Starting Over
Saturday was bitterly cold and rainy, with a blustery wind blowing in from the north. I carpooled to the store with Missy; it was preferable to waiting at the bus stop in the rain. We rode in relative silence, although I could tell by her bouncy demeanor that things had gone well with her guy the night before. She was glowing with excitement, and I felt buoyed by her attitude. I had my doubts about living with her at first, but in all honesty, her optimism was doing good things for me.
It wasn’t until we were stationed at the info desk that she started talking. I learned that her lovely man’s name was David. He was one of the teaching assistants for her chemistry professor, and she had met him in passing in the chemistry department’s wing of the science building. She thought he was charming, bright and handsome, and when he approached her at the party, she was just delighted. She had been trying to work up the courage to ask him out for weeks.
I asked if she had brought him back to her place that night, but she said no. She wanted to take things relatively slowly, although she did lose track of at least an hour while making out with him in the kitchen. She giggled like a teenager. She was utterly luminous when she spoke of him, and I hoped that he was as delighted by her as she was enamored with him.
She volunteered information on Brian, my couch friend, without my asking. They had dated for six months the previous year. He was funny and lovely and nearly everything you’d want in a boyfriend. The problem was that he was also insecure and possessive, the latter trait being the one that ultimately drove her insane. He expected her to call every time she got to her destination – the library, a friend’s house, class – and sometimes he would even call her at the location, not her cell phone, to check on her whereabouts. “I never gave him any reason not to trust me,” she said, “but his last girlfriend had really messed with his head? And I didn’t want to have to pay the price for that anymore, you know?” I knew exactly what she meant.
She reached under the desk and pulled out a few sheets of paper that looked like some sort of form. She handed them to me. A quick look told me that they were the necessary application forms for January enrollment at school. She had filled in as many of the blanks as she could, minus my Social Security number and high school GPA.
“Why are you giving me this?” I asked.
She looked sheepish. “You’re a smart girl, you know? And I hate to see you spending the rest of your life working at a bookstore for minimum wage? So why not try school again?”
“Money would be the first reason. Time would be the second.”
“You’re more than eligible for financial aid? I went to the finance office on Friday and talked it over with a counselor? You could basically go for free?”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It seems a little farfetched that they would want to give scholarship money to someone who was, at best, a mediocre high school student.”
“You’re older now,” she said, “and the fact that you’ve had the same job for six years shows commitment and longevity, which they like?” So they think you’d be a good candidate?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Are you sure it’s not too late to apply?”
“Rolling admissions? You can still give it a shot?”
I thought about it for a moment, then put the paperwork down to help a customer. When I finished, I quietly picked up a pen and filled out the rest of the information, sealing the papers into an envelope.
“Come with me Monday? We can deliver them in person? You’ll have an answer within the week?” She seemed to have it all planned out for me.
“And what will I be majoring in?”
“Nothing yet? Take your basics and see what calls to you, ok?” If she could just get rid of that up-talker voice, she would really give a much better impression. Her head was actually screwed on straighter than her words would ever indicate.
“Ok,” I said. “I’ll try.”
We went to the dean’s office early on Monday morning. Missy had evidently spoken with the dean directly, so we bypassed the traditional admissions process. The dean sat us down in his office, and chatted for a while. He turned to me and said, “Miss Farber, you have five minutes to tell me your life story. I don’t want to just hear the highlights, like when you were elected to the position of class treasurer your sophomore year. I want to know what makes Angela Farber who she is.”
The summary version of my life was easy to tell. I was born in the suburbs 24 years earlier, the second child of a factory worker and a housewife. My first few years were happy, or perhaps just relatively so compared to the latter ones. My mother walked out, unannounced, when I was six, and returned to our home just in time to die of cancer four years later. My father worked two jobs, and was never around. I barely know him to this day. I drifted through life, was a loner in high school who took solace in drugs, alcohol and other lonely people. I tried community college for a semester at 18, but it never really clicked. I’ve been working full-time at the bookstore ever since. Case closed.
He nodded through the story, and I felt like he was making mental notes in the same way that the shrink jotted comments in her notebook when I spoke. He asked only one question after: “Are you the same person as you were when you went to the community college?” I said no. I knew that I had changed since, even if the outward circumstances of my life didn't give that impression. He smiled, thanked me for my time, and rose to escort us out of the office.
