Make Your Home Among Strangers (17 page)

—I guess he was pretty sketchy, I said, trying out the word.

It was sweeter-sounding, more innocuous, than
skeezy
or
grimy
—words that would've felt more natural coming from my mouth but that didn't really describe him.
Sketchy
was it.
Sketchy
was perfect. I wondered if people used that word in Seattle.

We kept walking, the piles of old snow lining the sidewalks and paths reaching almost to my thighs, the sky clear and so the cold extra brutal. I still couldn't understand why the sun, when out like that, couldn't do its job and warm us even a little bit. I kept my hands in my coat pockets, though I'd brought Jillian's mittens with me in my backpack for skating; there was only so much cold I could take for so long without them.

Ethan would occasionally jog up to the front of the group and point out some
awesome
or
rad
thing about Rawlings, grinning like a fool at a plaque that commemorated the graduation of the first woman admitted to the college—We were the first of our sister schools to go co-ed, he pointed out—or the building that housed a brain collection.

—We have a
brain collection
? someone said from the back of the group, and I was glad I wasn't the only one who didn't know about it.

Ethan told us that, among other brains, there was the brain of a local serial killer (supposedly bigger than Einstein's brain, he said) and the brain of an orca. He told us that orca brains had a part of the corpus callosum that was far more developed than that of humans, and that this likely meant they were not only smarter than us, but capable of more complex emotions than anything we as a species could ever feel.

—Holy shit, someone said.

After a second of walking in silent awe of this new fact, I asked Ethan what his major was. Whatever he said—marine biology, neuroscience—I would make myself study it: I wanted to know things like the things he was telling us, even if facts like that made the field trips my elementary school had taken to see Lolita the Killer Whale at the Miami Seaquarium so morally wrong that I'd spend my life trying to make up for it.

—History, he said.

I stopped walking without meaning to, and the person behind me slammed into my back, said, Oh sorry, even though it was my fault.

I didn't ask Ethan if he'd learned that fact at Rawlings or somewhere else, but I promised myself I'd see the brains by the end of next spring. I'd see everything, cram four years of exploring into a semester if I had to. Maybe I'd ask Ethan for a list of recommendations, assuming I could do it without letting on that one year at Rawlings might be all I could afford. He pointed out a building that had a twin in New York City: it was made out of a metal that, when exposed to atmospheric pollutants, would turn a brilliant, aquatic blue. But our version, on this crisp hill, was a dump-in-the-toilet brown.

—Too clean here, he said, walking backwards so that he faced us. But seriously, guys, check out the one in the city if you're ever there.

He turned around with a little hop, an honest-to-goodness skip, and seeing him do that made me hope that after graduation, Ethan could find a job as some sort of RA for the world.

*   *   *

The skates surprised me the most: their bulk, the very unnatural feeling of walking in them, the way I was sure I'd snap both my ankles within seconds of putting them on. Then there was the fact that I had to step onto ice—
onto ice
.
Step
onto it. I didn't know how to do that, so with my skates on, I sat in the stands surrounding the rink, watching people do it for a little while, how they transitioned from regular ground to a surface so slick. Some people launched into big graceful laps, but I ignored them, scrutinizing instead the ones pulling themselves along the edge of the rink, hand over hand. I spent the afternoon in that latter category, so afraid to let go that even at the urging of the group and Ethan, I never tried it. My knuckles would hurt the next day; my arms and shoulders would ache. But despite never leaving the edge of the rink, I fell flat on my ass three times when my legs flipped out from under me.

The third time, Ethan glided over to where I sat on the ice. I was leaning back on my hands, Jillian's mittens protecting them, but when he bent forward and sped over, his own hands tucked behind him, I pulled mine to my lap, imagining his skates sharp enough to slice off all my fingers.

—You OK? he said. That one looked bad.

I was sure my tailbone was now embedded into some other bone right above it. I tried very hard not to cry from the pain of it.

