollable. “Okay, honestly? When I say people focus too much on college, what I’m really saying is I don’t get to focus on college. I have to be home in New Hampshire for my mom. She’s—she’s going to get early-onset Alzheimer’s.” The admission trips awkwardly over my tongue. I’m not in the habit of telling other people my mom’s prognosis. “If I go to Southern New Hampshire University, I could live at home when she needs help. For me? Yeah—that’s more important than college.”

  The instant I finish speaking, it hits me how forcefully the feelings flew out. Which I didn’t intend. The emotions just built up, and once I’d begun letting them out, I couldn’t stop.

  I expect Juniper’s face to fall, for her eyes to fill with worry and regret. It’s why I don’t tell people—the inevitable and inevitably fleeting remorse.

  Instead, her features harden. “Come on.” She rolls her eyes in exaggerated annoyance. “You’re the worst, you know that? Now I can’t even be mad at you.”

  I laugh, the sound echoing in the narrow hallway. Her reaction is surprising and utterly liberating. It emboldens me. “I’m certain I can find other ways to make you mad at me.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” she replies, her mouth twisting ever so slightly in what I hope is a smirk. I reach for a witty reply. But whoever this new game-having Fitzgerald Holton is, he’s left me hanging. Juniper’s studying me, her inquisitiveness ever-present. “How long has your mom known?”

  I shove myself off the wall. I don’t fault Juniper for her curiosity, not when I’m the one who brought this up. She’s being kind, expressing real sympathy instead of burying the topic under pleasantries. But even though the only thing I’ve wanted to do for days with Lewis is talk about what’s happening to Mom, and even though this girl is inviting me to do exactly that, I don’t want to. Not right now. Not with Juniper’s eyes on me, with the music pulsing under our feet, with the night waiting outside.

  For the first time, I’m not worried about what I’m missing at home. I’m only worried about what I might miss tonight.

  “Like you said, we might never see each other again. I don’t want to waste the night dwelling on a disease that can’t be stopped. You’re here to see Brown, right?”

  She nods.

  I cross the hall to the fire escape. Opening the door, I’m suddenly grateful this frat’s in such an old building the door isn’t alarmed. I turn back to Juniper.

  “Then let’s see Brown.”

  Juniper

  WHILE THE COLD blasts through the open door, I don’t move. I don’t know if it’s really a good idea to follow this boy I hardly know. He seems nice enough, but I’m not dumb. I know what can happen to girls who go off with a guy while college parties unfold downstairs.

  But . . . I have my phone. Matt’s downstairs with Carter and would come immediately if I called. Which, of course, I’d do if I were uncomfortable in the least.

  “I promise this isn’t a move,” Fitz says, guessing my thoughts. He smiles, and it’s not the predatory grin I would recognize on a frat boy. It’s authentic, disarming. “I’m not the type of guy who makes moves like this on girls. Definitely not on a girl like you, even if I didn’t know you have a boyfriend.”

  “A girl like me?” I repeat, not sure if I should be offended.

  “You’re out of my league.” He falters a little on the words.

  Now I’m even less convinced he’s not flirting. I take a step back.

  Fitz stands in the doorway. “You don’t have to come,” he says, his voice softening. “It’s just, this party is nothing special, and I’m on this trip against my will, but . . . it could be worthwhile for the memories. I already know what the future holds. It’s right now that has the potential to be extraordinary.”

  His words ring through me. I can practically feel the rush of resonance in my cheeks, my fingertips. I don’t generally live for the now. I live for what I can plan for and dream of. But right now is offering me something I didn’t know to plan. Something that might be worth experiencing.

  I grab my jacket and follow him.

  He holds out his hand to help me up. I eye him dubiously, hoping to communicate he’s not helping himself with this chivalry crap, and he flushes under his freckles like paint dipped into clear water. His frost-blue eyes dart from mine. But I take his hand. His fingers wrap tightly over mine, and I feel a tingle of warmth despite the temperature.

  We walk out onto the fire escape, which looks precarious. But it is a fire escape, intended to support people. It can’t be that unsafe. I drop his hand once I’m on the metal platform and zip up my parka while the cold wind whips my hair. The noises of the party drift up, shouts and cheers punctuating the echoes of the music. We’re both part of the scene and thrillingly isolated, the feeling of being backstage in the middle of a play.

  Fitz waits by the stairwell. When I glance over, his eyes hold a question, like he can’t believe I’m really doing this. Or maybe he can’t believe he’s really doing this. Suppressing a smile, I concede to myself his trepidation is kind of cute. If I had to guess, I’d say he never would have imagined himself leading a girl to the rooftop of a frat house.

