“You could have just kicked me out,” I mutter. It would have been easier. I had friends in New York that I could squat with. I ignore the hollowness inside me. It started as an ache then formed a pit when we reached the Pennsylvania border. By the time we reached Tennessee, I was nothing—just a void.
“Why would you think that?” she asks quietly. For a second, I think she’s read my mind. Francie’s freaky like that. Then I realize, she’s responding to what I said.
Why did I say that? I don’t know? Because she packed up all my stuff, shoved it in the trunk, and plans to drop me nearly a thousand miles away? Just a guess. The easiest way to solve a problem was to get rid of it. That wasn’t what was really bugging me though. It was how she’d gone about it. Forcing me to take the harder classes, making me sign up for the entrance exams, paying for my applications—she didn’t want to simply be done with me. Francie doesn’t solve problems like I do. She fixes people.
She’s too blind to see that I’m a lost cause, and fuck if she’s not going to pay for that mistake. I’d seen how much Valmont University cost. “You aren’t obligated…”
“Like hell I’m not. If your”—she cuts herself off. Whenever she’s tempted to talk about my family she stops herself. It’s her rule—never speak ill of your family. She told me about it when we first met. I was allowed to resent them, be angry at them, even hate them, but she drew the line at trash talk.
Words become actions, she’d tell me.
I know a thing or two about that.
Valmont University looks like the brochure. Large oak trees line the road that winds past the main campus. We pass building after building named after what I’m assuming were old white guys with deep pockets. Beauford Hall. MacLaine School of Journalism. Eaton Library, across from which a smaller, brick building sits: Tennyson Hall. The home for the English department is named after a famous poet. Go figure. There’s no money in books. Past the ivy-clad halls, the largest building of all reigns over the others. A sign post pointing in its direction declares it the West Student Union. Students spill from each building we pass, bags slung over their shoulders. Classes don’t start for another week. I wonder what its like to be so fucking eager to learn that you’re walking around on the first day with your books already. It’s all a little too perfect. I guess a college is always selling some version of ideal—the ideal campus, the ideal career, the ideal future.
“Greek row is down there.” Francie jerks her thumb in the opposite direction.
“So?” The location of the university’s fraternities and sororities is so low on my list of interests it’s practically off the list entirely. If I’m being honest, I don’t mind knowing where the sororities are. That’s useful information. I just don’t see why she’s pointing it out.
“You could rush. It would be a way to meet friends.”
I raise an eyebrow, biting back more commentary. She won’t appreciate it. I know she’s just trying to help but sometimes I think Francie has lost her mind. “I’m not really the frat type.”
That’s the nice way to put it. I had a group I ran with back in New York, but even my best friends didn’t qualify as brothers. I’d be a brother once I knew it was more than a secret handshake and keg access on the weekends.
The residence halls are outside the main campus. Cars are parallel parked in front of every dormitory despite signs declaring Fire Lane: Violators will be towed. The curbs are so tightly packed we can’t find a single space near my building.
“We’re going to have to hoof it,” Francie announces wearily after we circle it twice. “I’m glad you don’t have much to carry.”
I shrug. That’s an understatement. When she finally pulls into a spot at least a quarter of a mile from the closest dorm, I jump out of the Mazda and pop open the trunk. My whole life fits in the compartment. I didn’t come to Francie with much—just the clothes on my back and a bruised left eye. I’m not leaving her with much either. Grabbing one of the two boxes to my name, I swivel to find her watching me. Tears stream down her face.
Francie doesn’t look a thing like my mother. At least, not as far as I can remember. My memories of my mother exist in shades of black, white, and red. They’re ugly and harsh. Her face is the only beautiful part of them. Pale with luminous eyes and ink-black hair that fell silkily over my face when she would bend to kiss me. Francie’s dark skin and riotous curls are as far from my mom as possible. But for one second, I see my mother looking back at me. I hate what I see shining in Francie’s eyes:
Pride.
I’ve done nothing to deserve it—from either of them. Shifting uncomfortably, I zero in on the dorm at the top of the hill.
“I don’t have all day.” I hope I sound bored. Disinterested. Anything to get her out of here faster. She’s done her part, fulfilled the role the state gave her years ago. She doesn’t have to keep at it. The sooner she leaves, the better it will be for both of us.
“You have all week,” she reminds me, falling into step beside me, the other box in her arms. “Orientation starts tomorrow according to the email I got. There’s going to be fun icebreakers and…”
She rattles off a list of activities that she knows I won’t bother with. I have a schedule and a map. There’s no way I’m going to sit through whatever fun-filled activities they’re hocking to parents. Instead I focus on navigating
