September 5th, 2005
"We've run out of time for today. Read the next two chapters and be prepared for class discussion on Wednesday."
I jerk awake at the sound of chairs scraping the floor. All around me, people stand to their feet. Professor Lipman has already gathered his lecture materials and left.
Damnit. I must have dozed off at some point during class. It's not entirely my fault – it's my third class this morning, and Lipman is as dry as old bread and his readings are boring as hell. Stretching my arms overhead, I blink and haul myself out of the cramped desk chair.
At mid-day, campus is alive with energy and commotion. People swarm the intersections, making it possible for bikers and skateboarders to hurry past the cars and trucks waiting impatiently for students to cross the street. I pass a group of girls clutching iced coffees in manicured hands, business majors debating the stock market, and some who walk with their heads down, just trying to get through the day. I snap my Aviators over my face and slip into the masses, becoming one with the crowd.
As I walk, my thoughts drift to pole vaulting. Of the sixty-eight athletes on the CHU Track and Field team, only nine of us are vaulters. Jesse, Chloe, and Sampson are the seniors. Kat and Irina Maslov are the juniors, and they are housemates. Kat's from an affluent Long Island family and Irina moved to the Copper Hill Valley from Russia sometime in high school. Francie Weinberg and Bradley Vansant are sophomores – Bradley's a transfer from Texas with this big, fluffy hair he keeps in a ponytail. And then there's me and Kyle, the freshmen recruits.
It's been almost one week since I started training, but I have yet to feel like I'm part of the team. Coach Dillon seemed friendly when he recruited me after districts, but now that I'm here he acts like he's got a giant pole up his ass. Jesse says that's just how Coach is, but Dad somehow always seemed to make everyone on his team feel at home...
One way or another, I will get Coach Dillon's attention.
An acrid plume of cigarette smoke billows around me as I pass the Broadbill Center and Starling Hall. Several students hang by the side of the building, their gaze fixed on something in the distance. I follow their line of sight down to a crowd gathered by the bike racks in front of Parrot Hall. A loud voice cries out over the noise of the busy street.
"For the wages of sin is death! Repent now, you corrupt generation!"
A wiry man in his mid-fifties stands along the short brick wall between the sidewalk and the bike racks. He holds a giant white sign above his head, lettered with large, red words, CHOOSE HEAVEN OR HELL WILL CHOOSE U! He lifts the sign high and begins to shout: "Repent from your fornication! Repent from your drunkenness! The kingdom of God is near!"
"There he goes," someone mumbles behind me. "Parrot Jesus is at it again."
"At least he's entertaining," his friend chuckles. "Last semester, he called me out and told me I was a 'whore' for not wearing a bra."
"That's messed up. It's because of people like him I stay away from religion in the first place."
A few brave students approach Parrot Jesus in attempt to engage in dialogue. But most choose to ignore him, pretending as though he's not there. I skirt around the crowd, eager to be on my way.
Growing up, Mom and Dad took Beth and I to church only on Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday. I vaguely remember learning catechism in Catholic preschool, but most of that knowledge has long dissolved. When Amy and I were dating, she brought me out to her church youth group a few times. Her pastor was particularly fond of warning teenagers against the perils of premarital sex – but this never stopped Amy from exploring her sexuality with me. Which is why I think religion is a self-soothing mechanism that fuels the self-righteous and helps people sleep at night.
But I guess for some, faith isn't simply self-serving. Several days ago, when the girl with the dark hair prayed for Kevin, she prayed confidently, as though she genuinely expected something to happen. It was like watching a Jedi manipulate the Force. What possesses her to have that kind of belief? Why is it that where she is concerned, I have more and more questions? I don't know anything about her or who she is, but I'd really like to find out...
I make a pit stop at The Slab, which is pretty much a small slice of heaven in the middle of Condor Hall. The sandwiches here are just okay, but I need something in my stomach now. I pick out a chicken sandwich and bring it to the counter.
"Thanks, Agnes," I flash a smile at the stout and grumpy cashier as she swipes my ID card.
"Welcome," she grunts, not looking up at me.
Agnes shifts her feet and winces before waving the next student forward. I watch as she struggles to fetch something under the counter. The Slab is basically a tiny box with a lone metal stool in the corner. I frown. What administrative idiot thought it acceptable not to give a food service worker a better chair? I stew on this the entire walk back to Swan Hall.
---
By the time I return to the dorm, Lee is already back from lunch and reading a book for class.
