Exaltation

Chapter 6

"So, did you have a good first day?" Margot asks. I sigh and pick at the food on my plate. Sure, I'd been warned that Wilson didn't have the best food, but I didn't realize that it was going to be practically inedible.

"Yeah, I guess. But there's already homework," I whine. Margot and Ellie nod in sad agreement. "What about you guys?"

"Mine was fine. I just can't believe I signed up to take a math class," Ellie replies.

"And I can't believe I signed up for an English one!" Margot retorts. I put down my fork and cock my head at her.

"What English are you in?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level. Of course, I'd wanted to take an English class when signing up for classes. They looked so interesting— Poetry in the Middle Ages, The Art of the Literary Magazine, Songs and Poetry in the 21st Century.... But I couldn't. I couldn't let my heart get broken again. So I'd signed up for Introductory Biology, Introductory Computer Science, Modern East Asian History, and American Politics. Enough STEM to keep me on my pre-med track, but enough other classes to keep me entertained without journeying too deep into the world of writing.

"Manic Pixie Dream Girl: Female Tropes in Literature. It's interesting, sure, but definitely not my strong suit," she says. Ellie raises her eyebrows at her.

"Margot, that sounds totally interesting."

"Says the girl who's taking Cryptology. Cryptology! It doesn't get more interesting than that!"

"Does too!"

"Okay, Sophie, this one's on you. You get to break the tie. Whose class sounds more interesting?" Margot asks, looking over at me inquisitively.

"Definitely Cryptology," I respond, almost as if on queue. Internally, I can't help but pride myself on how well I deflected my genuine interest in Ellie's class. Maybe one day I'd be able to find a way to talk to her about it without totally letting on that I loved anything English, which would eventually lead to me talking about high school, which would obviously end up with me sharing way too much about—

"Damn it, Sophie!" Ellie teases, nudging my shoulder with hers. I shrug, looking down at the unappetizing pile of food in front of me.

"Sorry 'bout it," I reply. We talk for a few more minutes about our first days, about boys we find hot, girls on our hall we want to meet, and then the ones we definitely don't. Finally, I drop the bomb:

"Remember that guy I was dancing with Saturday night? We're.. um... We're getting coffee tomorrow afternoon," I state, smiling. Both Ellie and Margot's jaws drop.

"He is so hot. And I think he's on the football team—"

"Yeah, and he's so tall—"

"Skinny, but also built—"

"Literally a dream—"

As Ellie and Margot banter back and forth about Stef, I find myself wishing that Emma were here. If she were, she would know just what to say, and it would be funny, and not at all time-consuming, and we'd probably talk it out all while taking a drag of a shared cigarette. God, I could really go for a cigarette, I think, before pushing the thought out of my brain entirely. Not only are cigarettes terrible for you, but they also cannot be a part of the brand-new Sophie Williams.

"Well, are you excited?" Ellie asks, pulling me back into reality. I clear my throat.

"For sure. He is really cute," I reply. I promise to tell them all about it after the fact, and then we're out of the dining hall and walking back towards our dorm. Even though it's still late August, the air is kind of chilly, and the sunset looks almost painted on the sky. The brick buildings of Wilson are bathed in this beautiful reddish-pink color. The whole image sends chills down my spine.

*

After calling my mom, I throw on some sweats and climb into bed.

"Sophie," Kris calls from the other side of the room. I lower the earbud I was about to place in my ear and raise my eyebrows at her.

"Yeah?"

"When's your date?" She asks, her voice filled with genuine curiosity. I lower my eyes and smile down at my keyboard.

"Tomorrow afternoon. It's at that coffee shop on Main Street," I answer.

"Is he a cutie?"

"Oh, he definitely is. Way hotter than my ex—"

Fuck. Why did I have to say that? If the last thing I want to talk about is writing in high school, then the second-to-last thing I want to talk about is Tristan. Fucking Tristan. That topic presents a whole other can of worms I've never even tried opening.

"Exes are never hot," Kris says, clearly purposefully ignoring the panic written across my face. I let out a small sigh of relief. For now, at least, I've successfully avoided having to talk about Tristan.

"You're right. Do you have any particularly un-hot exes?" I ask, hoping I'm not probing too much. Luckily, Kris looks happy to have the opportunity to talk about herself.

"For sure. I dated this one girl for three years in high school. Three years! Things ended so badly— all I can say is that she's about as un-hot as they come," she replies. I laugh along with her, rethinking what she'd said. Kris is gay?

She certainly doesn't look the part. Not that gay people have to look gay, but in high school, gay people wore their sexuality on their sleeves. Always. Whether it be the hair or the clothes, it was always obvious, at least to me. I find myself a little rattled about the whole thing. Maybe I'm just alarmed about how my gaydar isn't as good as it once was.

"I—I hope I didn't upset you," she says quietly. My heart speeds up as I realize that we've been sitting in silence for a while now, and she must be assuming that I'm not okay with her sexuality.

"Oh my god, no, not at all! I just didn't have anything to add at the moment. Geeze, I hope you don't think I'm totally awful," I exclaim, rushing to defend myself. I feel my cheeks grow hot under her stare. For a second she looks angry— then she bursts into laughter.

"Sophie, Sophie, you're fine. I was just making sure. You can never be too careful when dropping the gay bomb."

"Well, I don't care at all. I'm glad you felt like you could drop the gay bomb with me," I assure her. She grins, then climbs into her bed. Just as she's about to put in her own earbuds, she glances over at me.

"If I don't see you tomorrow morning, good luck on your date," she says, her eyes making contact with mine.

"Thanks, Kris," I reply. "I'll be sure to tell you all about it." She smiles at me again, then we both turn to our laptops.

For some reason, I find myself pulling up old poems from high school. I shouldn't be doing this, I think, but as long as I don't start actually writing again, who cares? I'm just going to reread some old stuff, remember how bad I was at it, and then move on with my evening. Maybe this'll be a good thing for me.

I click on an untitled poem— one that's clearly been left unworkshopped. Hopefully this one will be sufficiently awful.

I want to say thank you. For teaching me / how wonderful it is to be loved, the beautiful and almost / terrifying ways we learn to give, receive, borrow, return. / And then, later, how even / after all this time spent immortalizing / memories of us in the deepest chambers of my head, / I cannot remember / the sound of your voice.

The time stamp on the piece indicates that it was written just before I met Ms. Adams. I feel my throat threaten to collapse in on itself as I rack my brain for insults she might have fired at these lines; for once in my life, I cannot even begin to imagine one. I think she might have loved this. I find myself wishing I could email it to her, wishing she could see that I was- am- was a beautiful writer, wishing it weren't too late for her to change her mind about me.

That night as I try to fall asleep, I can again hear Ms. Adams read my own words back to me, her voice still sitting at the small of back, climbing up and around my spine and ribs as she whispers, softly, the beautiful and almost terrifying ways we learn to give, receive, borrow, return.