One girl had a long blond ponytail, the other had a fluffy natural afro that looked like an ebony halo around her face.
They jogged down the steps in blinding white sneakers, giving perfunctory smiles to the old ladies as they passed.
Then the dark-haired girl stopped and frowned. “Are you guys lost? Looking for something in particular?”
“Oh, no,” Jo Ellen assured them. “We’re alum! Class of ’69!”
The number cracked up the ponytail girl, but the other’s expression grew serious. “Wow, really? That’ssocool! Welcome back.”
“We lived in that hall,” Jo Ellen said, gesturing toward Lyndon. “We met our first day of freshman year. I was a Yankee from New York, she’s a Georgia girl. We were Tri-Delts.”
The blonde’s eyes flicked with disinterest and judgment—she probably didn’t get a bid on rush week—but the other one came closer.
“I love that!” she exclaimed. “And you stayed friends all these years? Think that’ll be us, Courtney?”
“Prolly not,” she said, stuffing little white things into her ears. “C’mon, let’s run.”
But the girl didn’t move, studying Jo Ellen and Maggie like they were on display in a museum.
Oh, look, Courtney, dinosaurs from the sixties.
But she said no such thing, instead extended her hand. “I’m Avery,” she announced. “I’m the RA on the second floor.”
A resident advisor? She looked like a high school senior. Maybe.
“Hello, Avery.” Jo pumped the girl’s hand. “We lived on the second floor. Room 218.”
“That’s next to me,” she said, glancing up. “It’s a room with a good vibe. You must have left your spirits there.”
Maggie fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“We had the best year,” Jo Ellen gushed, all in with the vibes and spirits.
For a second, no one spoke, then Avery nodded and stepped back, respectful and kind. “I’m not supposed to let you, but if you want to go in…”
“No,” Maggie said quickly. “Too many steps.”
“Well, we have an elevator now,” Avery told her. “But if you do need anything, let me know.”
She gave a wave and jogged after her far less friendly pal, who was jumping on two feet, ready to run.
They looked up at the dorm again, then, without talking, walked toward the giant oak tree with an ancient bench under it, stopping to sit in the shade.
“This is making me feel old,” Maggie admitted.
“A little,” Jo Ellen agreed, looking around like she needed to soak it all in. “But it’s also making me appreciate right now. This moment—us.”
Maggie’s heart, so famously cold for much of her life, melted as she studied her friend.
“How do you do it, Jo? How do you stay so positive?”
Jo Ellen gave a dry laugh. “I wasn’t, Maggie. When I was up in Ithaca this past winter, so deep in mourning my Artie that I couldn’t see straight, I didn’t know the meaning of the word positive. I sat in his recliner for hours on end, with nothing to look forward to, nothing to think about, just…sadness.”
“What changed?”
Jo Ellen drew back, looking surprised that Maggie didn’t know. “You,” she said softly. “You’re like Artie.”
“I’m nothing like Artie,” she said with a humorless laugh.
