One Year (New & Lengthened Edition) (2 page)

I
walk
out into our living room. The accommodations here are a bit more furnished: an ugly blue couch that desperately needs a throw or a few pillows to make it look at least mildly presentable and two identical green recliners that look like they came from some third-rate thrift store. Is there actually a store that manufactures these ugly things? A halfway acceptable coffee table, which has a French country distressed look, except that it’s not cute. It looks like it was actually distressed by the passage of time, not a carefully planned painting job. And a few end tables, which are mismatched in both color and height. Everything in this living room is wrong. And yet, everything about this place feels so right!

My palms grow sweaty from the excitement. I’m actually in New York.

N-e-w Y-o-r-k!!!

I feel like I’m in some fabulous movie, about to embark on the adventure of my life. I’m ready to put on a fabulous pair of fall boots, black tights, and a little black skirt and walk around Central Park with a latte like a real New Yorker!

“Alice?” His voice pierces my fantasy. I know who it is before I turn around. It’s a voice I could never forget no matter how I try.

“Alice? Is that you?” He grabs my arm, turning me around.

“Tristan? What’re you doing here?” I ask.

“What’re
you
doing here?” he asks.

We stand, staring at each other for a moment. He hasn’t changed. Not much. But there wasn’t much time for him to change. It has only been two weeks since our infamous break up. Still, he looks more grown up. His light brown hair is shorter now. He’s dressed in a nice pair of slim cut jeans, which accentuates his ass, and his favorite light blue t-shirt with an outline of a penguin on the front. He’s as tan as he always was, that’s what happens when you surf every day of the summer, no matter what. But his eyes are bluer than they used to be. Maybe it’s the light. Or the distance.

“Alice, can you help me-” Juliet comes out of our room. “Well, hello there. I’m Juliet,” she says flirtatiously.

“Hi, I’m Tristan Hilton,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m your new suite mate.”

“Oh sweet! I didn’t know this place was co-ed. Did you, Alice?”

No, I didn’t know either. I also didn’t know that it was possible to be assigned to the same suite as your fuckin’ ex-boyfriend. And not just some ex-boyfriend, the one who broke your heart into a million tiny pieces.

“Man, you’re quite tan, isn’t he, Alice?”

“I’m from California.” He shrugs.

“Ah, that explains it! Alice is from California, too.”

“Yes, I know.” He nods. “We actually know each other.”

Juliet jumps back in surprise as if this news means as much to her as it means to me.

“You went to the same high school?” she asks.

“What’re you doing here, Tristan?” I ask.

“Listen, this is some sort of accident, okay? I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t even know this suite was co-ed. I was assigned here. Just like you.”

“Well, I can’t stay here if you’re going to be here,” I say.

“What?! Why?” Juliet throws her arm around me. “No, you can’t leave, sweetie. Who knows what kind of crazy girl I’m going to have to room with next.”

I shake my head. I can’t deal with this. I can’t even be in the same room as him!

“Tristan?” I hear my mom’s voice from somewhere behind me. “What’re you doing here, Tristan?”

“Hello, Dr. Summers. Dr. Summers.” Tristan gives both my parents a brief hug. My dad is actually so surprised to see him that he manages to look away from his phone.

“It looks like Alice and I have been assigned to the same suite.” He shrugs.

“Mom, I have to go talk to someone about moving. I can’t stay here. Live with him.”

“Alice, don’t be rude,” she whispers to me and then turns back to Tristan. “How’s your mom and dad, Tristan? Are they here?”

“They’re in New York, but they had some errands to run. We’re meeting up for dinner later, after I unpack and stuff. I think they’re going to come see the place then.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Well, send them our best.” My mom smiles. She knows almost everything that happened between us, but she’s still polite and courteous. In this moment, I both love her and hate her.

“Excuse me, I’ve got to unpack,” I say and walk back into my room. I sit on the bed and try to assess the situation.

“What’s wrong?” Juliet bursts into the room only a few seconds later, followed by my mom.

I shake my head. I can’t talk.

“Juliet, is it?” my mom says. “I’m Dr. Summers.”

“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Are you okay, Alice?” my mom asks.

