Blank Pages

by Alice Darlington

  “I knew those girls wouldn’t alter my future. I knew I’d never care enough about them for it to matter. That’s not how I felt with you.”

  “But that’s just it, Ben—I want to alter your future. Not in a negative way…I mean, I can see your reasoning.” And the independence in me did get it. I understood what it meant to take others into account when making decisions for your future. Everyone deserves those selfish years to find themselves. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem to make it hurt any less.

  “I want to be with someone who’s planning for a future beside me, not a future I’m not even a part of. What’s the point of dating, then?”

  “I hate that I didn’t get it sooner.” His hands gently stroked my hair. “All that wasted time,” he said, almost an afterthought.

  “I want serious,” I told him. “I don’t want jumping from bed to bed because life tells us that’s okay. I want a real relationship. I want commitment and plans. I want a relationship that has a future.” I wasn’t asking for marriage and babies. I wasn’t even asking for post-graduation plans. I was only asking for security. I wanted some protection for my heart.

  “Babe, I want that, too. I was a stupid eighteen-year-old then. Now, I’m a less stupid twenty-one-year-old. I know what I want, and I want to be with you. I want us to be together. I want your indent in the bed beside me, your early-morning coffee breath, and your late-night cuddles after too many chocolate chip pancakes. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

  If I’d had words to say in response to that, I would have said them. Instead, I nuzzled into his chest more, until he pulled me back to look at me.

  “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” Yeah, that’d be good.

  He leaned in, one hand cupping my chin and the other resting on the small sliver of flesh that was showing from where his too-large t-shirt had ridden up. He was a breath away…almost there. I felt tingly from anticipation.

  “I don’t have coffee breath in the morning,” I said, just registering what he’d said. I was lying, of course. As his mouth closed in on mine, I could feel his lips turn up at the sides. I’d never tried ecstasy, though it was all over parties around campus, mainly popular among the younger crowds. I couldn’t tell you what it felt like, but they called it euphoria, and I couldn’t imagine it having anything on Ben. This, his kiss, was ecstasy—my version of it, at least.

  There was a shift between us. We were hesitant at first, but our desire was growing stronger. I lifted my hand up, running my fingers through his soft hair. He deepened the kiss, exploring my mouth with intensity. I pulled him in, pressing my body to his. He pushed me back, softly, probably trying to show me that he was in charge. If it hadn’t felt so damn good, I’d have protested. A burn trickled down my body, a good burn, like when you’re outside in freezing cold weather and you drink some really amazing hot chocolate you can feel all the way to your toes.

  I didn’t know how long we were right there, pressed into each other, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I’d be late for class, didn’t care that I didn’t have a job lined up after graduation, didn’t even care that my stomach was empty and I was starving.

  Okay, maybe that last one was an exaggeration.

  But, the kiss was enough to make me forget. It was full of promise and perfect and the only word coming to my mind was Finally.

  I felt his lips pull up, showing a glimpse of his laugh lines.

  “You heard that, huh?” Must remember to keep my mouth shut when high off Ben’s kisses.

  “Yeah, finally,” he agreed, leaning in again. The kiss, like the last one had, held so much hope. It was new but familiar, like we’d done this all our lives, like we’d never stop. It wasn’t a bad way to fill a blank page.

  CHAPTER 19

  AFTER THE THIRD article of The Dixie Chronicle was published and distributed around campus, I received an email from the dean of the literature department. Dr. Rodgers, my journalism professor and the editor-in-chief of The Dixie Chronicle, was copied as well. We were to meet with the dean on Thursday morning to discuss the most recent edition of the paper.

  I knew it was about my article. It was what I was sure they’d label a controversial piece, which I’d titled The Price of a Degree.

  The article clearly stemmed from my own worries about financial security, and even though I tried not to make my articles too personal, I knew it was a topic worrying a lot of students. The majority of the population had to take out at least some loans to cover tuition, not to mention the arm, leg, kidney, and pint of blood they were expected to give to purchase textbooks.

  Every semester there were new fees. We paid for the computer lab, though there were never any open computers. We paid for parking, though there were never any open spaces. We paid for mandatory online resources, though we never actually needed to use them.

  I wouldn’t have said the article wasn’t toeing the line of dramatic, but the financial burden of higher education was a serious issue. Dixie’s tuition was listed at $683 per credit hour. You need at least 120 hours to earn a bachelor’s degree, bringing the total to $81,960, and don’t even get me started on interest.

  I may have written: Let us all hope employment rates continue to rise or we will effectively be the most educated generation asking if you would like fries with that.

  It always comes back to money. It controls so many of our decisions. We’re money hungry and bone-tired. There are people who give up their dreams of a degree due to the impractical cost of higher education. Even those of us who do pursue college are forced to make decisions based on the profit of careers. We often ignore passions and happiness due to the forces around us telling us we have to make more money, build more success, be something beyond.

  We are pushed to choose our life’s path based on monetary gain, and I’m here to tell you: we are going to end up the most successful, unhappy generation that ever paid so much for our unhappiness.