I asked Missy if she thought it went well. She said yes, but I wasn’t so sure. I know I was sensitive about these things, but I felt like he was judging me, deciding whether or not I, as a human being, was worthy of a second chance. And the fact of the matter is that everyone deserves a second chance, unless they’ve molested children or murdered their pregnant wife. I hadn’t done either, so I thought I should be entitled to a pretty good shot.
The following Saturday, Missy drove home at lunchtime to check the mail. She said she was waiting for a package, but I knew that she was waiting to see if I heard from the college. She came back with a letter in her hand. I held it for a moment, pondering the fact that I was standing at a fork in the road, and whatever happened with this letter was going to determine the course of my life in the short- to mid-term future. Missy was bouncing beside me. “Open it, or I’m going to take it from you and do it myself?”
I ran my finger underneath the flap of the envelope, and unfolded the letter. It was a full letter, but what I saw was this:
Dear Angela,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been granted admission for the Spring semester. Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah. We are also pleased to tell you that, based on your financial and academic circumstances, we will be offering you a combination of scholarships and grants that will fully cover your academic costs for the year. Additional fees, such as books and supplies, will remain your responsibility.
Welcome to the class of 2009!
Sincerely,
Michael Barker, Associate Dean
Missy leaped up and down and squealed for joy. My cheeks were flushed with pent-up energy. I knew that this was fabulous news, but for some reason I wasn’t as excited about it as I should be. It’s one of the symptoms of depression, the lack of emotion, but of course the meds are supposed to fix that. Evidently they weren’t doing their job, because this was far and away the best thing that had happened to me in months – possibly years – and I still felt flat. But I put on a happy face and Missy never knew how I felt inside.
She broke out of the box and ran around to tell everyone my good news. Employees came by throughout the afternoon to pat me on the back and wish me luck, which is why I didn’t think it was odd when a voice to my right said, “Congratulations.”
I said thank you without turning my head as I finished typing a search into the computer. I looked up and nearly lost my balance when I saw Nick, the EMT, looking back at me.
“Whoa! Wow! Hi!” It was all I could manage.
“Hi,” he replied, smiling. “Sounds like things are going well for you.”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, they are.” I had a moment of realization. “Wait, how did you hear? Did I get accepted because another candidate was run over, and you were sent to save them?”
“No! I was over in the children’s section, looking for a book for my nephew, when I heard her telling someone that Angela was accepted to college for the spring semester.”
“No detective work on your part,” I said. “The news just came to you, out of the blue.”
“It’s the best way to hear good news,” he said. He had the best smile, the kind that made his eyes sparkle, and the corners of his eyes crinkle at the edges. It was charming.
“So, a book for the nephew, huh?”
“Yeah, he’s turning four, and since I don’t know anything about kids… do you think this is a good book?”
I took a look at his selection. He chose “The Rainbow Fish”. It was one of my favorites, and I told him so. “”It’s a great book about sharing,” I told him. “Another funny one, although probably too advanced in its humor for a four-year-old, is ‘Click Clack Moo: Cows Who Type’. Save that for his fifth or sixth birthday.”
I noticed that he said he knew nothing about kids, but I thought I’d probe anyway and ask more questions. “So, any kids of your own?”
“No,” he said. “None for me yet. But I’d like to have a family. I’m just looking for the right woman.”
“I wish you luck,” I told him. “It seems like nearly everyone is on the quest for that person. I have a theory about dating. It’s the theory of compatible weirdness.”
“The what?” he asked, laughing at the name.
“It’s true. Hear me out. You walk into a party and there are maybe 10 women there, just for the sake of argument. They will be short and tall, fat and thin, well-educated and poorly-educated. You could look at their resumes and decide that woman #3 is right for you, but maybe she has quirks that you can’t stand. However, your buddy might think that her habit of never putting the cap on the toothpaste, or forgetting to lock the doors, might be endearing rather than enraging. So you might be better off with woman #7, because you can live with her quirks and she can live with yours, even though her paper stats might not be as good. You’re compatibly weird.”
“So you’re saying I’m weird?”