—It was, I said. You know what? I think I'm done for now.

—Fair enough.

He reached down a hand—no gloves for him—and I took it, my other hand latching on to the rink's wall.

—This might not be for me, I said, letting go of him the instant I was up.

He let me inch back by myself, circling the rink a couple times as I did it, then joined me on the bench once I was safely off the ice and over the threat of tears.

—So, not for you, huh? he said, his hands clasped together between his legs.

—I don't think so, I said.

We both looked at the skates wobbling on the ends of my legs.

—Did you at least have fun today? Even a little?

I told him yes, a little, and he grinned.

—Good! He clapped once and said, My work here is done.

—So this is work?

He shrugged and said, Sorta. Planning stuff like this, coming up with programs? It's part of my job. But it's fun, too, sometimes.

He raised his hands and curled two fingers on each into air quotes. You know, he said,
building community.

He sat there as I untied the skates and struggled to pull them off. I tried to make that very awkward motion look smooth, because he was watching the whole time; I tugged at them—one foot, then the other—and searched my tiny, non-orca brain for anything to say.

He tapped his pointer finger on my knee and said, You interested in being an RA?

—Do people in Seattle say
sketchy
? I blurted out.

He reeled away from me on the bench.

—Are you saying I'm being sketchy? Because I'm not. I'm sure it happens all the time but I swear I'm not hitting on you. I don't hit on freshmen – why would I hit on a freshman? And I don't hit on freshmen with
boyfriends
. I'm not
that
lame.

I felt my face heat up despite the proximity of all that ice—though
his
face flushed so red it looked painful. I ducked down to hide my cheeks and tie my sneakers back on my feet, my legs feeling a thousand times lighter without the skates.

—Uh, no, bro, I said (mostly to my ankles). I'm really just asking that. I never heard
sketchy
before coming here and I didn't know – whatever. But yeah, thanks for clearing up that other thing!

He shoved his hands in his hair and said, Oh, dude, no, I – you're obviously cool, I didn't mean –

—No, it's fine.

I finished the last double tie on my laces and said, I really don't care.

—I'd never heard
sketchy
either! Not before Rawlings. But
everyone
says it here.

—Good to know, thanks.

—Like
everyone
, he said out to the ice, his face still searing.

A girl out on the rink leapt into the air, spun, and landed perfectly, a spray of ice erupting from the spot her skate touched. We both watched her for longer than the move deserved.

—So the deadline is coming up – to be an RA, to apply, I mean. It's a tough gig to get but it's a sweet deal if you land it.

I thought about saying that sophomore year was a little up in the air for me right now, but I knew he'd ask why—that he'd ask because, if nothing else, he was someone whose job was to listen. Of course he'd ask why. I was only a couple weeks away from escaping campus without any other student knowing about the hearing. Out on the ice, the girl went for a second leap.

—Like for starters? he said to my silence. It's free room and board. If I'm being honest, that's a big reason to do it.

He looked at my sneakers for too long, then said, And if I'm being
really
honest, it's probably the only way I could afford this place.

I sat up very straight then, feeling so exposed—what about me made him think I couldn't afford Rawlings?—that I crossed my arms over my chest and rubbed my shoulders through my sweater. Not one conversation about money existed for me outside the financial aid office; I sometimes thought I was the only person getting aid even though I'd seen other people walking in and out of there. I worried I was hallucinating those people—that's how little anyone at Rawlings seemed to think about how much anything cost.

—That's amazing, I said. But yeah, no. I'm not sure that's for me either.

He looked down at the floor, and I caught him staring at the label on Jillian's mittens, which in my hurry to take off the skates I'd tossed on top of my backpack without even realizing it.

—Oh. Got it, he said. No worries, just thought I'd mention it in case you were curious, but I get it's not something you, like,
need
. Don't take it that way, OK?

He was already standing, already halfway to the rink's entrance by the time I looked up.

He stepped onto the ice. OK, OK? You get me?

