I spent my free period in Knowles Basement, Bexley’s student center. It was an open floor plan, all glass and warm woods, and the only closed-off spaces were the newspaper and yearbook offices at one end and the Tuck Shop at the other. I’d met up there withDove earlier this morning during teacher consultation for a snack, and unsurprisingly, the place had been packed, its line twisting and turning. I’d draped an arm around her and pretended to fall asleep while we waited to pay. She giggled and buried her face in my shoulder, and I’d noticed her perfume smelled like sugar cookies and that it didn’t take much to make her laugh.
But now class was in session, so the basement had pretty much emptied out. I set up camp on one of the black couches near Tuck’s end zone, facing a floor-to-ceiling window in the corner. My usual setup. Sometimes I studied, sometimes I watched Netflix, and sometimes I took naps. Today was one of the nap days. I collapsed onto the couch and stretched out on my back, wishing I hadn’t forgotten my headphones in my room. There was no choice but to be carried away by theclick-clackof people’s laptop keyboards.
A voice woke me up ten, possibly forty-five, minutes later. Some kid was talking nearby, and even though I couldn’t see him—the back of my couch put me in stealth mode—I put it together that he was on the phone.
I wasn’t an eavesdropper, but this kid had a nice voice, so I lay there listening. “Yeah, I guess I slept okay,” he said. “It was just different. You can heareverything. People walking up and down the hall, and the toilets flushing…” He sighed. “No, Mom, donotsend Bec’s noise machine. I’ve been here one night. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
No!I wanted to shout.Have her send the noise machine! You willwantthe noise machine!Because I had one, and it was a game-changer. I’d gotten it sophomore year, when Paddy and I ended up with a shitty room assignment: second floor, right next to the bathroom.Paddy had been skeptical at first, but by night three, he’d changed his tune. We also found that combining it with our big box fans was even more effective. We called itThe Vortex.
“Classes were fine,” the guy continued. “Today’s a half day, so we go to all of them. It turns out my chemistry teacher knows exactly where we live. She used to teach at…”
What year is he?I wondered. He was obviously new but sounded older than a freshman. Plus, he hadn’t mentioned getting lost yet.Maybe a new sophomore?That was pretty common at Bexley, for your class to multiply your second year. Most of the recruits were New England kids who’d gone to day schools that capped off at ninth grade. In fact, if Nana (Dad’s mother) hadanyinfluence over Mom, Nick and I probably would’ve been in that boat. Dad had gone to private school his whole life, but Mom was public all the way. “Part of the reason we live in Connecticut,” she told Nana, “is because of the school system. It’s important to Jay and me that our children experience both.” So we did, and Darien’s hockey coach had been less than excited when he found out we were going elsewhere for high school.
“And,” the new sophomore added, “I think you’d really like my math teacher, Mrs. Shepherd. She reminds me of…”
Smooth, I thought. His voice was smooth, but also subtle, with this coolness to it. It made me want to close my eyes and risk drifting off to sleep again. Not because his voice was boring or anything, but because it was…well, soothing. I felt strangely relaxed listening to this random kid tell his mom about his day, a day that wasn’t even half over.
“But English was atotalCFS,” he said, now in a tone with alittle more urgency. What did CFS mean? “That class I was put in? It’s the English department’s equivalent of ‘Rocks for Jocks.’ It’s the class for…”
And that’s when it dawned on me. I knew exactly what he was talking about: Bexley’s Senior Writing Seminar, always with a roster heavily skewed toward PG guys, a demographic that wasremarkablyathletically inclined. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots, and when I did, I smiled to myself.
I wasn’t eavesdropping on a new sophomore.
“No, Mom, you don’t need to do anything. It’s handled.”
So, this is him, I mused.This is Tater Tot’s future husband.“I’m going tomarryhim, Charlie,” my six-going-on-sixteen-year-old cousin had informed me last Thanksgiving. “And you can’t object!”
“Yes,” Tate’s beloved went on. “I went to the registrar and asked to be put in a different one.”
Which one?
“The only class that worked with my schedule was Frontier Literature. Fingers crossedHuck Finnisn’t on the syllabus.”
I smirked.It is.
“I should go, though. I have history in fifteen minutes.” He paused, then laughed. “No, I haven’t gotten lost yet. This girl I met yesterday gave me a tour after dinner last night, and I annotated my campus map.” Another chuckle. “Yeah, you know me.”
Sage, I realized. She had been a tour guide since freshman year, usually the admissions office’s first call. It was one of the things I loved most about her, how bright and friendly she was—sunshine in human form.
I heard him sigh, getting ready to embark on his journey tohistory. “Uh-huh, talk later. I love—oh, no, I haven’t met them yet.”
Patience, young Padawan, I thought.Patience.
“Yeah, I know, but I think they’ve been busy. They’re a pretty big deal here.”
Well, yes.
“But I’m meeting Charlie today.”
Yeah, you are, I thought, because after all, it was my duty to make sure he was good enough for Tate. She deserved only the best.
The Meadow was where we’d rendezvous. All the brick sophomore-junior houses and a few academic buildings overlooked the green space, which was perpetually flooded with students. It was the universal shortcut to literally anyplace on campus, and when the weather was nice, girls spread out blankets and did homework, while Nick and I and some of our friends played a round of campus golf. Today was no different. It was at least eighty degrees and sunny, pockets of people all over. “Hey, Charlie!” Quinn Bailey, my ex-girlfriend who didn’t reallygetthat she was my ex-girlfriend, shouted from over by Wexler Hall’s front steps. It looked like she was restringing her lacrosse stick. I waved at her, feeling people’s eyes on me. Yeah, The Meadow was, without a doubt, Bexley’s center stage.
So I did what I did best.
I put on a show.
“Fiancée!” I called when I zeroed in on Sage, her long, wavy blond hair in its usual ponytail. I broke into a cheesy slow-motion run. She flashed me a smile, and, a blink later, she was headingtoward me, her lack of speed right on point.
