The Definition of Time

Chapter 10

paint my scars by number
let them guide you to my soul
torn and strong and fiery
it will speak my story
when I cannot whisper
any more words
and my eyes
are the only things
screaming. 

April 2, 2014

"How do I look?" Jordan asks, standing in front of our smudged full-length mirror and straightening the prim black dress she's pulled out for the occasion.

"Pretty dang good, considering I haven't seen you out of yoga pants in over a month," I answer with a snort of laughter.

"Mom and Dad are both coming. They need to think I'm okay, that I'm working hard and I don't need them. I have scholarships. I have decent grades. They need to know that." She lifts her chin defiantly.

I hesitate--Jordan's parents have flown up from Florida together for Parent's Weekend. I think they're finally feeling a little guilty for breaking the news of the divorce on Christmas and they're here to make amends. I just hope they don't fight the whole time they're here.

"Have you told them about the internship?"

Jordan pauses and stares at herself in the mirror. A few weeks ago, she applied to a summer internship at a zoo as a herpetologist (i.e., someone who studies lizards). It's paid and she will be able to do what she loves...and she won't have to go home for the summer.

"You didn't, did you," I urge.

"No. And I'm not going to. I haven't even received it yet. They can find out when I know for sure," she says stubbornly, clipping her hair back in a low chignon.

Since my family isn't coming to visit, I'm tagging along with Jordan's family for the day like an annoying little sister. It's either that or write the history paper I've been procrastinating for a few weeks.

We make our way to the quad where parents and their slightly embarrassed college students are milling about to various stands that advertise information about grad school and jobs. I'm lucky--I'm moving home for the summer to work my regular summer job as a camp counselor. Kids, sunshine, and very long days are the perfect reprieve from sleep deprivation and perfectionism.

I can tell when Jordan spots her family because her face blanches and she straightens her back and her dress. I look to see a man and a woman walking towards us. Though her parents have always been in poverty, Jordan's hard-work and drive have enabled her to save up money and earn scholarships to help her pay her way through college so she can eventually be a herpetologist.

Jordan's mom has the same brown, wispy hair and she runs forward, wrapping her daughter in a hug; I forgot that it's been almost a year since they last saw each other. Jordan's father approaches as well. He's an older Hispanic man with a trim, graying beard and sad, dark eyes; he stands aloof as Jordan and her mother embrace and then he hugs her as well.

"Jordan. You look wonderful," her mother says, taking in the carefully pressed dress and neat hair.

I try not to smirk; they have no idea that 24 hours ago, she was wrapped up in a snuggie, wearing yoga pants and a sports bra, watching Gilmore Girls and eating a half melted Hershey bar.

Jordan smiles a little, but I can see the strained lines at the corners of her eyes, "It's...it's good to see you, Mom. Dad. Uh, this is my roommate, Rachel."

I smile, "it's nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Dunne."

I realize my mistake too late; I don't know Jordan's mom's maiden name, so I don't know what to do. I stutter and try to correct myself, but it's too late.