An Off Year Read online

  “Nice,” said Dad. “Put your brother on the phone, please. Have fun this weekend, okay? I want you to look around at the campus and talk to people, but I want you to have fun, too.”

  Josh took the phone and asked Dad about a paper he was working on for class. I looked out the window. A couple of girls were lying on towels in the grubby yard across the street, listening to iPods, their tank tops folded up to show their blindingly white stomachs. It was only May, and it was cloudy.

  “Well,” Josh said when he got off the phone, “do you want a little tour of the campus?”

  “Sure. Oh, before I forget, Germaine said she wanted a something Bucky shirt.”

  “Fuck ’em Bucky?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

  He snorted. “What is she going to do with a Fuck ’em Bucky shirt?”

  “I don’t know, maybe she wants to give it to Conrad. Anyway, I’ve heard so much about these famous Fuck ’em Bucky shirts and I still have no idea what they are, so I’m just curious now what it is we’re talking about.”

  “I’ll show you,” Josh said. “I’ll buy Germaine’s and I’ll get one for you, too.”

  We walked down the street and turned onto the main drag, which was lined with bars, restaurants, and head shops, which had small clumps of dingy-looking kids gathered in front. We turned into one of the numerous college apparel stores named things like Badger Bin and Madison Madhouse. The store was brightly lit, and racks and racks of T-shirts and sweatshirts and shorts and mugs stretched to the back of the store. Clothing hung from round displays, on the walls, on shelves. It had the smell of fresh sweatshirts and iron-on decals. A local radio station blared a weird mix of heavy metal and hip-hop.

  The university name was printed on everything, from underwear to child-size cheerleading uniforms to gigantic beer steins. My favorite was a T-shirt that said UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN on it over a pattern of Hawaiian-looking waves, as if surf was always up in the Midwest.

  We reached the back of the store, and Josh pointed up on the wall. A handful of T-shirts featured a crabby-looking badger puffing out his chest, wearing a turtleneck sweater and turning up his middle finger (claw?) at the wearer. And they said FUCK ’EM BUCKY!

  “Bucky?” I was dismayed to see a cute animal behaving so rudely.

  We strolled around campus. I liked that there were some wooded areas and was intrigued by a hill that Josh said students used cafeteria trays to go sledding down when it snowed. He kept pointing out buildings that I instantly forgot the name and purpose of. The library, the arts building, the gym, the bad dorms, the good dorms, the frat houses. They were all nice, but frankly I didn’t care that much about where people took their science classes or didn’t.

  “So what do you think?” Josh asked as we stopped in front of some hulking building so I could tie my shoe.

  “It’s very nice. Brick,” I said. I hoped he wasn’t going to give me a quiz like Dad, because I wasn’t sure what this one was, even though he had just told me. The astrology building?

  “No, I mean, you know. Overall.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “It looks like campus back home, only different.” This was true. It was even on a lake, although one inferior to Lake Michigan. “It’s more spread out. But otherwise the same.”

  “Yeah,” said Josh. “In a lot of ways, they’re all sort of the same.”

  “That kind of sucks,” I said.

  He shrugged. I wished I were home.

  Later, after we’d seen most of campus, Angie met us on the patio of the student union for dinner. It was still a little chilly and gray, but with our jackets on, it wasn’t too bad out. It was nice sitting on the lake, even if it was a lesser lake than what I was used to. Groups of students, adults, and families with little kids clustered around the metal tables scattered about, enjoying the tolerable weather. I had to admit, I had been looking forward to seeing Angie. I had simply given up on trying not to like her.

  “So, Cecily,” said Angie, “do you think you might want to go here?”

  “I probably won’t—I didn’t apply anywhere else, and it looks like Kenyon will take me back if, you know, everything works out. But I don’t see why I wouldn’t otherwise. What are the people like? Is it, like, a big party school?” I cringed saying that phrase.

  “Sure,” said Josh.

  “It’s not annoying?”

  “Sometimes it is,” Josh said. “But I just think that you can’t really get away with a lot of the same stuff once you graduate, so I enjoy it. I mean, I hope I don’t become one of those guys who is a college guy after college or anything.”

  “You probably will be,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Josh said.

  The next morning I woke up in Josh’s bed and briefly panicked when I couldn’t remember where I was. Then, when I did, I panicked again, realizing I still had another day to spend here, away from home. The room felt stuffy and hot. It was sure to be a long day.

  After I showered (with the tiny dried-up sliver of the only thing in the bathroom that resembled soap), I stood in the steamy bathroom, almost crying from exhaustion as I tried to comb out my hair. I had forgotten a hairbrush, and the only thing available in the bathroom was a tiny black plastic comb, the kind they give out on class picture day. It was totally inefficient in my hair, which could be so thick sometimes that I was convinced a family of birds could live in it with no problem. I wondered if it would be acceptable just for me to leave the comb in there. Finally, I half combed it out with my fingers and pulled it back with a rubber band. By the time I was done, I was hot and sweaty.

  Josh was sitting on the couch watching TV when I got out of the bathroom.

  “You look uncomfortable,” he said.