"The athlete returns," he says dryly as I enter.
I smirk, setting down my pack and opening my sandwich.
"Miss me?"
"No, but the girls across the hall did. They came over a little while ago asking for you. Again."
Lee glances up from his book, fixing me with his light blue eyes. His eyes are large and round, and he watches me like Gollum watches the hobbits. I ignore his comment as I eat. Nearly every girl on the floor has come knocking ever since move-in day, especially Becky.
"What do you know about the girls in #219 at the end of the hall" I ask, trying to keep my tone subtle.
Lee shrugs, looking bored.
"Not much," he says. "They seem normal. One of them is a physics major."
"I mean the one with long, dark hair," I say.
"Oh, her. She played at the lounge talent show over the weekend."
"I wasn't there," I admit, finishing my sandwich and balling up the plastic wrap in my hands. "Were you?"
Lee flips a page in his book, looking wholly uninterested. "Nope. I was going on a raid with my guild for EverQuest."
"I have no idea what that is. Anyway, I was just curious if you knew her."
"Why don't you just go talk to her?" he yawns.
Now why didn't I think of that? I toss the plastic into the trash can near the door and step back out into the hall.
I brush the crumbs from my face as I walk, taking notice of who's home and who's not. Some of my floor mates are more friendly than others, usually leaving their doors open, like Vanessa and Amanda in #204 and Mohan and Dev in #207. Although Becky's door is wide open, I scuttle past as quickly as possible – she has a bad habit of showing up in the hallway each time I shower, and she looks at me like I'm a piece of meat.
I reach the end of the hall and see that the door to #219 is propped open. Looking inside, I see that her back is turned towards me, and she is working at her desk. She sits with one knee up, hunched over her work. I clear my throat and knock twice. She turns and looks directly at me. Her eyes are deep brown and wide with curiosity. And though I knew she was pretty, seeing her this close is different – she's beautiful.
"Hey, I'm Zac," I say. "I live down the hall."
"Hi," she replies.
My mind blanks. What do I say to her? I spot her guitar case by a chair near the bunk beds and suddenly get an idea.
"Uh... Can I try playing your guitar?" I ask.
"Sure."
I step over to her guitar and unzip it carefully from its case. She turns back to her work, unperturbed by my presence. Sitting in the extra chair by her mini fridge, I put the instrument in my lap and pluck the strings. I've never held or played a guitar before, but she doesn't need to know that.
"You're up pretty late most nights, aren't you?" I venture. "You know, since your room is across the guys' bathroom and all," I explain hurriedly. "It's just that I've seen your light on late some nights when I wake up to pee."
That was probably too much information. Reel it in, Zac. But to my surprise, she laughs.
"I guess." When she smiles, her whole face lights up.
"I'm planning to go to medical school," she goes on to say. "Sometimes I stay up late to read ahead for class."
So... she's pretty, talented, and driven. By contrast, I think about pole vaulting and what I'm going to eat more than I think about anything else. And I have no idea what I want to do with my life beyond college.
"I heard you playing Jack Johnson the other night," I say, fiddling with one of the guitar strings. "I love his music. I bought his new record over the summer and listen to it a lot. Have you ever heard of Dispatch?"
"No."
"Wait, seriously? They're amazing!" I say enthusiastically. "It's three guys, and they just jam. They're one of my favorite bands. You should check them out."
I attempt to pluck a chord but whatever comes out sounds awful. She watches me for a moment before setting her pencil down.
"Do you even know how to play guitar?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.
I shake my head sheepishly. "I know you do though," I grin. "And everyone keeps talking about your performance at the talent show the other night, but I missed it."
"You didn't miss much," she chuckles.
"Somehow, I doubt it."
She rolls her chair away from the desk and motions with her hand. "Here," she says.
I pass her the instrument and watch as she swings it into her lap, holding it steady.
"Watch my fingers."
I comply and study the way her fingers move over the neck of the guitar, pressing down a few strings.
"This is D major," she says, striking a chord. Her fingers reconfigure themselves and she strums again. "And this is G." She passes the guitar back to me. "You try."
"You mean like this?" I clutch the guitar awkwardly and grip the strings.
She's amused at my incompetence, but I don't mind. Rising from her chair, she strides over to me and corrects my hand position. Her hands are small and warm.
"Try again," she encourages. I get a whiff of something vanilla and citrus when she leans close. She smells like summer.