  I wouldn’t mention it to Dean Trent, but I was pretty proud of that parting line. I wasn’t exactly nervous about the meeting; the worst they could do was refuse to let me write. That in itself wasn’t the most terrible punishment, but I needed at least a little boost to my resume, which was unsatisfactory according to Sherri.

  “We can go ahead and get started. I’m sure Dr. Rodgers will be in soon,” the dean told me, ushering me into her organized office.

  I didn’t really want to start without Dr. Rodgers. He was straightforward, eccentric, and very encouraging of us voicing our own opinions, with the exception of the veto he’d delivered on my article about rape in college bars. I wondered if it would it be rude to suggest we wait for him.

  “Ms. Baxter, we’re concerned about your article in the last edition of The Dixie Chronicle.” Those words had me straightening my back, eager to fight, ready for battle. “It appears your piece may have painted the university in a negative light,” she continued.

  “How so?” I asked, playing dumb. This was about tuition. The university website boasted about having “reasonable” rates. They may have been less in monetary value compared to Ivy League colleges, but I assure you, there is no tuition that is reasonable unless giving up your necessary appendages is defined as reasonable.

  “The information you reported about the financial aspects of our college did not represent the best interests of our university.”

  “Ah,” I said, nodding slowly. “Well, they were very accurate. They came straight from the financial aid office.” I had taken great pains in retrieving those numbers, and I had the emails to prove it. The numbers were copied number for number. It wasn’t my fault the figures were so large. I hadn’t even mentioned the unholy add-on of wanting a private bathroom in the dorms, and by private, I meant sharing with three other girls as opposed to twenty or thirty.

  “Be that as it may, the newspaper is meant to enhance the knowledge and experience of our students, not deter them from studying at Dixie.”

  I was about to defend myself by saying I’
d truthfully relayed that knowledge in the latest issue of The Chronicle when the office door slid open, allowing Dr. Rodgers to enter and take a seat beside me. His shirt was half-untucked beneath his sport coat, which had a leather patch on each elbow. He’d once admitted to me that he only wore it for show, the same reason he smoked a pipe during late-night editing sessions right before deadlines, even though smoking on campus was strictly prohibited.

  “Sorry I’m late, Dean Trent. Got held up in class.” He winked at me. He didn’t even have classes on Thursday mornings.

  “Jim, come in. Come in,” Dean Trent instructed over the large desk that separated us. “I was just explaining to Ms. Baxter about her latest article in the newspaper.

  “Ah, The Price of a Degree—truthful, that one.” He smiled ruefully, and I did so in return.

  Dean Trent was not as impressed. “It was disrespectful to the university and to the integrity of the newspaper,” she chastised.

  “All my numbers came from the university. The truth wasn’t distorted in the least,” I protested. “These articles are meant to inform the students. That’s exactly what I did.” My justification fell on deaf ears. The dean couldn’t have cared less about the truth. Her only concern was making sure the campus newspaper didn’t negatively affect her or her road to success.

  “Dr. Rodgers, aren’t you going to reprimand her?” Dr. Trent inquired. Her hair was frazzled, and she kept grinding her teeth together. In this atmosphere, she almost looked like a toddler.

  “Not at all. She’s a journalism student, and I’m proud that she stuck to the truth and delivered a controversial article.” Dean Trent was outraged. She started to speak, but Dr. Rodgers held up his hand. “Now, that being said, the newspaper is a funded by the university, and ultimately, the choice of what’s published remains with them.” He turned to me. “If you want to continue writing for the paper, you won’t be able to contribute any articles that present the university in a negative way.” He winked. “The same as it would be with any magazine or periodical.”

  “Understood,” I lied, not fully knowing if I’d won or lost the argument.

  “Very well,” Dean Trent said, clearly unhappy and exasperated with the both of us.

  CHAPTER 20

  I HAD PUT in the extra effort today. My long hair fell down my back in waves, and my black skinny jeans were tucked into my gray army boots. I had aviator sunglasses resting on my eyes, and I knew I looked good, or at least better than usual based on the attention of a couple guys I passed as I walked across campus. When my eyes met Ben’s across the crowded parking lot, my heart stuttered a little before continuing its beat at a much quicker pace. The strength of my feelings for Ben weren’t something I had noticed at first. It wasn’t an immediate realization, more of a gradual awakening.

  After I let myself feel them, they hit full force.

  He was standing with a few guys next to his truck when our gazes connected. I could tell when he saw me because the words that had been streaming out of his mouth stopped. I gave him a small, falsely confident wave and a smile then started weaving through the students lingering in the parking lot. As soon as I reached him, his hand found my wrist, squeezing just slightly, holding me in place beside him. If he’d dropped his hand just slightly, he’d have been holding my hand. The thought made my fingers tingle. When he finished the conversation he was having with one of his fraternity brothers, we made our way across the quad for history.

  “Want to get lunch after class?” he asked when we entered the history building on the fourth floor. I could only nod. Lunch sounded great, but I was too busy trying to pretend I wasn’t winded from walking up the three flights of stairs to really show my appreciation.