  “I am,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Well, I went and got us bagels while you were in the shower,” he said. “One of the perks of getting up early on a Saturday: you get first pick, since everyone is still sleeping it off.” He heaved himself off the ugly plaid couch to grab a coffee off the counter. Slightly mollified, I picked an everything bagel from the paper bag.

  “Sorry to keep you from going out and getting hammered,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t do it that much anyway,” Josh said. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “I didn’t really know that was an option in college,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Not drinking.”

  “Well,” Josh said, stirring his coffee.

  “But you drink.”

  “Sure. But not so much now that I’m dating Angie. We’re not really the get-shitfaced-together kind of couple.”

  “What did you do before Angie?” I crammed bagel halves into the toaster and prayed that they wouldn’t get stuck and catch on fire.

  “Sure, I went out. I bought a fake I.D. It was the worst. It was from Wyoming, supposedly. The photo didn’t even fit into the frame that well. There was a little space of just clear plastic to the side.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “The I.D.?”

  “No, going out.”

  “Sure. Why not? But after a while it feels like a routine, I guess. The same people going to the same places, dancing to the same songs. And I only really went out on the weekends; some people go out more than they stay in, so I don’t know what that was like for them.”

  “What do you do when you don’t go out and drink?”

  “There are things to do on campus. Cheap movie night. Concerts. Some big bands and comedians come in.” We settled on the couch and finished our bagels in silence as Josh channel-flipped on the huge TV. Part of me wanted to know if this is what I came for—hanging out on the couch, which I could just as easily do at home—but at least I was watching TV in a different state. That had to count for something.

  After breakfast, Angie came by. She and Josh were going to multitask—showing me more of Madison while simultaneously buying supplies for the party that was to come tonight, the one that would inevitab
ly publicly reveal my many issues and probably scar me for life. “Are you having fun so far?” asked Angie as we headed to the car.

  “I haven’t done much so far,” I said. “But sure, I’m having a good time.”

  “Cecily isn’t doing anything at home anyway,” said Josh. “So this isn’t much of a vacation for her. It’s like a weekend-long playdate.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. “And anyway, screw you. I’ve been working and going to class. I haven’t just been sitting around.” We had reached the car. Angie was standing in front of it, and Josh and I were standing by the driver’s side. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I figured I could drive,” he said.

  “I drove up here,” I said. “I know how to fucking drive a car.” My face felt hot and I was embarrassed to be doing this in front of Angie.

  “I know,” he said. He stopped and tried again in a quieter voice. “I know. But I know the town better than you, and it might be easier if I’m driving than us yelling directions at you and stressing you out.”

  I looked over at Angie, who was carefully studying the hood of the car.

  “Fine,” I said, and handed him the keys.

  I was ready to have a good, babyish mope in the backseat, but Angie wouldn’t let me sit there.

  “You kids are fun to hang out with,” she said.

  “Do you have roommates, Angie?” I asked as Josh backed out of the parking spot.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I live with five other girls. It’s hell on earth.”

  “Jeez,” I said. “I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “It sucks unbelievably. And the thing is, they’re all—well, they’re mostly—all my good friends,” she said, “and we still are. But we just can’t live together.”

  “How come?” I said.

  “Oh you know,” said Josh. “They’re always stealing one another’s boyfriends and being prettier and thinner than one another.”

  “I wish that was all bullshit,” she said. “But that’s some of it.”

  “What’s the rest of it?”

  “I think it’s a little easier when you are just in a dorm room, because there’s less to worry about. It’s one room,” she said. “But when you’re in an apartment, there are more common areas. There are groceries to worry about, and the kitchen. And some people don’t know how to do dishes, which is fucking pathetic when you’re twenty years old. Like, wouldn’t you think it was bad to put dishes away when they still had food stuck to them?”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said.

  “Also,” she said, “if you saw that the garbage hadn’t been taken out for weeks, and there were bugs walking around the garbage, would you take it out? Or would you ignore it until somebody else did it?” Her voice was getting louder.

  “I will have to think that one over,” I said.

  “I think girls think that living together is going to be this nonstop slumber party. You know, hanging out and doing each other’s nails and eating chocolate and watching sappy movies and holding each other’s hair back when we throw up. But it’s not like that at all. The pressure gets to you, so instead of dealing with it a normal way—the way a guy would, to say, ‘Dude, take out the trash’—girls get really passive-aggressive. I do it, too. I don’t take the garbage out, either. You know why? Because I’m making a statement that I won’t do it. Nobody is noticing it, of course, so it just makes me mad instead. And then, when somebody borrows my curling iron without asking, I blow up at them because I’m so pissed at them already.”

  “Then,” said Josh, “there are the groceries.”

  “Oh yeah. My roommate Christie is the only one with a car, so we have to go with her every time we go to the store,” said Angie. “Look, by the way, there it is.” We circled around the Capitol, which looked like every other capitol building in the country: it had a dome.

  “Whoo,” I said.

  “Anyway,” Angie continued, “it’s a big hassle and everybody goes their separate ways once we get to the store and we always end up buying too much stuff to fit in the car. And then people eat one another’s groceries and get into fights.”

