in the days after she
left.
I looked in every closet.
I opened every door.
I checked the garage twice
for missing modes of transportation.
For three straight days,
I repeated,
twice a day,
like brushing my teeth,
like it was normal,
like it was my chore
to find my mom.
“Seriously, where are you, Mom?”
I asked.
But no one was around
to answer my question.
A Draft of Laurel LeBrea’s Essay
We have often heard from alumni that their closest friend in college, for the rest of their lives, is the person they roomed with during their first year at Brown. Part of the closeness of freshman-year roommates is the bond that is formed over the mutual process of navigating the rules of dorm life together. Write a letter to your future roommate. What should they know about you? What rules do you wish to establish? What are your fears about roommates, dorm life, or college?
Dear future roomie,
You can borrow my clothes. I have always wanted to say that, but I’m an only child, so there never has been a sister to share clothes with. What’s your size? What’s your style aesthetic? You can borrow my frilly tops to wear to parties, the sparkly earrings to wear to class, or the aviators to wear while chillin’ on the quad. You can borrow almost anything—I swear—except the sweatshirt in my closet that is probably too small for the both of us anyway. It’s the tiny gray one, with a big heart and letters in cursive that say BE BRAVE. The tags are still on.
I carry it with me because it reminds me of my mom and reminds me of all the times I’m brave without her. I was supposed to wear this on my first day of school in sixth grade, when I moved to Meydenbauer. But it somehow never got packed in the boxes or in my suitcase when we left my mom in California and my dad and I moved to Washington State. I was supposed to pose in a picture in front of our new house to show my mom what a brave and happy daughter she had raised, that I wasn’t devastated that we’d left her behind, that only two-thirds of our family got to embark on this shiny new adventure.
What I didn’t know is that my mom went to rehab shortly thereafter. She had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. She is an alcoholic, which leads me to my biggest fear in college—drinking. I go to parties all the time. I love dancing. I love hanging out with my friends. I’m a big fan of standing by the chip bowl and crushing some salsa and guac. But I don’t drink. I haven’t drank.
I’m worried about the pressure to drink in college, the friends I may not make because of it. I’m worried you will think that I’m boring and no fun. But most of all, I’m worried that I will drink someday and love it in the way that my mom loved it, in the way that one glass of wine was never enough.
I know that’s a lot to take in, future roomie, but there are no words to express how excited I am to share with you the triumphs and tears that comprise the freshman-year experience.
Love always,
Laurel
Our AP English teacher
Stood before us
in an A-line skirt
and four-inch heels.
Her hair was pulled back in a chignon,
and not a strand was out of place.
She held a dog-eared copy of Dostoyevsky’s
greatest work
and asked,
“What are the crimes
in Crime and Punishment?”
“Murder!” someone shouted.
A few people snickered.
Our teacher rolled her eyes.
“That answer
will not get you
into Harvard.”
She paused
and looked at all of us.
“That’s what you want,
isn’t it?”
Silence slumped over us.
Of course it’s what we wanted.
It’s why we sacrificed
our weekends,
our sleep,
our sanity.
“Dig deeper, people.”
Pages flipped fervently.
Our teacher paced
up and down the aisles.
She smelled like intimidation,
if that’s even possible.
I raised my hand
with confidence
and said,
“It depends,”
before I was even
called on.
Faces turned in my direction,
like they always do,
and someone
from the back of the room
coughed “Slut.”
Our teacher raised her finger.
“No one in this class
gets a letter of recommendation
if you all keep this up,”
she yelled.
Miranda shot a look
to the boys
in the back row.
I rolled my eyes
and continued.
“Raskolnikov rationalizes
the murder
so much so
that he believes
what he committed
was not a crime at all.
So it depends
on who
is defining crime,”
I said.
I understood what Dostoyevsky
was trying to say.
When we saw something
as rational,
how could it possibly
be wrong?
But what I didn’t say
is that Dostoyevsky also knew
that we were human,
and sometimes we were meant
to feel
guilt.
There were no secrets
At Meydenbauer.
Jilly slept with a college guy.
A sophomore totaled his Audi S4.
I was in the business
of writing other people’s
college application essays
for money.
I was a somebody again.
A somebody who mattered
to the fabric of the school,
whom people needed,
depended on,
who was deemed worthy enough
by the masses
who pushed their way through the halls
during passing period.
Then I saw Jordan.
He saw me.
And like in a movie,
everything around us
cycled by in a blur,
but the air between us
stood still.
This time he didn’t smirk.
He stared at me,
eyes unreadable,
until our line of sight no longer
connected.
The stillness ended.
I remained alone, jostled
in every direction by the masses
that pushed their way through the hall
during passing period.
But the image of Jordan’s eyes hung
in front of me
like a mirage.
They were gray.
I had always known
they were gray.
When we were together
I didn’t know the color
of Ben’s eyes.
I could see him looking
at me, staring and blinking
and opening
his eyes
wide
like he was paying attention.
He closed his eyes,
then opened them
dramatically wider, signaling,
I’m listening,
and I saw his eyes
do this, so I started
talking, blathering,
but I stopped
because I asked
a question
and I waited for a response
that I never got,
because he wasn’t listen
ing
and I didn’t know
the color
of Ben’s eyes.
Tell me I’m pretty #1
“Tell me I’m pretty, Ben.”
“You know you’re pretty, Nic.”
“But I’m your girlfriend.
You’re supposed to say
these things
to me,” I said.
He kissed my forehead
and said
nothing.
A million versions of me
Walked the halls
of Meydenbauer.
There were the versions of me
that were easy to see:
the tennis champ me,
the newspaper me,
the perfect SAT me,
the driven me,
the studious me.