“I’d love to give you a few moments, Dr. Summers. But I just can’t leave without knowing what’s going on here. You know Tristan from before, don’t you?”

“He’s her high school boyfriend,” Mom explains. “They dated for two years. Long distance over this past year. And they broke up a few weeks ago.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“Well, actually, Tristan broke up with Alice. Very suddenly,” my mom adds.

“Shut up!” Juliet exclaims. “What an asshole!”

“Yes, he is a bit of an asshole,” Mom whispers.

Juliet goes on a rant about how much men suck and how much it sucks that we need them. I don’t really agree, but I agree in this moment. I like how protective she already is of me. But I still can’t stay here.

“I have to go talk to someone in housing,” I finally say, getting off the bed.

“Oh sweetie.” My mom shakes her head. “Are you sure?”

“What should I do instead? Just stay here and live with him all semester?”

My mom sighs. “I don’t know. But if that’s what you want…”

“No, you can’t. Alice, please! You can’t leave me alone with that asshole, if he is really an asshole.”

“He’s not really an asshole, Juliet. He’s a nice guy. I just can’t live with him. That’s all.”

W
hen I walk
out of the room, I find my father and Tristan discussing the biomedical stocks together. Tristan’s planning on majoring in Economics and has already invested a substantial amount of his grandparents’ birthday gifts into a few high performing and promising funds. My dad is always on the lookout for stock tips and never passes an opportunity to get one, even if it’s from the guy who broke his daughter’s heart. On the other hand, what the hell do I expect him to do? Ignore him like a child? It’s not like he cheated on me. Or hit me. Or anything unforgivable. He just broke up with me.

Definitely. Can’t. Stay. Here.

“Where are you going, Alice?” my dad asks as I try to sneak my way past them.

“Housing,” I say without turning around.

“Alice, c’mon. You don’t have to do this,” Tristan yells after me.

“Maybe I should go after her?” I hear him ask my dad.

“No, it’s better to just let her go, son.” My dad stops him, to my great relief. A knot forms in the back of my throat. Tears are about to start flowing. Luckily, the elevator doors close before anyone sees me crying.

“You’re going to be okay, Alice.” My mom holds me on the way downstairs. I try to wipe away some tears when the elevator stops at different floors and more people get in.

“Oh, don’t worry, honey. It’s just first day jitters. You’re going to be just fine.” A helpful woman about my mom’s age pats me on the back of my head.

“I’m here dropping off my third one and it never gets any easier, does it?” she asks, turning to my mother.

Mom shakes her head.

“I’ve done this twice already, but this is the first one that went so far,” she says and goes on to talk about what it was like to take my older sisters to college. Stephanie went to USC and Jacqueline went to UC Berkeley.

I dry my tears and wait for the elevator to finally get downstairs. The process takes forever as kids are moving in and out and the elevator has to stop at practically every floor. On top of all that, my mom makes a new friend at every stop.

By the time we reach the ground floor, I can’t control the flow of tears any longer. It has only been two weeks since Tristan dumped me over an arduous six-hour conversation. I’m not anywhere close to getting over him. He has been my life for the last two years of high school. He has been my love for way longer than that. No, I can’t even think about this now. Not if I don’t want my eyes to puff up to the size of tomatoes and me to be walking around like some sorry homesick kid the rest of the day.

“It’s going to be fine,” I say to Mom as we exit the building. The humidity outside envelops us in a thick blanket. It’s so thick that I can practically taste the water as we walk through it.

“Of course you are.” Mom takes my hand. Many kids are embarrassed of their parents, but I’ve never been. Until this moment, that is. I suddenly become keenly aware of the fact that I’m crying and holding my mom’s hand on the first day of school. I drop her hand immediately. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t make a fuss.

The block is overflowing with humanity. There are wide-eyed college freshmen flooding both sidewalks and spilling out onto the streets. Their proud parents are double parked in their cars, helping their kids unpack their bags and thousands of other Bed, Bath, & Beyond products into large containers on wheels.

At the Housing office, a long line of eager and tired freshmen wraps the outside of the building. We wait in silence for close to an hour until it’s finally our turn.