  We went to the Sandwich Factory, which had actually previously been a factory. Now the inside was converted, bistro style. Picnic tables were covered in checkerboard tablecloths, and red and yellow squirt bottles of ketchup and mustard sat on every table, along with salt and pepper shakers. I ordered the half Philly, my usual. The Philly cheesesteak was, in my opinion, the best thing on the menu. Ben got four bacon cheeseburger sliders, and we split a large order of fries in a red wicker basket lined with red checkered parchment paper. They were covered in seasoned salt and promised recurring customers.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?” I asked him.

  “I have to study for psychology,” he grumbled in all of his cuteness. “Mrs. Krutger is a dragon.” That had me covering my mouth so chewed-up remnants of my sandwich didn’t come flying out.

  “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Krutger is not a dragon. She is a sweet old lady.”

  “If by sweet old lady you mean over-the-hill menopausal winged demon of the underworld then yes, yes she is,” he scoffed, grabbing a handful of fries.

  “Let me guess, pop quiz?” I asked. I had already taken Mrs. Krutger, and even with her love of pop quizzes, I’d enjoyed her class for the most part.

  “Yes! Every other class. I don’t even know why I have to take psychology.”

  “Everyone has to take it,” I tell him. “I think they hope we’ll understand each other better.”

  “What are you doing after this?” He returned my question, finishing off his last burger.

  “Meeting with Sherri.” I rolled my eyes. A meeting discussing my lack of future plans was sure to dampen this day. Spending my time drowning in self-doubt wasn’t my idea of a fun afternoon.

  When we made it back to campus, we parted ways at the library with a kiss and a promise to see each other later, when he’d finished studying and I’d finished drowning my insecurities in caffeine.

  A little early for my meeting, I sat outside the office, waiting for Sherri, taking a quiz on my phone about what ice cream flavor I was, which seemed like the most productive way to pass the time. When she came bustling in, still eating her bologna sandwich, she waved me into her office as crumbs fell onto her pressed button-down. I could appreciate that.

  When she settled in behind her desk, tossing the rest of her lunch and shuffling papers on her desk, she got right to the point.

  “What’s your biggest fear?” Her eyes were expectant, like the answer should have been on the tip of my tongue.

  I responded with the first thing that popped into my head, considering it was the main source of my insecurities lately. “Not having a job.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not true—at least not entirely.” My face held the same state of confusion that seemed to always be present during these counseling sessions. “If you were that afraid of not having a job, if that were your greatest fear, you’d have chosen a different major or taken a job outside the writing field. If that were your main concern, you’d make sure to avoid it.” She had my attention. “I see students in here every year who are finishing their degree and have a plan and employment lined up, but they don’t want the job because they didn’t actually choose a major that meshed well with their happiness. You’re the opposite.”

  Point one for Sherri. I supposed there was some truth in that. Really, I probably could have found a decent enough job. As a last resort, my dad would probably hire me as a receptionist. I didn’t want to be a receptionist, though. I wanted to find job that made stable money and made me happy. Time was the enemy. I didn’t have enough time to decide what I wanted to do.

  I tried again. “Running out of time. I’m afraid of not having enough time.”

  Her smile indicated that she’d known that long before I walked into her office today. She knew I was running out of time to decide. It wasn’t a secret as the semester winded down.

  “I don’t want to make the wrong decision,” I told Sherri. “I’m scared I’m going to choose a job, a career, then I’ll wake up in twenty years and realize I made the wrong decision.” I was immobilized by the fear of choosing badly, of wasting time.

  Ironically, sometimes I felt myself wishing time away. I couldn’t wait for the weekend. Couldn’t wait for summer. Couldn’t wait for graduation.
Other times, I felt crippled by the passage of time, like there would never be enough.

  Time goes on. You can try to make it stop, deny its ability to control your life, refuse to give it substance and rely on instincts to make it through the motions of life—but it won’t stop. It ticks, and it tocks, reminding you that there will always be some part of life out of your control. It’s incessant, unyielding. There’s so much pressure not to waste it, because, for all of us, it will eventually run out.

  Time teaches us. We become more ourselves as the years pass and lessons are learned. In adolescence, everything seems so significant. Life is measured on this grand scale, and we don’t realize what really does and doesn’t matter. As we grow older, we realize the importance of true relationships, the significance of emotion and heart. Unfortunately, it takes a little longer for some. Adolescence does not end when you graduate high school or turn twenty. Some people know more about life and heartache at sixteen than others do at thirty-five. There are middle-aged men struggling with growing up and mothers who live for high school drama.

  “Do you think college is important?” she asked me. I battled with the urge to be honest. Was this a trick? How do you tell an employee of a college that you think you’ve wasted your time?

  “I can’t answer that,” I told her honestly. “At least not for the entire population. For some people, education is a stepping stone, a necessary passage to their destination. I get that doctors and lawyers have so much to learn to be able to do their jobs successfully. I just don’t agree with the way society has made it a necessity for happiness and at the same time made it impossible for most people to get a reasonable education without debt, especially since most careers could be learned as interns or apprentices.”

  We act like college is the most important time in our lives. In your early twenties, everyone stresses the necessity of education. Doing well, finishing, earning a degree—it consumes us. It’s the key to a stable future and unlocks a lot of doors, but stability isn’t happiness, and sometimes success and passion just don’t line up.