Her arms found my waist, and I nuzzled into the spot where her shoulder and neck met. The spot that I craved every time I’d fallen down and scraped a knee as a kid, the spot that brought comfort when my best friend moved away.
She pulled away, still holding on to my arms. Her eyes searched mine, and she wiped away a tear that started to fall down my face before she wiped away her own. “I’m going to do better. I am going to be a better mom.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. For not coming clean about Ohio State, for putting your business in jeopardy, and for not telling you about my internship sooner. I was so scared of how you would react that it was easier for me to pretend it wasn’t happening than tell you,” I said.
“I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t talk to me,” she said. “I’m sorry you still feel that way.”
I nodded. “I really am enjoying myself at my internship, and it is shaping the way that I look at the world. I feel so passionate about something, and it’s really refreshing. I’ve never felt this way about anything.”
She grabbed my hands. “That’s all a parent ever wants. I know this isn’t the plan we had, but life makes its own plans. Not everything is prescribed. This is what I tell every student that walks into my office, and I am so devastated that it was never able to resonate with you. That I never validated that you can do whatever you dream.”
“But you did,” I said, tears already starting to form. “I only ever wanted to be like you. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, and you steered me in the best direction you could.”
“I let my own pride get in the way of the love and support you needed. I will never be able to forgive myself for that,” she said.
“Please forgive yourself. Because I forgive you. And I need my mom back,” I said. She wrapped her arms around me, stroking my head as I nestled into the crook of her neck. My safe place.
FORTUNE:
fate; lot; destiny.
The morning came much too quickly, and I barely had the energy to eat a granola bar before Porter was in my driveway again. I sank into the passenger side and slammed the door behind me. He wore the same outfit from last night, as if he’d passed out when he got home and hadn’t bothered to change his clothes.
“Rough night?” I asked, barely mustering up a laugh.
He nodded sheepishly and yawned before backing out. I was happy that we didn’t talk because I wasn’t sure that I could form sentences. It would sure be fun to make it through an English class this morning.
The Jankmobile beckoned to me as we reached the apartment complex, and I vowed to go through a coffee drive-through somewhere on the way to school. I had to get perked up. The city council meeting was tonight, and Ameera was depending on me to make a speech. Since I’d been working for Ameera I’d thought about everything I was doing to stay environmentally sustainable and found myself unplugging all the appliances in the house. My mother was still extremely confused about who was doing it.
When I came into the room, Mr. Harrisburg had written a small note on the board. Connectivity, it read. If I had to guess I was sure he would lecture us on the importance of feeling a connection to what we were reading and writing (which was Moby-Dick, by the way). We waited for him to emerge from his little desk and spout his wisdom, which hadn’t impressed me yet in the way Megan promised it would.
“Connectivity,” he said, underlining it. “By definition it is the state of being connected or the ability to connect. Your dictionaries probably also like to tie this to computers, but imagine with me how connectivity can be poetic in this sense. Connectivity is the ability to connect to everything—nature, literature, people—you name it. In the case of Moby-Dick we have Ishmael, a narrator who is enraptured by this man who is obsessed with hunting one specific whale in the entire world. When we think about connectivity, we need to think about what draws Ishmael to Ahab’s singular quest and comment on how it is an allegory for the things that we ourselves connect with that others don’t understand.
“Let’s talk about it,” Mr. Harrisburg said, clapping.
A girl named Abbie raised her hand. “I almost think that Ishmael wants to see himself in Ahab so much that he overlooks some of his obsessive behavior because he’s afraid that whaling was a bad endeavor and will eventually make him lose it too.”
“Good point,” Harrisburg said. “Like we’ve established, Ishmael is educated in a way that most of the crew is not, and while he’s been trying to justify whaling as a righteous venture with Ahab as the example, he needs to validate that things are okay. Can we talk about their connection more deeply, though?”
“That’s true,” said a guy named Austin. “But they are removed from each other. Ishmael recognizes some of the craziness and recognizes that Ahab is a different man. One that has lost everything, like his sanity as well as his leg, to Moby-Dick and he’s, like, messed up. Ishmael recognizes that but still respects him. I don’t think he’s afraid of becoming him.”
I was staring out the window waiting for the class to be done. I could barely keep my eyes open let alone focus on a discussion that I wasn’t terribly interested in.
“Danielle? What do you think?” Harrisburg said.
I internally cringed. “What am I thinking about?”
“Connectivity; it’s underlined and everything for your convenience,” he said. The class snickered a bit while I tried to gather my thoughts.
“I mean, he’s definitely not connected to Ahab in the way that he is to Queequeg. Their connection is, like, a lifelong friendship and deep love. I think we should be talking about their connectivity if anything,” I said.
Harrisburg shook his head. “We’re talking about the observer-hero dynamic of Ahab and Ishmael. Why is Ishmael observing the hero of the novel, Ahab, and what does that mean as the deepest level of connection? It’s a challenge, it’s engaging, and it’s timeless. That’s why these stories are still popular. There will always be a part of us that enjoys observing the hero but never quite touching their lives. The mystery of it, the allure of it, is distinctly human. That’s what I’m trying to get at here. We need to focus on how Melville illustrates this kind of connection and how we replicate that today, whether it be us observing our favorite celebrity or someone who you feel is much braver, smarter, more loving than you are.
