Yes, he thought. That’s exactly what students were learning here. They were learning that hard decisions weren’t necessary, that making the right choice was unimportant, especially if it entailed extra work. Why study or try to change the world on a Friday afternoon when you could be out enjoying the sun?
Shifting his eyes from left to right, he wondered how many of these students even gave much thought to the lives they were going to lead. Cassie used to, he remembered. She thought about the future all the time. She had plans. She’d mapped out her future by seventeen, but he could remember thinking that there was something tentative about the way she’d talked about it, and he’d had the sense that she didn’t quite believe in herself or the face she showed to the world. Why else would she have made the decisions that she had?
He’d tried to help her. He’d done the right thing, followed the law, filed reports with the police, even talked to the assistant district attorney. And up until that point, he’d believed in society’s rules. He’d held the na?ve view that good would triumph over evil, that danger could be corralled, that events could be controlled. Rules would keep a person safe from harm. Cassie had believed that, too – after all, wasn’t that what kids were taught when they were young? Why else would parents say the things they did? Look both ways before you cross the road. Don’t get into a car with a stranger. Brush your teeth. Eat your vegetables. Put on your seat belt. The list went on and on, rules to protect and save us.
But rules could be dangerous, too, he’d learned. Rules were about averages, not specifics, and since people were conditioned since childhood to accept rules, it was easy to follow them blindly. To trust in the system. It was easier not to worry about random possibilities. It meant that people didn’t have to think about potential consequences, and when the sun was shining on Friday afternoons, they could play Frisbee without a care in the world.
Experience was the most painful of teachers. For nearly two years, the lessons he’d learned had been all he could think about. They had nearly consumed him, but slowly a clarity had begun to emerge. She had known about the danger. He had warned her what would happen. And in the end, she’d cared only about following the rules, because it was convenient.
Checking his watch, he saw it was finally time to go. He closed the textbook and rose from his spot, pausing to see if his movement had caused others to notice him. It hadn’t. He set off then, crossing the commons, textbook beneath his arm. In his pocket was a letter he’d written, and he veered toward the mailbox just outside the science building. He dropped the envelope through the slot and waited; a few minutes later, he spotted Serena emerging from the doors, precisely on time.
He already knew much about her. These days, it seemed that every young person had Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Snapchat, their lives on display for anyone who cared to put the pieces together. What they liked, who their friends were, where they spent their time. He already knew from a Facebook post that she’d be having brunch at her parents’ house with her sister this Sunday, and as he watched her walking ahead of him, her dark brown hair tumbling past her shoulders, he noted again how beautiful she was. There was a natural grace about her, and she drew appreciative smiles from the guys she passed, though lost in conversation, she didn’t seem to notice. She was walking with a short, heavy blonde, a friend from class. They’d been in an education seminar together; he knew she wanted to become an elementary school teacher. Making plans, just like Cassie used to do.