Determined to play a chord, I press my fingers hard on the strings and strum. A muted, twangy sound comes out of the guitar, but it's the closest thing to a chord I've ever played. I smile proudly and do it again.
"I hear you're an athlete?" she comments.
"Yeah. I'm on the Men's Track Team."
"Oh, you're a runner?"
"No, I'm a pole vaulter. I was number one in my district back home, but it's different being on the team here. Kind of nerve-wracking, to be honest."
"If you're on the team, it's probably because you're good and you can handle the pressure," she gives me a look. "Pole vault... what is that exactly?"
"You'd know if you saw it," I assure her, trying a different chord. "It's the event where you run with a long pole and launch yourself over a bar. There's a lot of physics involved – how much power is in your run, the angle and rate at which you drop the pole, how fast you fly through the air..."
"Sounds dangerous," she remarks.
"It can be," I nod seriously. "More people die pole vaulting than any other sport."
I can already tell she's going to be fun to tease by the way her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline.
"It's mostly a mental battle," I rush. "My dad was my coach before college. He'd always say it's more about discipline of the mind than it is the body. You would have made a good pole vaulter, since you're small. And you don't seem like the type to give up easily," I look at her and pause for a beat.
There's a bewildered look on her face. Shit. Did I say too much?
"Sports... aren't really my thing," she confesses with a smile.
We laugh together at that for a moment. I glance at my watch and jump to my feet when I realize I'll be late for my next class.
"I have to go," I say. "But I enjoyed the guitar lesson. Thank you."
Standing, I pass the guitar back to her and begin to walk towards the door.
"I'll catch you later..." I hesitate, realizing that she never gave me her name.
"—Cassie," she replies.
"Cassie," I echo. "See you around."
Waving, I duck out of her room and walk down the hall with a smile on my face.
I visit Cassie again the very next afternoon. There's a look of surprise on her face when I knock on her door, but she welcomes me inside anyway.
"So, there's a song I wanna learn," I tell her as I stroll into her room. "Can you help me?"
She sets down her pen and glances up at me. "Okay. What's the song?"
"It's 'Never Know,' by Jack Johnson. D'you know it?" I ask.
"Yes. But you'll need to learn how to play barre chords."
"What's that?"
She rises from her chair and strides across the room, fetching her guitar. I watch, mesmerized, as she tunes the strings by ear.
"Keep your index finger long over the strings like this," she indicates. "The same four chords repeat through the whole song, so all you need to do is learn where to place your fingers and which fret to shift."
She shows me each chord one by one and passes me the guitar. I try to copy the way her hand wrapped around the fretboard, but my wrist immediately starts to cramp like hell.
"Relax your arm," she smiles. "So, where's home for you?"
"Small town outside New Haven," I reply, lessening the tension in my wrist and trying again.
"Connecticut's pretty far from Copper Hill."
"Yeah. Only one other person is here from my high school, my friend Gabrielle. We're planning to drive back home together for the holidays and whatever."
"I can't imagine only knowing one other person here," she says. "Tons of people from my high school are here! Sabrina – my roommate – and I have been going to school together since we were nine. Copper Hill was my last resort."
"Where did you want to go?" I ask, attempting the first chord. Whatever I play sounds terrible.
"Um. I wanted to be in New York," she replies, somewhat avoidant. "Make sure you're pressing all the strings."
"Like in the city?" I strum again, and the chord instantly sounds clearer.
"No... upstate. I wanted to go to Eastman School of Music."
"Why didn't you?"
"Uh... it didn't work out," she shrugs. "Besides, I'm here now. And being pre-med keeps me busy."
She tilts her head towards the textbooks and papers are spread across her desk. She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. What does she mean, it didn't work out?
"What do you want to do after college?" she asks suddenly.
"No idea," I admit. "I'm majoring in exercise science, but I have no clue what I want to do with my life. I'll figure it out as I go. College is about having fun and trying new things, so I'm gonna have a good time and worry about all that later."
"Hm," she says. "Good thing we have lots of time."
I don't bother to knock when I visit her the next day. She waves me inside, her guitar case waiting by the empty chair where I sit. I take the guitar from her after she tunes the strings and continue to practice even though my fingertips are raw and tender.
"You'll get callouses soon," she assures. "Try the B7 chord again."
"What's your take on the college party scene?" I ask.
"I'm not really a partying kind of girl. How about you?"
"I haven't been to many parties," I divulge. "But I don't see the point of drinking and losing control. It's just not classy."