“Your assignment for Wednesday is to write about your experience as an observer or a hero. Be creative. And don’t forget about the looming final paper of doom. I’m still expecting those to be perfect, since I assigned them at the beginning of the semester,” he said.
My classmates all stood up, and I quickly put my things in my bag, ready to head over to Luke and Porter’s to check up on Luke. I had almost made it out the door when Mr. Harrisburg stopped me. “Are you able to chat today?” he asked.
I looked out the window again. I didn’t have to go into work, but I was desperate to see Luke … I guess if I didn’t stay after today I would be forced to do it another time. “I can,” I said.
“Good.” He nodded. We waited for everyone to leave before he asked me to pull up a chair next to his desk. I sat with my legs crossed and my sweating hands pushed together. I didn’t have much experience with staying with a professor after class, but it was usually to talk about bad news. “I just wanted to kind of clear the air about me singling you out in class. I didn’t mean to make you apprehensive, I just want you to think, you know?”
I was shocked. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“I’m glad. I always have to have one good sport to make me look tougher than I actually am.” He winked. “In all honesty, how is your semester project coming along?”
I cringed a little.
“That good?” he asked. “Well, I’m sure you will figure it out. If you want to talk about it, my office is always open.”
“Oh, is that it, then?” I asked. I collected my bags to stand.
“And one other thing,” he said. “I heard that you’ll be talking at the city council meeting tonight. I s
aw the agenda. I just wanted to say I’ll be there too. Don’t worry, I’m not contesting anything you’ll be saying. I’m there on my own mission.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I’m talking on behalf of the funding for the Pinewoods Nursing Home. You know, the committee figured I’d be the best-spoken,” he said.
“I volunteered there in high school,” I said.
“It’s a wonderful place,” he said. “But their funding is being cut, and they’re already short on staff.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“We’ll get it sorted out,” he said. I stared at him for a while, probably an awkward while, before he scooted his desk chair out.
“Oh!” I said. “One more thing. Would you be willing to submit my grade minus the final paper to the counseling office this week? I’m trying to get reaccepted into Ohio State, and if they have a good word that I’ll pass this class, I’m in.”
“Already sent it a while back. Your counselor thought you might need it to keep up with your plan,” he said.
“That’s incredible. You don’t know how much this means to me,” I said, relief surging through my body.
“Happy to do it. Good chat, Danielle. Be sure to save me a seat tonight.”
* * *
As if making a speech to the Denton community wasn’t hard already, now I had to attempt to impress my English professor with my wordy prowess … which should sound ridiculous because it was. On a scale from one to absolute mental breakdown I was at “lying on my floor unable to move.”
My vision for the meeting was limited—I should have really gone to one to check it out before. Could nerves be this powerful? Ameera obviously wanted me to speak in Denton because it was my hometown. She said to speak from my experience, and I only hoped that my experience was worthy enough to help persuade the city into more sustainable living.
The seats were only a third of the way full when I walked in, and Ameera was nowhere in sight. I sat by myself in the back of the room looking over my notes and keeping down the vomit that threatened to creep up. This was nerves, at least I hoped, and not the flu that had kept Luke down for a week.
“Thanks for the spot,” Mr. Harrisburg said. I jumped as I looked up to meet his eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, no, you aren’t the scary part of this,” I said. I ran my hands over the top of my jeans to try and keep the sweat off.
“You’ll be great,” he said. “And if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be going before you.”
“That helps a little,” I said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, looking over it in the way I had been a few seconds ago.
“I’d like to call this meeting to order,” I heard faintly over the beating of my own heart in my head. I basically tuned out everything until I heard them say, “Please welcome Mr. Finn Harrisburg.”
Mr. Harrisburg stood up and winked at me before making his way to the podium. I found it easier to focus on him in this moment than to be glued to the small notecards in my lap. He coughed a little into the microphone before spreading his sheet out in front of him.
“Hello, everyone. As Mr. Jones said, I am Finn Harrisburg, and I’m here to talk on behalf of the Pinewoods Nursing Home. Some of you may be aware that staffing has recently been cut by a quarter while demand for patient care has nearly doubled. Families are forced to take their loved ones farther away from Denton in order to get proper care. The nearest facility is nearly forty miles away. For the Pinewoods patients, Denton is their home. If they’re struggling with dementia or memory loss, taking them away from their home can be detrimental.
“My father is one of these patients who is facing the impossible decision of relocating. His progressive Alzheimer’s has declined in the past two years, but the one thing that brings back my old dad, the one thing that makes sense to him, is getting to take walks around Park Green just like we used to when I was a kid. I cherish those moments of clarity with him. They are something that no one can truly understand unless you’ve had a parent go through the same struggle.
