Siler may have warned me, but I never took him too seriously. I thought she’d be blunt or aloof, not low-key mean. Maybe her being a student at Rockefeller Amherst and not Cornell will be a good thing. When she sashayed into the airport in her heeled boots, well over six feet tall, willowy like a supermodel, draped in Christian Dior, I almost swallowed my tongue. She appearedhaughty, but when she said, never looking up from her phone, that I “don’t look right,’” I wanted to sink into the ground.
Sighing, she puts her phone in the tiny cross-shoulder bag she’s wearing. “Listen, I’m doing this as a favor.” Her eyes narrow as she looks me over. “At no time will I be seen with you again. If you need something, text me. Don’t call. Ever. We won’t have any reason to run into each other. Cornell students don’t typically come to Rock Am, and I won’t be seen there.”
I feel the flush rising up my neck. Even if I’m feeling safe from an episode, Mya’s attitude is making me so ill at ease that I’m sweating. “We don’t know each other at all… you don’t need to do me any favors,” my voice squeaks out.
If I’d known Mya would be so rude, I would’ve hitched a ride with Rett in exchange for the bracelet. Hell, a rideshare would be a vast improvement.
She stares at me for a few seconds before saying in an icy tone, “The favor is for Siler, not you.”
It’s silent between us as I keep my gaze out the window, taking in the picturesque surroundings. The peaceful air of Cayuga Lake does nothing to soothe my nerves, especially since Mya made it clear she’s not about to be a friend.
I can’t scurry from the car with my luggage fast enough once we pull up to my dorm. Mya doesn’t look my way. “Bye,” she says in a bored voice as I shut the door behind me.
Deposited at Jameson Hall, I make my way to the single-occupancy room for first year students. I’m trudging along the walkway trying to grasp the magnitude of change my life has taken on.
I’m here. Whether I should be or not.
Months ago, this was an unreachable dream I wasn’t sure I wanted anymore. Now that I’m here, there is an unspeakable terror. What if I’m not able to do this?
I don’t remember the last time I felt like taking a walk, much less in an unfamiliar territory, but after unpacking, I venture away from campus down a street of shops. Stopping once, feeling winded and my limbs shaky, I lean against a wooden bench in front of an art gallery. I smile to myself at the coincidence.
The display window showcasing brightly colored nose sculptures is exactly the level of whimsy I need in my life.
D’Ornay Exhibits.
My curiosity gets the best of me. I pull open the creaky wood and brass door. Brightly lit, the shop has smaller rooms with different displays. No one appears to be manning the desk at the center of the room. I wander into the small room to my left, in awe of the oil paintings of the area waterfalls, one in particular drawing my attention. I have to stop myself from running a finger over the water, a rock formation triggering a sensation… of deja vu?
“Hey, you’re going to slip… Biz…” I look over my shoulder to see him. The same boy from the swing, half sliding down the incline to catch up. “I didn’t know we were going swimming today,” he says, smiling that half-smile at me.
I reach out to him…
Before I can answer, I’m snapped back. Feeling a light touch to my back, a guy with a southern twang leans in. “Are you alright, darlin?”
I have to take a deep breath, eyes squeezed tightly shut, before I reply, “Uh huh.”
He doesn’t remove his hand right away, saying, “I can grab you a chair.”
As he moves to the room across the shop to gather a canvas folding chair, my eyes follow him. He’s wearing jean cut-offs, a paint-stained blue t-shirt, and, oddly enough, he’s barefoot. Turning back my way, I’m drawn to his sea-foam green eyes. An appealing smile takes over his whole face, with his soft, brown, wavy hair and a paintbrush tucked behind his ear.
Immediately I feel drawn to him.
But likely it’s the resurgence of the vivid memories, I refuse to categorize them as hallucinations. Bone deep, I know it happened. I just have no idea when.
Once I’ve accepted the chair and perched on the edge, I find my voice. “I need to get more exercise. A short walk from campus shouldn’t get me this winded.” I try to laugh it off, but his smile looks indulgent.
“From Ithaca College, SUNY, or Cornell?” He takes the paintbrush from behind his ear, drumming it on the doorframe. “Rock Am would be entirely too far a jaunt.”
He listens as I explain my move from Illinois to New York, leaving out my medical problems. His demeanor makes me want to unload everything on him, but I haven’t lost my mind completely. I keep my explanations simple, avoiding anything cringe-worthy.
“History of Art at Cornell?” He pauses to set down the canvas he just pulled from a crate. “I’m at Rockefeller Amherst, but I know a couple of the instructors. Good program.”
“Are you an Art major too?” I watch him go back to unpacking artwork as he hums to himself.
He shakes his head. “Nah, art is a passion project. I’m a Mechanical Engineering major.”
Impressed with his status as a Rock Am student, I’m at a loss for words. There is Ivy League-level prestige like Cornell, then there is the exclusivity of Rockefeller Amherst University. There is no applying, as it is invitation only. People are scoutedby the University Regents worldwide. Each incoming group of two hundred are meticulously screened. World leaders, royalty, Fortune 500 CEO’s, entrepreneurs, heirs to fortunes, and talent.
Whistling to himself, he says, “Hells bells and wishing wells… take a look at this.” He holds up a watercolor painting of clowns with rat faces. I can’t help making a face.
