Without thinking, I mute my app and slowly sit back down.
The boy smiles as someone pats him on the back in greeting, then lifts up his chin to acknowledge the clapping coming from a row of students.Who is this guy?
Students begin chanting, “Esben! Esben! Esben! Hashtag rock yourself! Hashtag rock yourself!”
So, his name is Esben. Ice-cube plucker is named Esben.Huh. Well, whatever.
I frown and shrink lower into my seat. I don’t know what is happening, but it’s making me horribly agitated. This Esben boy laughs and waves away the attention. A girl in the third row calls his name loudly enough to be heard over the ever-growing chanting and beckons him to a free seat next to her. He’s clearly some kind ofüberpopular campus icon.
I’ll just ignore him. It’ll be easy. We have nothing in common.
Yet, I find myself staring at the back of his head for the hour-and-a-half class, and I have to work hard to stay on top of my note taking. Against my will, I’m intrigued when the professor raises the concept of charismatic leadership and then gestures toward Esben, eliciting laughter and applause from the entire room. By the end of the class, my heart is pounding, and I practically leap out of my seat the second the professor finishes assigning our reading. I reach the door in mere seconds, pushing through the flood of exiting students to get outside.
God, I need air. I need air.
My pace quickens as I separate myself from the mass of students, and I make it back to my room in record time. I deposit my backpack onto the sofa in the middle room and look in the mirror while I calm down. My bangs are still neat, my long ponytail has held its place, and my mascara has not smeared or left disgusting, goopy clumps in the corners of my eyes. I breathe in and out, in and out, until I begin to feel settled.
It’s then that I notice a not-insignificant coffee stain on my yellow top.
Goddamn it.
I tremble as I rip the shirt over my head and dash to my closet to find a clean one. My emotional reaction to a simple stain is extreme; I know that, but I also know that I have my reasons.
When I was eleven, I lived with a foster mother who was obsessive about me never getting dirty. A mere smudge on my shoes was catastrophic, so in an effort to avoid dirtying white sneakers, I developed this odd style of walking that looked more like stomping. A visible spot on a shirt was cause for alarm, so I learned to be continuously on the lookout for anything that might strike me off her adopt list. That woman was constantly pointing to minor marks on my clothing while wincing and gently encouraging me to change outfits. It’s impossible to shake the belief that she returned me to the foster system because of my inability to keep my clothes spotless.
So I rifle furiously through my closet for the most pristine top I can find. Even though I knowwhyI’m freaking out, it doesn’t help. My crazy reaction is one of a million dysfunctional ones that I have perfected over the years.
I really am goddamn irreparable.
I take my coffee-stained shirt into the bathroom down the hall. Holding the stain under the faucet, something dark on the underside of my shirt catches my eye, and I groan.Great, what bizarre stain is this now?
My fingers glide under the fabric, and I feel something plastic. I am mystified, so I flip over the shirt.
Stuck to my shirt is a button pinned to the side hem. It’s pale blue with white lettering.
YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.
I stare at this in disbelief. Why is there a motivational button stuck to my shirt?
YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.
The statement is crap, because some of us will never be able to let go of what chases us.
YOU CAN’T REACH WHAT’S IN FRONT OF YOU UNTIL YOU LET GO OF WHAT’S BEHIND YOU.
The words nearly scream at me. Against my will, I smile.
This is so weird, a button showing up on my shirt. So random. And yet, I admit, sort of wonderful. It’s a nice sentiment, and I should probably take it to heart.
This button is probably smarter than I am.
CHAPTER 4
WHITE NOISE
I decide to go into full shut-in mode over the weekend, planning to leave my room only to pay for pizza deliveries and to hit the shower. However, it’s nearly impossible to sleep on Friday night, and I’m tortured by the sounds of joyful drunks roaming the halls. As I toss and turn, I make a mental note to either turn into a joyful drunk or invest in some earplugs.
Earplugs it is.
