I wanted to see Toni every day. Every hour. The need to be with Toni lived deep in my stomach, a knot that kept unfurling and retying.
I knew what would happen if I went to Boston. I’d see Toni every week. We’d hang out at Harvard. I’d become friends with Toni’s friends, just like I did when I moved to Maryland. Toni and I would go out together as a couple. Everyone would know me as Toni’s girlfriend.
Every time I looked at Toni, I’d know exactly who I was. Exactly where I belonged. Every day would be just as wonderful as every day had been since Toni and I first met.
I didn’t know what would happen if I went to New York.
Not knowing was terrifying. Anything could happen. I could wind up miserable. I could regret my decision the second I set foot in my dorm room at NYU.
I’d have no one to depend on but myself.
It was the not knowing that made me reach for my pen. It was the not knowing that made me fill out that form, sign my name at the bottom with my fingers trembling, slip the sheet into the prestamped envelope and carry it outside and down the driveway.
I closed my eyes when I opened the mailbox and dropped the envelope inside.
There was no way to know what would happen next. The idea, the uncertainty of it all, made me want to throw up.
And it made me want to dance.
13
NOVEMBER
FRESHMAN YEAR OF COLLEGE
5 DAYS APART
TONI
“A break?” Derek asks. “Are you serious?”
“I guess so,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I chickened out.”
“Or you didn’t really want to do it in the first place,” Derek says.
“Or both.”
“Can I interest you in Bible study? Through fellowship with other Christians, even the greatest stress can be overcome.”
Derek and I are sitting on the steps of the Lamont library while Eli tries—and, mostly, fails—to hand out flyers for the Bible study the Harvard Christian League is hosting tomorrow night.
Eli is in the Harvard Christian League. Somehow, I’ve known him for three months without picking up on that.
“I feel worse than if I hadn’t said anything to begin with,” I tell Derek as a girl in pigtails flips Eli the bird. “Everything’s all uncertain now. I hate not knowing exactly where I stand. It’s like we’re in this sketchy in-between place and it’s awful. It’s awful.”
“Breaking up sucks, dude,” Derek says.
“I feel like the worst person in the world.”
“I bet she thinks she’s got you beat.”
I drop my head into my hands.
Someone taps on my glove. I don’t move.
“Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll just dump it out,” Nance says.
I look up. Nance is standing over me, holding out a cup of coffee from the Lamont café. I take it.
“Oh. Thanks.” I take a sip. “Wow, pumpkin latte. Thanks, Nance.”
“You like those, right?” Nance passes a cup to Derek and takes one down the steps to Eli, then jogs back up to where we’re sitting. “Everyone else drinks cappuccinos, but you got a pumpkin one that other time we were here.”
“Yeah, I like them a lot. Thanks.” I can’t believe Nance remembered that.
Nance sits down next to Derek and me. We watch Eli try to convince a group of guys wearing wrestling team sweatshirts to come to Bible study. They listen politely, but two of them are biting back laughs. I hope Eli doesn’t notice.
Eli’s been pretty depressed ever since his party. At first I thought it was a side effect of starting T, but Derek told me it’s because his parents canceled their call at the last minute. Eli was all set to come out to them, but never got the chance. I wonder what that would feel like. Being ready to let something loose, only to find out you have to keep it inside, after all. It’s hard to imagine what could be worse.
“Derek, can you talk to Gretchen online and see if she’s all right?” I ask.
“Sure,” Derek says. “Also, not sure if you want me to point this out, but you said she instead of ze, there.”
“Don’t bother,” I say. “I’ve given up trying to subvert the English language. There’s no point trying to make broad philosophical statements when I’ve completely lost my grip on all sense of self.”
“That’s profound, T,” Nance says.
Eli takes a break from passing out flyers and sits next to us on the steps, sipping the coffee Nance brought him. Nance brushes Eli’s scarf to the side and tips her head onto his shoulder. Eli’s a lot shorter than Nance, so her head is tilted at a painful-looking angle. He laughs.
He. Her. It just doesn’t sound right.
None of it sounds right. Not they. Not ze. And definitely not she. It’s all so arbitrary.
But not using pronouns feels arbitrary, too. I’m never going to convince the entire world not to use them, and that’s the only way I’d stop feeling weird about it.
“This might be the first time I’ve ever just sat here and watched people like this,” Derek says.