PRASHANT RETURNED TO CAMPUS from fall break not knowing what his mood was. It shifted quickly from moment to moment, to the extent that he wondered about his mental health. He had seen a commercial for an antidepressant that featured a succession of people sitting on couches one moment, riding a bike the next, and he considered going to the school’s medical center to discuss whether he should go on medication. He found himself so swept up in his schoolwork that it was as if academics had made the decision for him: he didn’t need a prescription. He needed to study.
For reasons he couldn’t quite process, he actively avoided Kavita. There were no more desultory trips patrolling the student center, no unnecessary coffees in cafés simply for the sake of crossing her path. Instead he kept mainly to his room; it was oddly suited to getting work done even when the inviting berth of his bed lay mere feet away. He learned to deliver the line “I can’t—too much work” with a credible inflection that deterred people from asking him to hang out at all.
His efforts paid off: another A on a quiz or problem set, another shout-out from the professor, another passive-aggressive exchange with a classmate who envied his success. He came to see himself as two separate people: the Prashant who second-guessed his every move, who constantly lamented the late start he had when it came to social interactions, and the Prashant who was beyond social acceptance, who needed only to sharpen his mind. He came to see this second self as not only more desirable but practically Einsteinian.
All the while, he was conscious of why he had desired Kavita so desperately: she was these two selves concurrently. She didn’t need to make a choice. She simply had to be.
Thanksgiving came soon after fall break, but he decided to stay on campus. It would have been melodramatic to say that he was avoiding his parents’ house due to his outburst at their party, but regardless, he was relieved that he was not spending the holiday with them. He could detect the lack of concern in his father’s voice when he told them his plans. His mother, for her part, seemed genuinely sad, but he also sensed the same air of detachment that had clouded her presence during the past several weeks.
He spent Thanksgiving dinner at the house of one of his chemistry professors, Gary Dominick, a man who had lived several lives. On his faculty page, the professor listed the numerous professions that he had attempted before his current career: dishwasher, guitar player in a café, hotel concierge, fire inspection specialist, the now-ubiquitous yet amorphous term “social worker.” His wife, Gina, was equally versatile; she was a former high school biology teacher who now had some moderate success as a songwriter for P!nk. Although they were both in their late forties, they had a one-year-old baby who seemed, magically, theirs and not the result of adoption or surrogacy. To celebrate the miracle of conception and the joining of their genes, they spent a great part of the evening hoisting her like a rocket above their heads, at one point narrowly missing an unkempt bookshelf when the professor’s wife tripped on their Oriental rug.
The Dominicks lived in one of the stately, stunning mansions that stood on flat, unobstructed lawns outside of town. Their place was a series of high-ceilinged rooms with thick, dusty curtains and pale green paint flaking along the walls. Dilettante debris lurked in corners like pets—a dulcimer; a fanned-out collection of tarot cards, midprediction; an old rocking horse; decorative plates from Africa and South America; a fragile-looking cabinet with Japanese characters in red paint on its front.
They had put up flyers that any Thanksgiving strays were welcome at their place, so the other attendees made a motley assortment—three undergrads and one taciturn grad student. The undergrads were all freshmen, all young women, all as clueless as Prashant. The taciturn grad student, Oleg, was from Warsaw. He was very thin and his hair was insane, a copse of curls set so thickly that they all looked tangled with one another. He was an unabashed flirt with all three of the young women, who politely rejected his attempts until Oleg silenced himself with a pair of pumpkin pie slices.
The entire evening felt slapdash, and Prashant welcomed it. It was nice to be in a neutral space on campus, surrounded by academics yet not at risk of running into Kavita. She had e-mailed him a few days ago, but his response? “I can’t—homework.” She had probably decamped to Chicago for the weekend, and Prashant, between bites of butternut squash gratin, let himself envision what her Thanksgiving looked like. He imagined a look of satisfaction crossing her face while she savored a creamy spoonful of buttery mashed potatoes.
“So, Mr. Chowdery,” Professor Dominick said, “has our fair campus been to your liking thus far?” Even though he had worked several blue-collar jobs, he spoke with a stilted air.
“I feel very at home,” Prashant said. He didn’t know that this was how he felt until he said it. The consciousness that his rightful place was here, the academic promise that he exhibited with every meticulously composed problem set, gave him a sense of belonging that he had never had before.
“That’s so lovely to hear,” Gina said, looking up just briefly from her daughter, who lay cradled in her arms like a scepter. “Destiny brought you here, then.”
“Indeed,” Professor Dominick said, cutting through his adobo-rubbed turkey. “But don’t get too comfortable. That’s when you let your guard down and your grades start slipping. You’re here for only four years.”
Oleg made an intentionally loud clearing of his throat, revealing to them that he had spent not just grad school but his undergrad years on campus.
“Well, true,” Professor Dominick replied to this, swiping another forkful of turkey into his mouth. “You could be like my dear protégé Oleg here and parlay your avid facility with thermodynamics into the hell of being my TA.”
“I’ll take your hell over a literary heaven any day,” Oleg said, clearly brightening at the chance to be engaged in conversation once more.
Clara, one of the young women at the table, piped up: “I happen to be an English major, and I’m very proud of it.” Her voice contained an air of indignation that was at odds with her otherwise reserved appearance. Prashant realized that her schoolmarmish outfit was the result of hipster posturing, not a poor sense of style.
“Let’s see what you think when you graduate and can’t get a job,” Oleg said.
“Now, now,” Professor Dominick said sternly, though laughing. “There’s no need to be rude, Oleg.”
“Yeah, especially when you’re just a TA,” Clara said. She swept her fingers through the air to form a Stop sign, the universal gesture for “Talk to the hand.”
Oleg pressed on. “Do me a favor and try to learn some computer languages if you’re going to be an English major,” he said. “At least some basic HTML, if not Python and Joomla.”
“Oleg,” Gina said, looking up from the baby again, but with fire in her eyes. “Please have some respect. This is a Thanksgiving dinner to which you have been invited.”