Both Mac and I look around but don’t see where the shushing came from. He goes a bit sheepish, grimacing then covering his mouth with a hand.
“You just got shushed quoting Shakespeare in a library,” I whisper-yell at him.
He shrugs with a bright, tight smile and walks away to get his things.
While Mac gathers his things, I organize my table. I line up my pens, arrange my book just so, and place my water bottle in front of me, aligned with the pen ends. The order feels right. It’s a microcosm of control and organization. Small things like this are important to me because growing up there were no systems of organization. The kitchen table was always covered in unpaid bills and the house littered with piles of clutter, because you never knew when you’d need something and you couldn’t just go out and buy it. It was a pantry and fridge stuffed with jars that had about one spoonful left of something, because if it wasn’t scraped clean it wasn’t empty, and you used every drop of everything because grocery day was once a month after food stamps went out.
But my room was always immaculate because it was the one thing I could control. And right now I can’t control my tuition, or if I’ll win any of my scholarships, or that I chose the same psychology paper topic as Mac. But I can control this space right here.
Mac reappears with his backpack slung over his shoulder, laptop cradled in his arm. He stands behind a chair like he’s waiting for something before he sits. It occurs to me I never told him that he could sit with me.
“Yes, okay, fine,” I say, waving to a chair. My dark cloud of annoyance has passed. A moment here, a moment gone. I’m getting better at this “letting go” stuff.
He smiles like he knew I’d say that and sets up his stuff.
I try to conjure some ideas for a new subject for my psychology paper, but I find I’m distracted. I’m not used to studying with someone else, and just his presence in my peripheral is hard to adjust to. He’s put headphones in, and even though he isn’t humming this time, he is sort of dancing to the music. Just a little, swaying his body back and forth.
This is exactly who Mac is, I realize as I watch him. Someone who dances to music no one else can hear in a public place. I scan the area around us. The library isn’t empty, and people could see him if they looked up. I almost tell him to stop because it’s really not an appropriate place to dance, but something on Mac’s face stops me.
When I was younger, I’d come home from school some days to find Dad dancing in the kitchen, wearing teeny-tiny headphones that he’d had since the 80s. He’d have a rag in one hand and a spray bottle in the other, not a care in the world. It was one of those rare days he wasn’t having a flare, and he was younger too.
The pure, unbridled joy on Mac’s face reminds me of my dad. Before joint pain and muscle aches consumed him, my dad was always smiling. Now, mostly, his smiles are tinged with pain.
Why would I take that joy from Mac?
I wave to catch his attention. “What are you listening to?” I whisper, gesturing to my ears.
“‘Derelict Heart,’” he says. His eyes have that distinct brightness of a person talking about something they love.
Derelict Heartis Black Phantom’s third album. Their first two albums were strictly folk, but that one was a slight departure with a more indie pop feel. Of course he’s dancing—it’s such a fun album.
“Want to listen?” He holds out an earbud for me, but I shake my head. Mac might be okay with dancing in the library, but I don’t think I’m there yet.
“I’m not humming this time,” he says like a child proud of his accomplishments.
“I am eternally grateful.” Smirking, I give my attention to a list of ideas I could potentially write my psychology paper on. I’m able to focus this time, and eventually I don’t even notice Mac, until my stomach reminds me I need to eat and I check the time: eight o’clock.
How did that happen?
I dig through my backpack to find my mostly unsquished sandwich.
“What’s for dinner?” Mac asks, removing a headphone and nodding to my Ziplock bag.
“PB and J. I’m pretty boring.” I shrug. “Got some chips too, but I’ll save those for later,” I say like it’s a real treat to have a bag of chips.
“You seem like a salt-and-vinegar kind of girl. Am I right?”
“Sour cream and onion. Should I be offended by your insinuations?”
Mac chuckles. “Maybe, but I mostly just meant you seem like the kind of person who likes a classic chip, nothing fancy.” He makes a face like his favorite sports team just missed a goal. “Man,” he says, “I usually get that right.”
“You have a talent for guessing what kind of chips people like best?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says in all seriousness, and then, to my utter surprise, he reaches into his own backpack and pulls out a sandwich wrapped in white paper like they use in the cafeteria deli on his way here. Even if it was made by someone else,the forethought is there. He packed dinner. He really did come to spend his Friday night studying at the library.
For years I’ve had Mac pinned as a party guy who just happened to be good at school. I saw it in high school—kids who goofed off in class, who definitely got someone else to do their homework, never studied, and aced all the tests. Ultimately, they still did mediocre because tests don’t count for everything, but it’s still frustrating for people like me who work their asses off to earn their grades. And then I got to college and watched as people balanced partying and school.
I tried it for one semester and failed so spectacularly that my GPA dropped dangerously low for a scholarship student. I don’t do balance well. I’m an all-or-nothing girlie. I have always assumed Mac is one of those party people who can balance school and partying.
