Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #14

Everyone dissipates except you, Clair, and Nick. You don't know Clair that well, and that is even more true for Nick. Still, you are at ease in the sunshine as the three of you amble towards East Bank.

This isn't how you thought college would be. You'd anticipated halls brimming with light, gilded in dust. You'd thought about huge tomes (a pretentious word, really, but it's what you thought.) Brick and columns and clinging ivy: that is a university. Libraries clogged with textbooks, boneyard quiet study halls: that is your work.

You'd neglected movie nights and popcorn wars and painted mustaches.

You'd neglected the human aspect. There'd been fear in that (too many What ifs? ), so you'd never thought much about it. You'd never thought it would be fiery and fierce and so alive, like an ember plucked from a hearth, glowing warmly in your palms.

You'd never thought about blistering sunshine and cheap paint.

It's a shame, really. You'd overlooked the only breathing aspect in favor of dusty history. How sweet is it, then, to have these two next to you?

(It's a simple thing. Paint and sunlight and life. So obviously there.)

Nick has three different colors in his hair and you ruffle it, scattering droplets of paint over the pair of you.

"Hey!" he yelps. Clair laughs.

"I thought we'd settled this," she says, but there is a hint of mischief in her pixie smile, in the way she tilts her head.

"It is settled." You lean over to Nick (who jumps a little at your advance) and smooth his hair down. "See?"

"Thanks, M." Nick runs a hand through his hair to flatten it. Even though it's a complete mess (Much like your own), he's smiling.

"Much better," Clair says, the corners of her mouth tugging up. Nick raises an eyebrow, questioning.

She snorts. "Well, not really."

It's true; his hair is matted with paint, but really, it doesn't look any worse than the mustache she's 'twirling' or whatever must be going on with your face.

"C'mon," she says,"Let's go get something to eat at Coffman."

"I'm game," you say.

Despite the paint, all the color drains from Nick's face. For a moment, the paint is no longer cheerfully vibrant; it's garish and lurid, and Nick looks almost diseased in its glow. The moment passes, though, and while he is the shade of milk, he squares his shoulders to follow you and Clair.

He's queasy all through lunch, though, eyes darting around the dining hall. Even though only a few underclassmen bother to give you a second glance, Nick can't stop fidgeting. His jumpiness makes you anxious. And you're confused by it. Wasn't he laughing as he put a mustache on Clair? Or when paint splashed into his hair and splattered on everyone's clothes. Wasn't he?

The more you study him, the more he squirms. You find yourself becoming annoyed , both with him for drumming his fingers on his thighs and also at yourself for seizing onto his nervous energy.

Your glance grazes Clair, who is chowing down contentedly. You mentally chide yourself.

(Later, you learn that your group isn't anywhere near the top of the Strange Things That Happen on Campus list. After all, there is that guy who dresses up as Gandalf during finals week and harasses people preparing for exams.

Neither you nor Nick knows this yet.)

He pushes his tray across the table; it grinds to a halt.

"What's up?"

"Everyone is staring at us." He shoots you a pointed look. "Can we go now?" There is a pleading note in his voice.

You examine the cafeteria. No one is paying a scrap of attention to you guys.

Clair twirls her mustache, blue transferring to her fingertips. "Quite, right. Let me confer with my associate."

In the rain, in the dancing party lights, and here, in the harsh fluorescence of the cafeteria, her eyes gleam.

"Quite, quite." You stroke your chin. No paint comes off. You can't help but feel disappointed as you study you fingertips for smudges.

"All right, I'm leaving. Have fun, guys." Nick stalks off and you feel the unease of shame swoop into your stomach as you watch his retreating back.

"Maybe we should go with him."

Clair shrugs. "Maybe."

The way she dismisses him makes your skin itch and you have half a mind to go after him when she interrupts your plans.

"Ugh, I'm full." She takes one last bite before she offers you the end of her sandwich. "Want this?"

You take the last bite and polish it off.

"Do you have class this afternoon?"

You shake your head while swallowing. "No." The word comes out ragged.

"Excellent. Let's go."

You don't question her. Whatever she has planned is better than sitting in your room, plowing through a pile of homework. (You shudder thinking about it. Textbooks and notes and blurred vision from staring at the same material for so long. No, that won't be your afternoon.)

In less than a minute, you're both weaving through throngs of people crowded in the hall, on the stairs outside. Clair cuts through them, sprinting, leaving a wake of students behind her. Her orange flip-flops slap against the concrete as she flies through everyone. (It's a blur. People people people. Limbs blocking your view, ducking beneath backpacks and arms and laughing and breaths rasping in and you are so a l i v e.)

And even though her legs are long (or at least, longer than yours), Clair is not a graceful runner. Every movement is jerky, all knees and flailing limbs. Still, you can see the joy in it. Clair holds out her hands like a bird taking flight. Her hair streams behind her, a shock of yellow.

When you overtake her, she grasps for your hand. You take hers. It's all you can feel. Her hand. The wind tugging at your hair. Blood rushing in your ears and pulsing in your chest. Your lungs heaving. The big sunshine lighting you up. Her hand.

She stops, almost as quickly as she began, and you skid past. Glistening sweat drips down Clair's nose, and her breath comes in great gasps.

Your ragged breathing matches.

"Look."

You do. Clair lays one palm flat on heaving chest and points out to the river with the other. Your gaze follows her fingertips to the loops of glittering water laid out before you. It glimmers in the sunlight, each ripple reflecting back mirror bright. Lazily, it curls under the bridge, fifty feet beneath you.

The steeps banks graced with stands of oaks, the sparkling water, the hot sunshine.

Beautiful.

And most of all, Clair beside you.

The heat presses in, and your shirt sticks to your back.

You can see her silhouette against the back-splash of sky and can just faintly make out her blue mustache.