“I don’t mind.” It was true—talking about it helped me remember why I was bothering in the first place. “It’s nice. Students don’t usually show a lot of interest in what we do outside of class.”
“I’m definitely interested.” He laughed again. “When I was a kid, I saw this thing on TV about Jeffrey Dahmer. I was terrified but couldn’t stop watching. My parents had gone to dinner or something and left me with my cousin, Emmy. And she was in the backyard on the phone all night. My parents got home while I was watching and, oh my god, they were so pissed and Emmy was freaking out. Mom threatened to have her arrested for child neglect.”
“Really?”
“She can be pretty dramatic. I don’t know, I guess that’s where I get it from.” He turned and looked out the window. He was quiet for a bit, and then spoke again. “Ohio is so weird and flat.”
I laughed. “It is both those things.”
The rest of the drive, Tyler talked nonstop, carrying on with his observations about the scenery, changing stations and rattling off facts about the songs. He told stories about other students, from classes and soccer and the dorms. I didn’t know any of them but didn’t mind listening. He mentioned Addison and I asked how they’d met. They were placed in the same dorm first year, both with roommates they couldn’t stand, and had engineered a switch. Addison was from Los Angeles. His father worked on the business side of the film industry, his mother was some kind of important lawyer. “His parents are loaded,” Tyler said, “even for Sawyer.” Tyler had spent a week that summer at home with Addison. “More a compound than a house,” he said, an enormous pool in back and a tennis court behind that. Tyler was shocked to discover that Addison’s parents had a live-in maid, but more so that Addison never mentioned it. When pushed, Addison said something about how she’d always been there. Addison was majoring in economics, which Tyler found predictable and boring. “What’s the point of studying money when you’ve always had it and always will?”
As Tyler talked, the mile markers clicked by and when a sign announced Ohio State in two exits, I was surprised. The time had passed quickly.
The campus was a small city unto itself, roads looping past immense green lawns, sprawling plazas of brick and stone. Sawyer would fit within it several times over. I drove slowly, trying to make sense of the map I’d printed out—I still felt confounded by my new phone and hadn’t figured out how to use the GPS. I scanned the signs directing traffic to various buildings bearing the names of donors; I recognized a few we shared.
“This place is massive,” Tyler said. The temperature had ticked back up. A golf cart coasted by and mobs of students rushed through a crosswalk beneath a cloudless sky. A giddy energy rolled through the crowds, bouncing off the sun-streaked buildings. “I thought about transferring here last year.”
“Really?” It was disarming, the idea that our students could just leave; and, of course, eventually, they all did. I couldn’t imagine spending my entire career at Sawyer, as many of my senior colleagues had, and junior would. But I also couldn’t see a way out.
“Don’t get me wrong, I like Sawyer. Sometimes it just feels so small. But their soccer team is really good, better than here, even though OSU is Division I. Plus Sawyer gave me a scholarship to play.”
“That’s great,” I said. “I don’t know how anyone affords it.”
“Seriously,” he said, turning to look out the window. “Maybe it’s stupid to care so much about soccer, it’s only a game.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid.” On the drive down, Tyler had mentioned that Addison played water polo in high school, and while Sawyer had a team, he gave it up because his father believed athletics were for leisure and not a serious pursuit. I had wondered if Tyler felt implicated in this assessment, but he didn’t offer and I didn’t ask. I stopped at an intersection, peering at a sign. “I’m pretty sure it’s this way.”
Eventually, I found visitor parking, grateful I hadn’t gotten lost. We headed to the library. I felt antsy walking with Tyler beside me, rattling away. I reminded myself that we were doing nothing wrong. No one even knew who we were; we were indistinguishable in this anonymous mass. But I would feel better once we got inside.
The library was built at a scale to match the rest of the campus. A soaring atrium of glass shot through the center. Students filled the tables circling the perimeter at each level, looking down and over the open space in which we stood. Tyler craned his neck.
“No wonder all the books I need are here.”
We took a wide set of stairs to the special collections. I checked in at the front desk and the librarian stepped aside, flipping through a binder. I had called that morning as soon as they opened, worried that I wouldn’t get in on such short notice. I was absurdly relieved when it worked out—I didn’t want to have to fabricate tasks to justify the trip; anxiety about maintaining that charade for an entire day had kept me up half the night.
The librarian returned. “You want the fourth floor. You can take the elevator behind you. Just show these passes.” She slid two small pink cards across the counter; I’d said I was bringing a research assistant. “And we have this for you as well.” She set Tyler’s book on the counter; I had requested it for him.
“Wow, amazing,” Tyler said, and turned to me. “Thank you, this is so great.”
“It’s nothing.” But I was pleased he was happy about it.
We headed toward the bank of elevators and then Tyler stopped.
“What time do you think you’ll be done?”
“The archives close at seven. Is that too late?”
“No, that’s great. I think I’ll just meet you back here.”
“You’re not going to work on your project?” We hadn’t discussed it, but I’d assumed that’s what he’d be doing.
“It’s so nice out, I don’t want to be stuck inside.” He laughed. “No offense.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know, I’ll figure it out.” He looked at the pink card in his hand. “I guess I don’t need this.”
He passed it to me, turned, and was gone.