  To be fair, I never would have imagined following him.

  There’s a blanket draped over the railing, dry because the rooftop shielded it from the snow. Fitz throws the blanket over his shoulder and begins climbing the s
tairs. I test the first step with my shoe and find it feels sturdy. Besides, Fitz hasn’t fallen to his death, which is comforting. I climb the single story up, my boots hitting the stairs with metallic reverberations.

  When I reach the roof, Fitz isn’t waiting. He’s walked to the other end of the rooftop, looking out over the edge. I join him, tiptoeing carefully because of the patches of snow.

  Coming up next to him, I gaze out over the view, breathless.

  The campus spreads out below us, glittering lights in every direction. The warm glow of lamps and windows dot the trees, illuminating the university’s fascinating combination of neoclassical and Venetian Gothic. Pathways crisscross the campus. The few students walking them look small from up here. In the distance, the buildings of downtown Providence rise on the skyline.

  Fitz lays out the blanket, and it’s easy to imagine students in the dorm doing this often on warmer nights. He sits, his knees touching the lip of the rooftop. I join him.

  We take in the view in silence. Thoughts of tomorrow and the next day and yesterday and the future press in on my thoughts. But instead of focusing on them, I press back. Right now does have the potential to be extraordinary. To be breathtaking. This moment, this view, is everything and exactly what I wanted from today.

  I turn to Fitz. He’s watching the campus, his expression indecipherable.

  “By the way, you’re wrong,” I say, nudging his elbow with mine, coat sleeves swishing. His eyes flit to me. “This is definitely a move,” I continue.

  He tips his head back and laughs, his breath visible in front of the stars.

  “Not that it’ll work,” I remind him. “Nor do I buy that you’re not the kind of guy who’d try this on a girl like me. I saw you flirting with that sorority girl downstairs.”

  Fitz’s eyebrows scrunch in what I’m pretty certain is genuine confusion. “What sorority girl?” he asks. “I wasn’t flirting with her.”

  “Well, she was definitely flirting with you,” I reply.

  “She was not,” he protests. “She was just going on about her sorority’s semiformal next week.”

  I roll my eyes. I cannot believe he’s this boneheaded. “She thinks you go here. She was hinting that she wanted you to take her to the semiformal,” I explain with the patience and clarity I used when Anabel unwrapped my tampons and floated them in the toilet.

  “You couldn’t possibly know that,” he scoffs, leaning back to rest on his elbows. I notice the blue corner of his ever-present book poking out from his front pocket.

  “I could possibly know that. It’s a basic girl tactic, Fitzgerald.”

  He falls silent. Gazing over the edge of the rooftop, he looks like he’s contemplating this unforeseen possibility. “Huh,” he finally says. I wonder if he’s considering returning downstairs, finding his smitten sorority girl, and escorting her up here to pull his “move” for real, on her instead of me.

  Which I wouldn’t mind, obviously.

  “So you were watching me downstairs,” he says suddenly, his voice a little pleased.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I settle for shaking my head and rolling my eyes once again.

  I lie down on the blanket, looking up into the endless field of stars. The cold of the night on my face feels wonderful, ice cream in the heat of summer or a cool shower after a run. I’m conscious of Fitz reclining on the blanket beside me.

  “First you notice me in Boston,” he says. “Then you memorize our entire conversation in Mike’s Pastry. Now I hear you were keeping tabs on me at the party. . . . If I didn’t know you better, I’d start to think you’re into me.” He’s goading me, and he knows it.

  “But you do know me better,” I say with a lightly warning glance. “Besides, I already told you I only remembered our conversation because I have a good memory.”

  He turns his head toward me. “How good?”

  I turn my head too, meeting his eyes. They’re open, bridges half built and reaching toward me. “I don’t know,” I reply, feeling self-conscious. “I just remember stuff. Grocery lists, the grades I’ve gotten on every exam this year, conversations I had with friends in September. Facts and dates mentioned in class. Like, here, I remember the number of BU applicants last year, from the information session. It’s 62,210.” I gesture vaguely in the air. “Google it.”

  He does. It’s quiet for a moment, except for the chorus of drunken guys belting “All the Small Things” coming from below.

  “Whoa.” He’s reading from his phone. “Yeah, 62,210.” He returns the phone to his pocket. “That’s incredible.”

  “It’s kind of cool, I guess,” I reply. “It’s definitely useful. Except, of course, when I unintentionally memorize conversations with people I’m definitely not into.” I elbow him and earn a laugh, low and soft. “But,” I go on, “having a great memory won’t change the world. It’s not like having a talent for inventing things or creating things. If I could exchange my memory for new ideas, for ingenuity, for dreaming new dreams, I would.”