A freckled, tired girl with a tight bun greets us with a lackluster enthusiasm.

“How can I help you?” she asks, barely looking up. Her nametag says Tina.

“Hi, Tina. My daughter has been assigned to a suite with her ex-boyfriend. The whole situation is very complicated and she can’t possibly stay there.”

“Okay, let me see what I can do.” Tina asks for my name and ID. I still don’t have my student ID, so I hand her my license. She types and scrolls and hums and then types again. Mom and I just wait.

“No, I’m sorry. We don’t have anywhere else to relocate you.”

“What?!” I don’t believe it. “How can that be? Are you sure?”

“Yes, every dorm is filled.” Tina shrugs. She clearly doesn’t understand the direness of this situation.

“But you don’t understand. I can’t live there! He’s my ex-boyfriend. It was a bad breakup. I can’t see him again. Not every day!”

Suddenly, something I said gets Tina’s attention. “Do you have a restraining order against him?”

“Restraining order? Why would I have a restraining order?”

“Was he abusive?” Tina clarifies. But she’s still talking in Sanskrit.

“Abusive? No, of course not.”

“Well, then there’s nothing we can do. You two were matched according to our compatibility algorithm. Those things are typically pretty accurate.”

“Well, of course they were compatible.” Mom steps in. “That’s why they dated for two years. But they’ve broken up. You can’t really expect my daughter to live with her ex-boyfriend for a whole year?”

“There’s no need to get an attitude, ma’am,” Tina says sternly. “And no, I don’t expect her to live there for a year. Just one semester. In November, you can apply again and get reassigned. So that will be only four months.”

“I can’t live with him for one semester!”

“Alice, there’s a lot of people waiting. That’s your only option. Unless your mom wants to rent you some crappy, bed-bug infested studio apartment on Amsterdam for $1500 a month.”

Before I can reply, the guy waiting behind me in line pushes his way past me to the counter and starts complaining to Tina about the size of his mattress.

I look at my mom. She shrugs. Defeated, we head toward the exit.

A big part of me wants to stomp my feet and insist on that studio on Amsterdam. Maybe if I make it a big enough deal then my parents would cave. But $1500 a month is way more than the dorm. And after casually looking around Craigslist the week before, I know that Tina’s not much off on that price or the quality of the possible places.

“So what do you want to do?” Mom asks.

“I want to get a latte and go to sleep. Then I want to wake up and find out this was all just some bad dream.”

She hugs me. I don’t pull away. She smells of Chanel No. 5, as always, her favorite perfume, and it reminds me of home.

“Daddy will be really happy if you suddenly decide to transfer to USC,” she whispers.

“I know. But I won’t be.” I smile. “Okay. Okay. Enough with the pity party.”

I pull away from her.

“It’s just one semester, right? One semester. I can do that. I think. How bad could it be?”

T
hat night
I went out with my parents to a fancy French restaurant on Riverside Drive. My mom’s choice. It had white linens, small square tabletops, and tiny portions of food. I thought that my dad would complain about the disproportionate size of the salad in comparison to the price of the plate, but he surprised me. Instead, he seemed to really relish the experience. And even ordered a bottle of wine to celebrate. They didn’t card me, so I had a glass too.

My parents have always been good like that. It’s not that they condone underage drinking, but they have let me have an occasional glass of wine with dinner since I was 15. When I was younger, they would also bore me with an extended discussion of the horrors and dangers of binge drinking and drinking poor quality alcohol. But today, the three of us enjoyed the wine in peace.

“I wonder what it’s going to be like to have a glass of California merlot when it’s below zero and snowing?” my dad wonders out loud.

Again with the weather! Yes, it gets cold here. Yes, I don’t like the cold. Yes, it seems like New York is an odd choice for someone who hates the cold and has to wear long sleeves when it’s below 75 degrees. I want to say all of these things out loud, but miraculously, I’m able to keep my mouth shut.

“You know what your grandmother says, right? It’s not normal for human beings to live somewhere where it’s colder than in her freezer.”

Gram, my mom’s mom, grew up in Chicago and moved to Los Angeles when she was 18. She just got up and moved. No job. No friends. No man. I’ve always admired her for that. My family has a lot of strong women. For some reason, I’m the only one that’s a little weak now and then.