“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad for me. I’m here today to bring awareness to a cause that Denton desperately needs to fund. We will be having a luncheon next Tuesday with more information on our plans for a budget if anyone would be interested in attending. Thank you.”
Everyone clapped, and I sat in my chair, gobsmacked. His dad was the reason he stayed here, not taking those professor positions elsewhere. I’d been so wrong about him. I watched as Mr. Harrisburg joined me.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I said.
“Me too, kid,” he said back.
“Our next speaker is Danielle Cavanaugh from Green Transitions,” I heard from the front of the room. Mr. Harrisburg nudged my arm, and I shook out of my scared stupor. I clutched my notecards in my fist and took a deep breath, channeling the inner boss lady that Zoe so frequently referenced. I somehow managed to make it up to the front of the room without tripping over myself. I set my notecards down with shaking hands and adjusted the microphone to reach my mouth. I squinted at the bright lights, trying to make eye contact with Mr. Harrisburg as a form of comfort.
“Hello, everyone. My name is Danielle Cavanaugh, and I am here on behalf of Green Transitions Environmental Policy offices in Cleveland. Three weeks ago an article was published in the Cleveland Sun Times declaring Denton the ‘least green city in Ohio.’ As a lifelong resident and environmental advocate for this city, I knew I had to speak out against this claim and lobby for change,” I said.
I looked up from my notes, taking another deep breath. This time, when I looked in the front row, I saw a familiar pair of eyes hidden behind ridiculously long lashes. My heart welled with gratitude for a moment before I read what his shirt said. In permanent marker he’d written “My Underwear.” An uncontrollable laugh escaped my mouth.
“Sorry, yes, this is a serious topic,” I said, pulling myself back together. “I thought about tying myself to the biggest tree in Florence Park to make a statement. I thought about going door to door to remind people of the joys of recycling. But the thing that I ultimately knew would make the most impact would be to speak with the policy makers of this city that I love so much. You all.
“There are small things that everyone can do every day to make a difference in the world. You could take shorter showers, unplug your appliances when you aren’t using them, opt for air-drying your hair. But as a community, there are big changes that can happen to make an even greater impact. Implementing a stricter recycling policy in city buildings would be a great start. From there, the whole city. Opening up a new community garden in Florence Park would not only be beneficial for the environment, but for people like Finn Harrisburg’s father it would be a place for everyone to gather and appreciate the beautiful city they live in and love.
“I’m not expecting everything to change overnight. Denton wasn’t built in a day. I am here to encourage our city to consider letting Green Transitions perform a full audit of the city’s environmental impact and come back with ideas on how to improve. This process takes time and money up front, but the money the city would save on energy usage and other costs will even out in years to come.
“My boss, Ameera Chopra, will be available for questions next week for a second presentation. I believe in this city, and I believe in the impact that each person has on the world. Even if nothing comes of this speech policy-wise, I hope it inspires some to take action and make the changes in their own lives that will help their community thrive. Thank you.”
Porter clapped loudly from the front row as I sat back down next to Mr. Harrisburg. Mr. Harrisburg told me that I’d done a great job, and as the third speaker started to talk, I walked out the back door. My blood was still pumping from the residual adrenaline, and little black dots started appearing in the edges of my vision. I sat down on the city hall floor and put my head in between my legs, realizing I was sitting on the Denton city seal.
“Danielle?” I heard.
I lifted my head cautiously, seeing the “My Underwear” T-shirt in my line of vision. I lifted my eyes higher to meet Porter’s.
“I told you not to come,” I said faintly.
“Technically you just refused to tell me the date of your speech,” he said. I didn’t even have to look at him to know that the Smirk was on his face. “I had to see how it ended after I got my little sneak preview at work.”
“And? What’s the verdict?” I asked.
“I think my dramatic reading could have been more moving,” he said. “But you did all right.”
“I can’t believe I just did that. I have a bit of a terrible speech-giver reputation around town,” I said.
“I think it’s safe to say you’ve changed that reputation,” he said.
I finally felt like I was no longer on the verge of fainting, and I was able to sit up and face Porter. His “My Underwear” shirt was rolled up on the sleeves to expose his arms, and my eyes trailed down to his fingers tapping absentmindedly on the floor.
“What are you really doing here?” I asked.
An unspoken tension had lived between us since the moment in the woods and after the hospital. While I’d used every effort to separate us, Porter had foiled every opportunity to be separated.
“Well, I figured you hadn’t told anyone else about this and wanted to make sure you had a familiar face in the audience. That, and you needed someone to remind you that you could picture everyone in their underwear,” he said.
I shook my head, which felt like a balloon stuffed with cotton balls. In an effort to stop the sensation, I lay back on the marble floors and let the coolness sink into my clothes.
“I broke up with Emilie,” Porter said.
I stared up at the ceiling for a few beats. “Are you sad?”
“Not as much as I thought I’d be,” he said. His legs swung around so he could lie down beside me. I counted the tiles on the ceiling to occupy my mind—anything to help me forget that he was lying down just inches away from me.
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