  “I don’t know,” Fitz says beside me. “Memory is more than just useful.”

  The declaration hits me with guilty weight. This is a boy whose mother’s memory is going to disappear, and here I am telling him the things I’d trade for mine. I feel insensitive, helplessly ineloquent.

  “Because memory is . . . it, right?” he says. “It’s who we are. It’s everything. Everything we love, everything we fear, everything we think is important or necessary or exciting. It all comes from what we remember. The compilation of experiences that constitute a person. Without them, we’re dreaming of nothing, working for nothing. We’re unable to love people because we’re unable to know people. We’re no one.”

  “You can’t think that’s true.” I remember working on homework in the restaurant, walking home from school with Matt, smelling tamales from the kitchen on winter nights. They’re not me. Not the entire me. I want the chance to be more than the person I was yesterday, or the day before, or years before. In my family, memories are nothing but reasons to keep me who I’ve been. “Memory is part of who we are. It’s just not everything. We can’t re-create or relive things endlessly. I want my future to be bigger than my past.”

  We’re facing each other, neither of us moving. The curiosity in Fitz’s eyes is gone. They’re haunted houses now, darkness behind broken windowpanes. He’s wrong to think memory is everything, but I understand where he’s coming from. While I might resent my family for wanting to tie me to home, I would be terrified to forget them.

  I say nothing. I don’t know how to express to Fitz I don’t not understand his fear. I just wouldn’t know how to live with his fear either.

  Finally, Fitz turns. He faces the night, his features hardened in contemplation. “Logically, I understand your point. I don’t know—I don’t want to be implacable. I just don’t know if I have the kind of future you do.”

  I want to tell him we both can have whatever futures we fight for. My situation is nothing like his, but I have my own forces pushing me not to leave home, forces I’m fighting so I can pursue what I want. I don’t know if he’s ready to listen, though, or if it’s even my place to say.

  “Implacable?” I say instead, wanting to ease the heaviness of the conversation. “What’s with the obnoxious vocabulary? First, you use compunctious without flinching. Now implacable? You talk like the thesaurus function on Microsoft Word.”

  Fitz laughs, and I feel his relief that I changed the subject. “I like words,” he says simply. He pats his front pocket, where I remember he’s put his book. “It’s why I travel with this.”

  “Your book?” Without thinking—because I know what I would and wouldn’t do if I bothered to think—I reach over him. The gesture is not wholly unflirtatious. My chest touches his forearm while I pull the book from his pocket, and I disregard the heat in my cheeks, knowing it’s only a reaction
to my own boldness. Nothing deeper.

  Fitz goes completely motionless. The little clouds of his breath disappear while I reach over him.

  I hold the book into the light from the street to read the cover. “Bishop’s Dictionary of Unconventional Usages. Huh.” I open the book, hearing Fitz release his breath beside me. “Unconventional usages,” I repeat. “Why didn’t they just put obnoxious words for impressing girls?”

  “I thought you weren’t impressed,” Fitz replies.

  I turn away to hide my grin, but poorly. “I meant trying to impress girls. Obviously.”

  “Obviously. Right.”

  I shake my head with pretend scorn. “No, really,” I press. “You travel with your own dictionary of unconventional usages because, what? You just like words?” I’m going for joking, but my voice won’t cooperate. It’s endearing, the way Fitz feels this passion deeply enough to physically carry it on his person. The idea of putting photographs of fascinating buildings in my purse, or downloading them to my phone, flits through my head.

  “Yeah, pretty much,” Fitz’s voice cuts in. “My mom’s an English professor, and she has this policy that whenever we’re in a bookstore, whatever I want, she’ll buy. It’s . . . really generous. I mean, my family’s not . . .”

  I nod, understanding. “Yeah. Mine’s not either.”

  “It’s meaningful, you know? I try not to overextend my bookstore requests. But this one day, I found the Dictionary of Unconventional Usages and flipped open to petrichor—I remember the exact page—and by the time Mom found me in the reference books, I’d been there for twenty minutes. The words just fascinated me. The world feels comprehensible when you can find the right labels for it.”

  While he’s explaining, I feel my phone vibrate inside my coat pocket. It must be Matt. I texted my parents good night earlier—they’re in-bed-by-ten people and it’s nearly midnight—and I haven’t texted with friends recently. My heart does this unexpected lurchy up and down. I’m enjoying tonight. But obviously I want to find Matt. But I’m enjoying tonight?