So I got to Donald Hall early, to find him before Thursday’s Happy Hours got started. My plan was to drop off my stuff in the lounge, then go up to his floor and look for his room (RAs universally announced themselves as such via the random shit they taped to their doors in an effort to seem approachable and cool, though it almost always backfired). I probably didn’t need to talk to him in his room, but I justified wanting to by convincing myself that being alone—without the imminent arrival of the rest of the Regulars looming over us—was vital to us moving past our joking to whatever came next.
I set down my books and took off my coat, and as I draped it over the back of the chair I always sat in, I heard the crash of the building’s front door—Ethan came bursting through it, caught me staring at him from the lounge. He yelled my name and ran toward me, through the open glass door of the study lounge, his bag on his back and a torn envelope in his hand. He charged at me full speed, then leapt and slid across the table on his stomach, his hand and the envelope reaching out to my face.
—Read it, he said.
But he started talking before I’d gotten the letter all the way out.
—I got into Berkeley. For grad school. My top fucking choice, fully funded.
He whipped off his bag and tossed it off the table, then rolled onto his back. He thrashed his arms and legs in the air like a dying bug and screamed, then he tilted his head so he was seeing me upside down, the acceptance letter stretched between my fists.
—You’re the first person to know. Isn’t that perfect? I am losing my fucking mind!
—Grad school? For what?
He flipped over to his belly and got up to his knees, legs spread wide on the tabletop.
—Dude, for history. For my doctorate.
He plucked the letter away.
—I didn’t even know you were applying to places.
—I didn’t want anyone to know. And most of the apps had to be in by January anyway. I only applied to four schools. That’s all I could afford.
He marveled at the letter again, then said, Jesus H. Christ, I think I’m going to puke.
Without taking his eyes off the page, he scurried off the table and slammed himself into a chair.
—I haven’t felt this kind of relief since getting in here, he laughed.
—Why didn’t you tell me? I said.
He reared away, sliding the letter back into the envelope as if to shield it from me.
—Hey, I think what you meant to say was, Congratulations, Ethan, you are a pinnacle of human achievement, I hope to be half the man you are someday. Something along those lines.
—Sorry, I said. Congratulations, Ethan – assuming you would’ve told me had I not been just standing here waiting for you.
—Of course I would’ve told you! I couldn’t wait to tell you.
—You didn’t bother to tell me you were waiting to hear from places.
—Come on, don’t be like that. I feel like celebrating. Don’t make this into a thing.
He smacked the envelope against his palm. What are you doing here so early?
His face was as bright as a shark’s belly. Something was gone from him: the stress of all those weeks of waiting, something I hadn’t registered until it was missing. He’d kept his worries a secret, hadn’t burdened me with them—a pattern we’d both kept so far and that I couldn’t break now even though I wanted to, not in the glow of his good news, and not with his example of someone who’d kept it together shining in my face. I slid my books away from me, lined them up with the side of the table.
—No reason, I said. What do you mean, a thing?
—No, Lizet, come on, don’t do that.
My eyes filled—I wondered if this was how my parents felt when I told them about Rawlings. Do what? I said.
—What you’re doing. Finding a reason to get upset. I’m so fucking happy right now, please, please don’t wreck it.
I still wanted to tell him about my mom, ask him what he’d do if he were me when it came to the internship, but now I knew he’d just tell me to go. Forget your family, your life is about you: that’s what he’d say. That’s what his keeping quiet until he found out for sure meant for him. That’s why Ethan was going to Berkeley and I was going nowhere.
—I’m not. I’m happy for you. I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me sooner you were waiting to hear from grad schools. I don’t why you’d keep that from me.
—Stop stop stop stop! He lunged at me and grabbed my wrists, squeezed them for a second before letting them go when the envelope crinkled.
—God, Lizet, I wasn’t keeping anything from you, I – no, no, I’m not doing this. I’m not doing this!
—Doing what?
—I’m not playing into this.
He stood up, leaned over the table, his color rising.
—This isn’t complicated. If you can’t just be one hundred percent happy for me right now, that’s your problem.
—I never said I wasn’t happy for you.
—I see it in your face!
I put my hands on my cheeks to cover whatever was betraying me. He slapped his hands against his thighs.
—You’re doing that infuriating girl thing where you make this about you, he said. My mom pulls this kind of thing and I hate it. I didn’t think you were like that – you’ve never been like that. Don’t start now.
—I’m not your mom.
I grabbed my jacket and pulled my arms through it.
—I know you’re not my mom. But do you see how now I’m trying to make you feel better when all I want to do is get drunk and celebrate? When I want you to celebrate, too?