There were the versions of me
that were not so easy to see:
the long hours of me
who sat by a window with a textbook,
struggling
to push away
the longing sighs for her mother.
The anxious me
who held her boyfriend’s hand tight
and her emotions tighter.
The lonely me
who could be surrounded by
people at a party
and still feel disconnected
from the whole world.
I sat in an unused corner
Of the cafeteria
knocking out
a calculus problem set
because Kitty was nowhere
to be found,
and Ashok was somewhere
off-campus.
But in the back of my mind,
past the derivatives and integrals,
I drifted over thoughts of Ben.
There was a barbecue
at his house
last May.
Clumps of self-absorbed people
scattered about the yard
like the patches of grass
that survived
the frost and the winter
still intact,
still green.
I stood to the side of Ben,
watching the party
hold itself off
from dying.
I was tired, cranky, and sober.
I tried to nuzzle my head into his shoulder.
The muscles around his back grew tight.
He stiffened.
He flashed
an empty smile.
There was a sliver of space
between us,
where our skin no longer touched,
a void that I felt
drain of softness.
His glassy eyes gazed
through my sadness,
my fear,
the anxiety
that shivered on my skin.
I saw an empty smile
that looked at me and said,
I don’t know who you are.
“Grab a beer for me, babe?”
he whispered.
I wanted Ben to notice
that my eyes were heavy,
that my smile had faded.
I wanted to curl up
on a couch next to him.
I didn’t want
to be here,
pretending.
“Get your own fucking beer,”
I said.
Ben pouted
as loneliness crept back
into the cracks
inside me.
When every exam becomes a midterm
We were well past the middle of the term
and so it didn’t make sense
why every exam administered in every class
was labeled “midterm.”
We had three midterms in AP Bio,
four in AP Government,
and I swear there was a midterm
every other week
in AP Calculus.
I almost looked forward to finals
for the sake of veracity,
when a final meant
a final,
a last,
a determination
of something
like our future.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
The new girl read to us
a poem
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
in a voice that lulled the classroom
and made our teacher smile.
“Is this poem supposed to teach us
not to sleep around,
lest we end up old and alone?”
someone conjectured.
I heard the words of lips and lovers,
of a lonely tree
and birds that vanish.
“I think it’s about the ephemeral
nature of love.
It won’t be around forever,”
someone else said.
“It’s about loneliness,”
Jordan responded.
“Care to expand?”
our teacher asked.
He shook his head.
“It’s obvious.”
Which tree is the most lonely?
The one with
or without
birds?
I saw the loneliness
as clearly as Jordan.
I saw my mother.
What lovers has she forgotten?
Which feelings have stirred a quiet pain?
What ghosts visit her nightly
and tap on her window
like rain?
How could she forget
the love that life brought?
How could she
leave behind
me?
I’m not fine, Mom
I felt like you left
and the whole house emptied.
I felt like you left
and my whole heart emptied.
I felt like you left
and I wasn’t your daughter—because you left me.
You emptied me, Mom.
I didn’t know you could.
I didn’t see it before—how much
I am still
your daughter.
If I were to pinpoint where it all went wrong
It was polishing off a bottle of Jameson
with Jordan
last summer,
at his party.
Or maybe lingering too long in the kitchen
with Jordan
and not Ben.
Or maybe it was
Jordan’s question
that wriggled under my skin
and wouldn’t let me go.
“Why the sad smile, Nic?”
If Ben were to describe me
student at Meydenbauer,
at least I hope.
Or maybe he’d describe me as
pretty and cute,
like rainbows and puppy dogs,
lake views and llamas.
Or maybe he’d say
she’s the girl inside
with the long brown hair
wearing a T-shirt and jeans,
talking to Jordan.
But if Ben were to see me
Would he see the way
I watched him,
as we all did,
nearly land in a fire pit
in a failed attempt
to ride a skateboard
over an asinine jump?
Would he see the way
I gulped down
too much Jameson
and not enough Coke?
Would he see the way
I was drunk and crying
and never
ask me why,
or did he see the way
I deflated
over time
like tires
on an old bicycle?
“Where are your parents?”
I asked as we watched someone
w
e both didn’t know
do a keg stand
in Jordan’s kitchen.
Jordan tipped his empty
cup, then topped off
both of our drinks.
“Avoiding each other’s
existence.”
“So they’re gone for the weekend?”
“They’re just gone.”
“Like my mom?”
“No. Like my parents,”
he said.
We both said nothing,
and watched
the kid at the keg
wipe away beer that drenched
his face.
“Wanna do a keg stand?”
Jordan asked.
“Fuck no,” I said.
“Well, talking about our parents
is a buzzkill,”
he said,
and downed his drink.
In the kitchen
Jordan and I swapped
embarrassing stories.
We laughed
at jokes I don’t remember.
We bantered.
We listened,
we felt better,
we cared.
We lightly touched each other
on the arm,
on the face, and then,
somehow,
we ended up
upstairs, no longer
in the kitchen.
Tell me I’m pretty #2
“Tell me I’m pretty, Jordan.”
“You don’t want
to be pretty, Nic.”
“Why not?”
“Pretty is conventional.
It’s dull perfection.
It’s attractiveness without
being truly beautiful.”
“Then what am I, Jordan?”
He shook his head and sighed.
“The way you fidget,
the way you roll your eyes,
the way you say very little
and everything
all at once,
you’re beautiful, Nic,
but you’re not perfect.”
Tires screeching #1
Through the open second-story window
I heard Ben’s truck
sputter and then start.
I heard him rev his engine
while still in park,
to keep it from
dying.
I ran to the window
naked
just in time to see
Ben—my ride,
my boyfriend—
drive away,
at a speed that
left the sound
of tires screeching around a corner
reverberating in my ears
long after he
left.