Do you know how most kids want to go to college to have more freedom to party? I came to college to escape my mother's constant scrutiny.
It got to a point where I wasn’t sure if she did it to hurt me or if the pain she caused went right over her head.
“I know it might not always seem like they care, but they do,” he says.
“Easy for you to say,” I reply. “You’re the golden child.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re much cooler than me.”
He messes up my hair before leaving me alone to get ready.
Cam has always treated me like a kid. He thinks he’s my big brother because he was born two minutes and fifteen seconds before me.
And he’s not the only one who sees himself as the big brother and me as the kid. Which is the only reason my parents let me go away for college. Because Cam got a full scholarship to Rockford. And if I went to Rockford, he could look after me. Which is the only reason I got out of going to the community college up the road from our house.
“Em, your food is getting cold!”
“I’m coming!” I lie, but he already knows that. Most kids are nervous for their first day of school; it’s not uncommon. It’s a different feeling, though, when there are constant stares and whispers. When your biggest insecurity is now the thing that gives you away.
When you no longer know why they’re staring because there’s no longer justonereason.
“I was starting to think you were going to ditch today.”
“If it were up to me, I would.” I walk into the kitchen and grab a piece of buttered toast off an otherwise empty plate. “Where’s breakfast?”
“I honestly thought you’d gone back to bed, and I was still kind of hungry, so I ate it.”
“Cam.” I laugh. “I swear you’re a human garbage disposal."
“I’m a growing boy,” he says smugly.
He wasn’t wrong; he might not be physically growing anymore, but at 6’4, he eats more food in a day than I’d need in a week.
I finish the rest of the toast as my stomach grumbles.
“We should get going if you wanna find a seat in the back of the class.” Cam grabs his bag off the back of the bar stool. “Your class starts in half an hour, and the closest parking lot is on the other side of campus.”
“Why do you know more about my classes than I do?”
“I looked at your schedule. And a couple of our classes line up, so I can walk you. We can even meet up for lunch.”
“Cam.”
“I know, I know, I’m going all dad on you. But I just don’t want a repeat of freshmen year.”
My stomach sinks.
“We don’t talk about that,” I mumble, turning to grab a banana off the counter.
“I just don’t—”
“Cam, seriously, drop it. You’re right; we should go.”
Isit in the back of the class because it’s harder for people to stare at me if I’m looking right back at them. It’s one of the only things I’m grateful for when it comes to college—no seating charts.
“Welcome to Economics 436.” Our professor, Mr. Randsen, writes the name of the course across the top of the whiteboard. “If you know what you’re getting yourself into, then you already know this class spans two semesters.”
He drops the Expo marker into a cup on his desk before leaning against it to face the class.