Her dark eyes peer into mine for a moment. Feeling a bit more comfortable with the guitar now that I've practiced a little every day, I try strumming all four chords in a row.
"Better," she nods, and I beam.
"So... I've been meaning to ask you something," I begin. "Last week when you prayed for Kevin after his friend died. Do you believe in God?"
If my question surprises her, she doesn't show it.
"Yes," she replies without hesitation.
"Lots of people say that, but you seem to really believe it," I remark, meeting her gaze.
"I do believe it," she says.
"How do you know God is real? Or are you just believing what you were told to believe by your parents or church or whatever?"
A thoughtful expression crosses her face. "I guess that's why it's called faith. I'm sure of what I hope for and certain of what I can't always see, because I know God is real. His love is real," she blinks at me. "How about you? What do you believe?"
Somehow, her belief makes her even more mysterious and stunning to me. Chuckling, I mute the guitar strings and cease strumming.
"Honestly, I don't know," I confess. "I think God is real, but beyond that I'm not sure. Some days, I feel hopeful... and some days, I just have doubts."
"Sounds like faith to me," she smiles serenely.
And just like that, Cassie and I become fast friends. Talking to her is fun and surprisingly easy and seeing her quickly becomes the highlight of my day. I especially enjoy trying to make her laugh when she is serious and trying to focus on homework. She studies too much, anyway.
---
"Zac. YO, ZAC!"
Sampson stalks over to me and gets in my face.
"You deaf or something? I said, 'the bench is yours'," he retorts. "What a shit nugget."
Several guys around him cackle. The sounds of clanking weights pull me back to earth – or rather, the weight training room in the Crow Sports Center. It's early in the morning, and my momentary lapse in concentration makes me look like an idiot. I grit my teeth and grab a pair of dumbbells from the weight rack, lowering myself onto the empty bench.
"Dude, where's your head at?" Jesse hisses in my ear.
"Just distracted," I mutter as I press up forcefully.
"Well, un-distract yourself."
"Zeke! What's the move this weekend?" Sampson yells from across the room.
"Kat's workin' on it," Zeke grunts from another machine.
"Again? I got trashed at the last one," Eric adds.
Zeke is a sprinter and Eric is a distance runner, which means they spend most of their days practicing and training with Coaches Mackey and Friedman, who specialize in their events. I don't know much about them aside from that and the fact they worship Sampson and tolerate his stupidity.
"What are they talking about?" I ask Jesse, sitting up from the bench. I don't remember how many reps I completed just now, but I can tell from my aching shoulders that I probably overdid it.
"A party, dumbass!" Sampson sneers, throwing a dirty towel at me.
"Chill out," Jesse says to him, his eyes flashing. I fling the nasty towel back at Sampson.
"Party? At your place?" Bradley joins the conversation. He stands with his hands on his hips, sporting a ridiculous headband to hold up his big red hair.
"No," Sampson quips. "Katrina's. It's always at Katrina's, dipshit."
"When?"
Zeke drops a heavy plate to the floor and swears loudly.
"Saturday night, after the first football game," he grins.
"Why wait till after the game?" Eric complains. "Our football team sucks ass. They're gonna lose, like they always do."
"Who cares if they lose? Everyone goes to the first football game!" Zeke retorts. "All the hot freshmen chicks will be out. So, you want in?" he says, glancing at us.
"Uh—"
"Are you for real? Golden Boy and his lapdog come to a party with us?" Sampson hoots wildly, slapping his thighs.
"There's no need for hate, Sampson." Jesse's face is hard as stone as he stares at the hulking athlete. I feel my blood boil as I watch Sampson regard Jesse with contempt.
Sampson scoffs. "No hate, bro. Just facts," he says, and turns to me.
"Listen, Freshman. You can look good all you want out there, but you're not really part of the team until you party at Kat's. It's tradition. Your senior commands it," Sampson snickers. "Let's go," he says to Zeke and Eric, turning to leave. Bradley, Kyle, and the rest of the guys exit the weight room after them.
Jesse shakes his head as their raucous laughter fades away.
"Ignore him," he says, stomping out of the weight room.
I trail behind him, passing the volleyball team on our way out. I know Jesse is right, but part of me wonders if what Sampson says about being part of the team is true. Will my teammates think less of me if I decide not to go? At once, Cassie's dark hair and pretty eyes come to mind. I want to see her more. What is she doing this weekend?
An uneasy knot begins to form in my chest. I'm overthinking things. I need a shower, and then food.