I said, No, hey, thanks for thinking I could do it.

He shot me a corny thumbs-up. Time yields for no one, he said.

He cringed at his words and I laughed too loud so he wouldn't regret saying them.

As he glided a couple feet backward, he said, Can I say something completely unrelated to all that?

—Please, I said, and he said, Don't get mad.

Skating to the spot right in front of where I sat, he leaned over the edge as if about to tell me a secret. With a deep bend he picked up the mittens from his side and ran his thumb over the supple green leather, then handed them to me as he looked from side to side, making sure no one but me would hear what he was about to say. He even looked up at the lights as if they cared.

—And it really is an honest-to-god observation, I'm
not
hitting on you, but, OK. I've never seen anyone, like,
ever
? Just
bounce
like that. When they fall.

He pushed off from the edge and put his hands up like the night before, skating backwards for a second as he said, Sorry, I don't mean to be disrespectful, it's just – it's
true
.

He skated away fast, ice flying off the backs of his skates.

My hands, still clutching the mittens, went straight to my back pockets, a reflex to protect the ass I'd bounced on out there. If I should've been offended, I failed that test: I flung my head forward and bent over, letting my hair fall over my shoulders, then covered my mouth and eyes with my hands, crushing Jillian's mittens against my face. I only indulged the urge to hide my laughter for a moment; I made myself look up because I didn't want Ethan to make another wrong assumption, to mistake my shaking shoulders and the noise muffled by my hands as crying.

He turned and put his hands on his head and sort of shrugged, and I waved him away with those stupid gloves, thinking hard about how and when I would make it clear to him that they weren't mine.

*   *   *

As classes ended and study week began, any social activities that did not involve studying came to a halt. Rawlings students prided themselves on the campus's stress-inducing finals culture, one of the most intense in the country. I saw Ethan a few times coming in and out of the library, his wave and hello and occasional joke tinged with the strain I noticed on everyone's faces. The tutors at the center were less patient, the dorm's hallways quieter. Every table in the dining hall featured both a plate of food and a book, everyone choosing to eat alone. Leidy had stopped leaving messages halfway through study week, or maybe Jillian had stopped writing them down: neither of us spent much time in our room, as she'd started studying with her softball friends somewhere off campus. She didn't come back one night, then the next, and when I saw her leaving the library one afternoon and I asked her where she'd been, she just said, as if I was the biggest moron around, Studying.

Even though I worked hard to avoid what other students jokingly called “the outside world”—the news, anyone back home who loved you—I did suffer from one moment of weakness: a Sunday, the afternoon before finals officially began. I had my chemistry exam the next afternoon (my first one), and I didn't need the Office of Diversity Affairs to tell me sleep was more important than another last-minute session at the learning lab. I'd slept maybe eight hours total over the previous three days. (The number of hours you slept became a kind of shorthand when you ran into someone on campus—the lower the number, the more impressive, the harder you were working.) The lack of sleep, coupled with the nausea that accompanied too much coffee and not enough food, along with the fact that I was about to get my period (and therefore prone to crying into my chem textbook whenever I remembered that the exam would last three whole hours) pushed me into believing that there was no way I could face the week ahead of me without hearing my dad's voice. I thought his distance from the things going on in my life would remind me that I'd survive, and if I could make him talk to me after so many failed attempts, then maybe I could do other difficult things. Unlike Omar, my dad wouldn't ask to be filled in on my hearing's outcome; he didn't even know about it. And unlike my mother or Leidy, my dad would talk about his own job and ask me questions because he probably couldn't care less about what was going on with Ariel; he was not, as he liked to say, political. He'd been a U.S. citizen for ten years but had never voted in an election. He only became naturalized because he literally lost his green card—could not find the original document, only a copy—and, because he worked in construction (roofing, electrical work, hired by whoever needed something pulled or wired or covered in tar paper), he didn't want to keep getting confused with the workers who had fake documents.