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“You probably won’t even spend that much time in the dorm, besides to sleep. You’ll be too busy partying.”
“Yeah, sure.” What I’m most excited about is the art studio. Hawthorne has this amazing arts building called the Whitman Building which is the tallest building on campus, specially designed so that each fine arts major, even freshmen, get their own art studio space with a view. It’s modern and has lots of natural light and is basically to die for. “I know I’m going to be living in the art studio practically 24/7. I honestly can’t wait to get started. I’ll give you a tour of my studio space as soon as I get one.”
“I can’t wait to see it.”
I find a parking space and pull into it. “Okay, Han. I made it. I’m going to sign off for now but I’ll check in later to let you know how it’s going and introduce you to my roommate. Oh god, I’m actually really nervous. What if my roommate and I don’t get along? I mean, I hope we will. I’m sure we will.”
“Of course you will. You’re the most lovable person I know.”
“Even though I’m an eccentric artist who spends most of my time as a solitary hermit with paint-splattered clothes and a messy bun?”
“Especially because you’re an eccentric, sweet, gorgeous, fun, inspiring and very talented artist with her own unique style.”
I blow a kiss to the camera. “Here I go. I’m about to dive headfirst into my brand new life. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, sweetie. Go out there and kill it. Be yourself and make the most of every minute. I can feel it: beautiful, life-changing things are about to happen to you. And you deserve all of it. Say yes, be safe and have fun, Zee.” We always end our calls with mini pep-talks. We started doing it when we were both suffering through the worst of our loss and it helped. The habit stuck.
She ends the call and I sit there for a few seconds, just soaking in the enormity of the threshold I’m in the middle of crossing.
I really am nervous.
But it’s time to grab my new life by the horns and run with it.
I climb out and slide my phone into my back pocket. Then I start loading up with my backpack and a few other bags. My dad wanted to help me move in but I absolutely insisted on doing it myself. He’s famous on this campus and the last thing I wanted to do was to advertise my connection to him. Everyone’s going to figure it out soon enough anyway. I accept that I’m a nepo baby and I’m getting a free education because my dad is the long-standing football coach with the winningest record in Hawthorne U’s 120-year history. Today, it felt easier to say our goodbyes at home and deal with the rest of it as a newly-minted and very independent college student.
I’m ready.
At least I hope I’m ready.
I lug one of my three-ton wheeled suitcases out of the back of my car and perch my computer bag on top of it.
There. Easy.
It falls over like it’s made of top-heavy concrete.
Shit.
“Need some help?” I turn to see two guys walking toward me. They’re huge and wide-shouldered. I’d bet money they’re football players.
You can’t help but absorb through osmosis some of the details of the game of football when your father’s a D1 coach. Unfortunately, that’s about as far as my knowledge or interest goes. I celebrate my dad’s wins with him and I used to go to the occasional game, but as hard as I try, it’s just not really my thing.
Which is part of the reason I’ve barely met any of the players on my dad’s team.
The other reason is that he doesn’t let me anywhere near his team. Over the years, I’ve stopped in to see him at work every now and then. But I think he gets sort of borderline traumatized whenever I go near his team. When close to a hundred sweaty, pumped-up college football players are staring at your teenage daughter like lions circling around a fresh kill, I guess you don’t tend to enjoy it very much. For his sake, I hardly ever visit him at work.
So I have no idea if these guys are on the team. I have a hunch they are. “No, thanks. I’ve got it.”
“You look like you could use a hand,” one of them insists, standing my suitcase up and replacing the laptop bag. He starts wheeling it toward the cluster of dorms. “Where are you headed?”
“I’m fine, really. I don’t have far to go.”
“We’ll help you,” says the other one, taking one of the heavier bags that’s threatening to slide off my shoulder.
They’re both very good-looking, I can’t help but notice. Then again, a lot of football players are, just because they’re built and athletic by default.
I do happen to know that my dad makes sure his players are tough and resilient on the field but also respectful and good ambassadors off the field. He’s talked to me about how important he thinks manners and honor and duty to your team and your community are. He’s kicked players off the team for bad behavior more than once.
“I’m West Hawkins. This is Gabriel Dillon.”
