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I approached this selection with as much logic as I could. I wouldn’t pick anything too basic, no paper products or pencils. And why go for a tricolor set of slightly nicer highlighters when a twelve-pack would last me much longer?
Before I left for New York, I allowed myself to splurge on one thing with a portion of the Howl money: a new laptop to replace the aging Dell that coughed its way toward graduation, and I’m still not used to how the keys don’t stick.
After a week of orientation activities that included a bus trip to Bed Bath & Beyond and a welcome seminar at a theater uptown, it’s time for classes. While I’ve enjoyed this “the city is your campus!” introduction to NYU, I’m more than ready. That phrase has already been uttered an inordinate number of times, to the point where Skyler and I have started joking about it. Have you been to the Statue of Liberty yet? It’s technically part of our campus. That Olive Garden in Times Square? Campus.
Along with the mandatory Writing the Essay class for all freshmen, I’m taking Psychology 101 and a linguistics prerequisite, which I’m most looking forward to for obvious reasons. In middle school, my affinity for words—and, unfortunately, my affinity for using big ones in daily conversation whenever I could—was enough to earn me raised eyebrows and annoyed glances. In high school, slightly less so, though every so often a teacher would circle a word I’d used in a paper and write, English? Just because there was a more interesting, more apt word in another language.
Years ago, I tried to memorize as many untranslatable words as I could, captivated by the way they connected to that language’s culture. Psithurism, Greek for the sound of rustling leaves. Gluggaveður, Icelandic for when the weather looks pleasant but is best enjoyed from the inside.
Here, I have a feeling I’ll find people just as passionate about words as I am.
I wake up much earlier than I need to and figure a morning walk will settle any residual nerves. This is part of the reason I’m here, after all—to explore. I wind up eating breakfast at an NYU dining hall near Union Square while consulting the map on my phone again. Linguistics is a bit of a trek from here, so I give myself plenty of time. There are a couple different downtown trains I could take—shouldn’t be a problem.
Except when I get to the station at Union Square, there’s a sign indicating both trains have been diverted.
“Fucking MTA,” a guy in a suit mutters, a phone pressed to his ear as he turns to sprint in the other direction.
I check my phone again. The building is fewer than ten blocks away, and I’ve got fifteen minutes. I can make it.
This is when I learn that a New York City block is not the same as a Seattle block. I wasn’t paying attention during my earlier walk, and now I’m full of regrets. As I’m dashing down University Place, dodging people with briefcases and suitcases and grocery bags, panic crawling up my throat, I can barely utter the word in my own mind. Late. I can’t believe I’m about to be late for my first college class, on my favorite topic, the subject I’ve longed to study for years.
When I slow down in front of the building, I spend an agonizing half minute by the door, weighing my options. Go inside and risk humiliation? Or turn back and frantically email my counselor to switch classes and delay starting my linguistics courses until next semester?
But I’ve already been waiting so long.
The door gives a screech as I open it, prompting a full-body wince. The class inside goes silent, the professor frozen mid-sentence.
“Welcome, welcome, please find a seat,” Dr. Liu says. “I know it can be tough for freshmen to find their way around on the first day.”
This sparks some scattered laughs. My ears are burning, and I’m certain all my exposed skin has turned deep red.
The words themselves are kind, but the tone is flat. Condescending, even. The way he says “freshmen” makes me feel impossibly tiny. This is a class full of sophomores and juniors, and I was only eligible because I entered with so many credits from AP courses. It’s a privilege to be here, and I’ve already fucked it up. Fifteen minutes into the start of the semester and I’ve branded myself a problem student.
As quickly and quietly as I can, I take the nearest seat and unzip my backpack slowly, tooth by tooth, to make as little sound as possible. I’ll just have to wow him with my knowledge of semantics, show him how committed I am to my studies.
It’s only when I take out a notebook and position it in front of me, pen poised on the first line, that I realize I am surrounded by laptops. No one is taking notes by hand, and the click-click-click of keyboards fills the room. I left my new laptop back in my dorm, worried about damaging it if I toted it all over the city. I hadn’t imagined everyone would be taking notes this way, even though now it seems so painfully obvious. Personal laptops weren’t allowed in classrooms back at Westview, but of course this is what people do here.
Because this isn’t Westview. This is college.
And somehow, I get the feeling I’ve already failed some invisible test.
* * *
When I registered for the fall semester, the fact that three classes constituted a full course load seemed laughable. I wrote to a freshman adviser, asked if I could add another. She told me I’d better stick with three and reminded me not to go below fifteen credits, since my financial aid is dependent on it. Now, after seeing the linguistics syllabus and the one for my Psych 101 class in the afternoon, I can understand why. The amount of reading is no small task, which fills me with some of that first-day-of-school giddiness I’ve been missing today.
That’s what I’m faced with when I get back to my dorm later: an evening of reading, and I’m already planning to get ahead a few chapters if I can. In high school, doing the bare minimum wasn’t enough. That was average. “Meets expectations.” I’ve always pushed myself beyond that—in part because Rowan was doing the same thing.
Rowan. I didn’t realize just how much I looked forward to seeing her in class until I sat down in linguistics and she wasn’t there. We said goodbye only a week ago, and yet I’ve already installed a countdown app on my phone, letting me know that she’ll be in New York in twenty-two days. When I sent her a screenshot, she replied with an identical one.
“Good first day?” Skyler asks from his desk, glancing up from his laptop.
“Not bad.” I drop my backpack into my chair. “How about you?”
“Didn’t have to be in class until noon, so yeah, I’d say it was a pretty great day. My Writing the Essay prof seemed high as hell the whole class, so that’ll probably be an easy one.” It doesn’t escape my notice that Skyler’s given me much more detail than I have. I should want to share more—I wish I had some of his easy confidence. He rolls his chair toward me in the tiny room. “Dude. How is my side of the room already a hazmat risk and yours is spotless? Someone explain that to me.”
I gaze around at the clothes piled on his bed, a laugh slipping out. “How is your side of the room this messy? It’s only been, what, five days? I’m almost impressed.”
“What can I say, it’s an art. Or maybe I really did need my parents nagging at me to clean my room for all those years.” Skyler tips his head toward the photo of Rowan and me in our graduation gowns pinned to the wall above my desk. Kirby captured us just as she was tugging off my cap and kissing my cheek. Rowan thought it was corny and groaned when I had it printed, but I loved how it captured her—so confident in showing her affection, even when we’d supposedly hated each other days before. “Girlfriend?”
