August 2011
As I watch my parents drive away from the John Abbott residence parking lot, a single thought makes its home in my mind:
For the first time in my life, I’m free.
Yes, my throat is knotted, and I had to hold back tears when my mother was bawling her eyes out in my arms. If it had been up to her and Dad, I would have stayed in Val-d’Or for my two years of CEGEP.
But despite the pain of missing them already, I can’t help thinking it was about damn time.
The only way I managed to convince my parents to come to Montréal for CEGEP, instead of waiting until university to leave home, was the reminder that pursuing my studies in Englishwould improve my chances of getting the job they’d always dreamed of for me—software engineer.
Is it true?
Absolutely not.
I’m here to become a video game developer.
I turn and head back inside the century-old red-bricked residence building, guilt gnawing through my insides. It’s not that I don’t want to serve my parents in the way Dad has taught me to do. Game development still pays well. They won’t have to worry about a thing.
By the time Dad retires, I’ll be a senior developer, and I’ll make enough to support them.
Them, and the family I’ll hopefully have by that time.
Instead of heading back to my room, which is on the second floor, I decide to walk around instead. The hallways are busy with other families helping their kids move in, and I have to watch my large, clumsy self so I don’t bump into anyone.
I’m doing the right thing by being here.
Yup. I am.
The more I tell myself that, the more I’ll believe it.
Sniffling sounds interrupt my thoughts, and I slow my pace before turning the corner of the hallway. The sight in front of me stops me short.
The tearful sounds are coming from a little girl with chestnut hair, probably around eight or nine years old. But that’s not who took my breath away. The culprit is the stunning girl holding her against her chest.
Silky peach skin. A shiny cascade of chestnut hair. Bright green eyes framed by dark lashes. And pouty pink lips I can’t stop looking at.
I’m far enough away that she hasn’t seen me. And I don’t want her to, either. From the looks of it, this is a heavy moment. The two adults, who must be her parents, have puffy eyes fromcrying, but seem to be impatiently waiting for the little girl to calm down. And this beautiful girl looks so brave, so caring, as she tries to soothe the child.
There’s just something about this girl. Now isn’t the time, but I know I have to see her again.
It takes four days before I see her again.
Well, not technically.
I do notice her sitting way at the back of my humanities class on Tuesday, but by the time I manage to wrangle myself out of the stupid desk-chair combo that definitely isn’t designed for someone my size, she’s already gone.
On Thursday night—or as the rez kids call it,Jeudredi(a French portmanteau of Thursday and Friday)—I attend my first party with my three roommates. The music is loud and the beer plentiful, purchased by those who have had the pleasure of turning eighteen already. It’s the cheap kind, but I don’t turn up my nose at the offer of free drinks by the hosts.
“Bro,” my roommate Johann says with a bump on my shoulder, his German accent thick. “Now this is a party.”
I wouldn’t know. There isn’t a universe in which my parents would have let me attend a party. In this universe, my sixteen-year-old roommate has seen more parties than me and can outdrink me by an entire six-pack, if not more.
To be honest, I’m not really paying attention to the vibes of this crowded party. Instead, I’m scanning the room for someone in particular. Someone that my thoughts have kept coming back to, over and over.
And there she is.
Leaning against the wall with a red solo cup in hand, she looks absolutely beautiful in the flowery summer dress that falls justabove her knees, leaving her soft calves exposed. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her.
