The Book at the Top of the Closet

Chapter Two

My first day of classes isn't off to the start I imagined. I left for my first class with plenty of time to get there, planning to show up early, fully prepared, bright eyed and bushy tailed with no indication that I've only slept for three hours. Instead, I've been wandering up and down the halls of a musty building, riding an elevator up and down as I search with increasing urgency for the classroom I'm supposed to be in. I've asked for directions three times, and each answer has sent me in a different direction.

Finally, I stop and ask a man in a suit where the freshman level Personal Finance class is supposed to be meeting, hoping that this information is more useful than a room number I'm half convinced doesn't exist.

"You're in the wrong building. This is the journalism building. You need Business and Administration." He points me in the right direction, and I try to hold back a sob of frustration. I'm ten minutes late now, and my mind echoes with admonitions from high school teachers claiming that no college professor will ever let a student come in late.

I run full speed the quarter mile across campus to the BA building, rushing through the sliding doors into the artificially cool air. My shoes clatter along the hallway and I hold back the stream of curse words in my head, wishing I hadn't worn heels- my feet feel like they might be crying out for help. A creaky elevator takes me to the correct floor so painfully slow that I imagine it as a living thing, trying to keep me from reaching my destination. When the doors finally open, I huff and puff out of the elevator and down the hall toward the classroom.

The door is locked.

My fears have come true- I'm going to start off my college career as the absent student. In my entire life, I have been tardy to a class once, and that was because I'd gotten my period and the cramps were so bad I had sat huddled in the restroom, crying. This time, I have no such excuse. This time, I'm the freshman who was too ditzy to even make it to the right building.

I'm just about to give up and sit on the floor until the class ends so I can at least apologize for being late when a robust man in a yellow bow tie opens the door. He gives me a reassuring smile, and his teeth are so bright white against his dark skin that I almost think there must be a glare reflecting off of them under the fluorescent lights. I stutter an apology and say that I had a hard time finding the classroom.

"Where did you end up?" He asks, considerably more gently than I expected of a college professor. Possibly, just maybe, I was not going to be eaten alive on my first day here.

"I...I was in the journalism building, I think," I sniffle, still crying from the fear that I was going to miss my first class. The bowtied professor laughs in such a way as can only accurately be described as jolly, and I feel a rush of relief mixed in with my embarrassment. I slide gratefully into an empty seat near the front, looking down at my schedule again to check the professor's name. Dr. Loving. That fits.

Class goes on in a stream of introductions and freshly printed syllabi, which I dutifully tuck into the front pocket of the binder I picked out for this class. I have a different colored one for each of my five classes, each binder stocked with paper, pens, and highlighters. This is going to be my year, even if I started it in the wrong building. Dr. Loving and his yellow bowtie are like a sign from the universe: everything is going to be okay.

I forget most of my classmates' names within minutes of hearing them, but I do notice that the girl sitting over by the window looks at least as tall as the professor. I also notice a quiet guy at the opposite end of the room, scribbling notes and occasionally running one hand through his dishwater blonde hair. He looks kind, even if I'm pretty sure he was one of the people who laughed when I said I went to the journalism building by mistake. I take note of where he sits, promising myself that if he says his name again, I'll remember it.

When class lets out, my grumbling stomach guides me toward the cafeteria in the student center- one of the few places on campus I'm confident that I can find without help. I load a plate with two slices of floppy pizza, too hungry to care about the grease pooling in the creases of the cheese, and find a place to sit in the corner of the cavernous space. I prop my backpack in the chair beside me, hoping that no one will come over and sit with me. I'm still a little frazzled from my morning, and all I want is to eat my lunch alone and then read some more of Aria's journal, which I've stuffed into my backpack along with my school supplies.

A slice and a half down, I get nervous as a tall redheaded girl walks by my table slowly, as if she might sit down. I'm afraid I'll have to talk to her, but as she pulls a chair out, I notice the headphones in her ears. My kind of girl, I think. I smile at her, then look back down at my pizza. It takes me four and a half napkins to sufficiently de-grease my hands so I can keep reading the journal. Checking to make sure I still have plenty of time before my next class, I prop myself against the wall and open the journal up to where I left off last night.

#

Dear Diary,

Christmas has never really been my favorite holiday. In elementary school I always seemed to get sick on Christmas break, so it was hard to really get in the spirit. This year might change that, though. Hanna and I wrapped twinkle lights around one of the end tables in the living area and stacked presents for our friends under it. She cut out a magazine picture of Stephen Colbert and made a tiny santa hat for him, and we taped him front and center on our end table Christmas tree. It's the weirdest holiday decorating I've ever seen, and I love it.

Everest is coming down to have a Christmas party with us, and some of mine and Hanna's mutual friends are coming, too. We're going to have food and exchange gifts on the last day before the semester ends and winter break starts. Everest and I are planning to spend a lot of the break together, splitting our time between his family's house and mine. I'm nervous for us to spend more time with each other's families- it feels so fast, but it feels like everything is falling into place, too. We haven't used the word "love" yet, but we're in the showdown phase: staring at each other with wild west music twanging out as we twitch toward the triggers of dangerous words.

There is a difference, I think, between knowing you'll eventually say "I love you," and being ready to say it. I think we both know we're going to say it, but we're waiting to be ready, and waiting for a sign that the other is ready.

-Aria