  “They each have to buy their own milk,” said Josh.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Because God forbid that somebody drink Lola’s special soy milk. Or somebody touch Evelyn’s two percent milk. And then for those of us who drink whole milk, somebody always leaves like a milligram at the bottom and doesn’t replace it.”

  “So you drink whole milk?” I said. “Gross.”

  “No, I am totally off milk because of all that,” said Angie. “I pour water on my cereal and I drink beer with my cookies.”

  After shopping and lunch, Angie went to the library to get some work done, and Josh and I collapsed on the couch and found a marathon of shows on TV that educated us on how great the seventies were. He promptly fell asleep. I watched a few episodes, learned a lot more about Wonder Woman than I had ever before. I dozed off sometime during 1976 and woke up to my brother pressing a cold can against the back of my neck.

  “Beer!” he yelled. I wished I could just go back to sleep and let the party happen around me. I could be very good at pretending to sleep. I felt too warm, too cozy, too nice and safe for a party.

  “You know, Josh, I’m not planning on getting all crazy,” I said, sitting up. “I’m not going to dance on the table or break something or make out with a bunch of guys or throw up or take my clothes off or something. So you can stop making the googly party-girl eyes at me because even though I’m the fun sister, I’m sorry, I’m just not that much fun.”

  “Are you mad that I’m throwing you a party?” His voice didn’t sound that angry, but the clang the beer can made when he put it down on the fake wood coffee table did.

  “It’s for me? Seriously? I never asked for a party, Josh.” I thought of the coming-out parties that I imagined occurred all the time in the South. I don’t know why it was only the South, but that was how it was always in my head. Sixteen-year-old girls emerging from Tara in elbow-length gloves and beehive hairdos and saying, “So nice to meet you, Mistah Smith,” and then getting engaged. That was the abbreviated version. The long version involved dancing Virginia reels and drinking punch and much more dialogue.

  Josh snorted and turned the TV to a basketball game. I had that horrible sibling moment where you force yourself to say something nice even though you don’t want to.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I am excited. I guess I’m also nervous to meet all your friends. And I’m nervous that if I don’t do something right I’m going to have a terrible time and embarrass you.”

  “Cess,” he said. “I’m going to be honest with you. Dad told me it was really important to show you a good time this weekend. Really important. It’s a party. It’s not a test or anything. I might stress out just because it’s my party, but don’t let that affect you. Don’t worry about it so much, okay? You’ve been overthinking everything lately, or something.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “You’re nicer about this than Germaine is.”

  “Why, she’s been giving you shit?”

  “Eh, kind of. I dunno. I can’t tell if she’s mad that I’m taking a year off. Or just that I’m around.”

  “She’s just hating because she would have wanted a year off.”

  “Well, she should have taken one.”

  “I don’t think Dad would have let her,” said Josh. “Me, either, for that matter.”

  “Really?”

  “I think he was tougher on Germaine,” Josh said. “I mean, what do I know, but I get that impression. She might be, I dunno, bitter.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “Yeah. Drink your beer,” he said. We heard some shouting outside. “Freshmen are always the first ones out,” said Josh. “I remember when I got here, the first weeks of freshman year, sort of drifting around at night desperately trying to get into whatever partie
s upperclassmen were throwing. I mean, it was only two years ago, but it feels like it was forever ago. It’s kind of embarrassing. Nine hundred of us would go outside and meet up with nine hundred other freshmen and drift around like a swarm of gnats. We’d hear there was a party at one house, go over there and all act like we knew whoever was throwing the party, real suave-like, and run over to the keg and practically suck out whatever foam was left in there.

  “We all looked like jerks, I’m sure, because the freshmen this year look like jerks. But I remember not really enjoying the experience: not enjoying the people I was with, or trying to sneak into parties, and certainly not begging for crappy beer. But I think I thought that if I didn’t go out, then nobody would know who I was and I would have no friends, and that I would have lost my one shot. Is that totally lame? It is, isn’t it?” he said, taking a drink from his can. “I guess my advice to you is, when you go to school, don’t go out just because you feel like you won’t be cool if you don’t. Because you probably won’t have a good time, and you’ll just feel stupid, I think.” I hoped I wouldn’t feel that way tonight.

  I went to the refrigerator for a refill and headed to the bathroom with beer in hand to shower again before the party. What was my problem? This was going to be fun. I was witty and weird and fun and so was my brother, and everyone was going to be delighted to meet me. I allowed myself to sing a little in the shower.

  Afterward, I went into Josh’s room to put on some fresh jeans while he headed into the shower. I came back into the main room and wondered if it would be greedy to get a third beer. Even if I wasn’t actually having a good time, I was doing a good job of convincing myself that it was a possibility, and I didn’t want it to go away.

  Somebody then came out of the bathroom who sort of bore a resemblance to my brother, only a lot gayer. He wore dark jeans that looked expensive and a navy striped button-down shirt that was open a little bit at the top but with no undershirt. And he had shaved and put something in his hair. He was wearing cologne. Not a lot, but I could definitely smell it.