“So, it was a kick to see Tristan again, wasn’t it, Sharon?” Dad asks. Thump. My mom’s heel kicks him in the knee.

“Ouch! Why did you do that?” He turns to my mom.

“Because you deserved it.” She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, sometimes you can be so insensitive, Eliot.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t really know what to say. I know my dad didn’t mean anything by it. He has known Tristan practically all of my life. We have been friends since the 5
^th
grade. Best friends since 7
^th
grade. Boyfriend and girlfriend since 11
^th
grade. Exes since 2 weeks ago. And now roommates.

Roommates!

“I feel like the universe is conspiring against me a little bit,” I finally say.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t be like that,” my mom says. “Don’t think like that. This was just a glitch. An accident. I’m sure it will work out. I mean, how often do you have to see the other suite mates anyway? When we came back from Housing, no one was there at all. Maybe you’ll have different schedules? Different routines?”

She’s mumbling now. But it’s making me feel better. She’s right. I have to believe that she’s right. Maybe there is some way to avoid him.

“My roommate, Juliet, seems nice.” I change the topic.

Both of my parents nod in agreement. And then my dad manages to stumble onto another topic that makes me uncomfortable.

“And what’s her major?” he asks.

Ah, the never-ending topic of majors. From what I’ve learned from my sisters, majors are an important topic of conversation in college. It’s almost like there’s nothing else. Your major puts you into some sort of classification. A particular phylum, order, or genus. According to my oldest sister, that is.

“Not sure.” I shrug.

“None of you are sure, are you? What is it with this generation, Sharon? Were we like this?”

“Yes; many people were. You? No, you weren’t like this.” She smiles. She’s making fun of him, but it all comes from love.

“No, I wasn’t.” My dad beams with pride as he says that. “I knew right away that I wanted to be a doctor. I can even remember my first semester’s course schedule. Can you believe that? All these years later? I took Biology, Chemistry 101, Physics 102, Calculus 1, and Western Civilization 1. The last one was some sort of inane requirement, of course.”

“Yes. Who could imagine that anything about Western Civilization would be useful to any human being alive?” I say sarcastically. I’m joking, but not really. And my dad knows that.

“Ah, I see, we have a smartass, here. Okay, then, smartass, what courses have you decided on?”

I sigh. But not because I don’t know. I’ve been pouring over the course catalog for the last month. I’ve got it practically memorized. And the only conclusion that I’ve come to is that there are just too many fascinating courses to narrow them down to just four or five. Some of my favorites are The Writer’s Process, The Art of the Essay, Intro to Fiction Writing, and The Victorian Age in Literature. But I can’t really come out and say that. Not if I want to have a full blown argument on my hands.

“I don’t know; I still have to meet with my advisor,” I say. “But probably some required electives and an English class or two.”

English sounds more professional than writing. At least in my mind.

“English? Again, with this?” My dad rolls his eyes. “Honey, I know you like to read and write, but what are you going to do after graduation? Now, if you pursue pre-med then at least you’ll have some prospects.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Pre-med. For some reason, my father is obsessed with the notion of me studying pre-med. Perhaps it’s because he’s a doctor and my mom’s a doctor, but they both wanted to be doctors. Isn’t it unreasonable to try to convince someone to become a doctor when it’s practically the last thing that she wants to do with her life?

“I don’t want to talk about this, Dad.” I shake my head and concentrate on the tiny piece of salmon and feta cheese before me.

If I don’t pace myself, I’m going to be done with dinner in two bites. Oh, how I wish we went to some cheap, chain restaurant instead with unlimited breadsticks and other things to munch on. That way I would’ve at least had something to distract me from this interrogation.

“Oh, I know you don’t. But I feel like it’s necessary before you spend $50,000 a year at this fancy ivy-covered school on basket-weaving or reading books you can read for free at the library.”

“Eliot, please,” my mom says, and the conversation is over. I’ve been waiting for this statement ever since the topic of majors came up, and I welcome it with open arms. Everyone in my family knows that when Mom says, “Eliot, please,” it’s time for my dad to stop beating a dead horse.