“We’re all weird,” I replied. “The trick is finding someone who doesn’t notice how weird you are.”
He laughed. I loved to hear him laugh.
“So I was wondering,” he began, and then stopped to allow me to answer a customer’s question. When I finished, he resumed his thought. “So I was wondering if maybe you would like to go out for dinner with me tomorrow night. Just to find out what kind of weird you are.”
For a moment, I wondered if he was kidding. He didn’t appear to be. My palms started to sweat and my cheeks flushed. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Didn’t I scare you away once already?”
“Truthfully?” He paused. “Yes. But there’s something you’re not taking into account.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re not taking into account the fact that for reasons I can’t explain, I can’t seem to stop thinking about you.”
My cheeks were so hot, I thought they were going to burst into flames. “Reallly? Oh, well, that’s interesting…” My voice trailed off as my brain shut down, rendering me speechless.
“There are three bookstores that are closer to my apartment than this one,” he said. “I came here because I hoped you would be working today.”
I waited for my knees to buckle and send me crashing to the ground, but they held strong. He continued. “So, what time should I pick you up at your place? 8:00?” I nodded. He smiled broadly. “It’s a date, then.”
He walked away towards cash wrap when my senses returned. “Wait! Nick!” He turned and walked back towards me.
“Don’t tell me you’re canceling on me.”
“No!” I said a little too quickly. “I moved. I’m living at 225 Oak St, #317.”
“Good thing you told me,” he said. “I’d hate to get to your old place and think you had ditched me.”
He tapped the desk with the book and turned away again. “See you tomorrow, Angela.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I watched him pay and leave. It was only then that I sunk back into my chair and noticed a grinning Missy at my side. “No worries?” she said. “Have I got the outfit for you….”
It wasn’t until we were stationed at the info desk that she started talking. I learned that her lovely man’s name was David. He was one of the teaching assistants for her chemistry professor, and she had met him in passing in the chemistry department’s wing of the science building. She thought he was charming, bright and handsome, and when he approached her at the party, she was just delighted. She had been trying to work up the courage to ask him out for weeks.
I asked if she had brought him back to her place that night, but she said no. She wanted to take things relatively slowly, although she did lose track of at least an hour while making out with him in the kitchen. She giggled like a teenager. She was utterly luminous when she spoke of him, and I hoped that he was as delighted by her as she was enamored with him.
She volunteered information on Brian, my couch friend, without my asking. They had dated for six months the previous year. He was funny and lovely and nearly everything you’d want in a boyfriend. The problem was that he was also insecure and possessive, the latter trait being the one that ultimately drove her insane. He expected her to call every time she got to her destination – the library, a friend’s house, class – and sometimes he would even call her at the location, not her cell phone, to check on her whereabouts. “I never gave him any reason not to trust me,” she said, “but his last girlfriend had really messed with his head? And I didn’t want to have to pay the price for that anymore, you know?” I knew exactly what she meant.
She reached under the desk and pulled out a few sheets of paper that looked like some sort of form. She handed them to me. A quick look told me that they were the necessary application forms for January enrollment at school. She had filled in as many of the blanks as she could, minus my Social Security number and high school GPA.
“Why are you giving me this?” I asked.
She looked sheepish. “You’re a smart girl, you know? And I hate to see you spending the rest of your life working at a bookstore for minimum wage? So why not try school again?”
“Money would be the first reason. Time would be the second.”
“You’re more than eligible for financial aid? I went to the finance office on Friday and talked it over with a counselor? You could basically go for free?”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It seems a little farfetched that they would want to give scholarship money to someone who was, at best, a mediocre high school student.”
“You’re older now,” she said, “and the fact that you’ve had the same job for six years shows commitment and longevity, which they like?” So they think you’d be a good candidate?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Are you sure it’s not too late to apply?”
“Rolling admissions? You can still give it a shot?”
I thought about it for a moment, then put the paperwork down to help a customer. When I finished, I quietly picked up a pen and filled out the rest of the information, sealing the papers into an envelope.
“Come with me Monday? We can deliver them in person? You’ll have an answer within the week?” She seemed to have it all planned out for me.
“And what will I be majoring in?”
“Nothing yet? Take your basics and see what calls to you, ok?” If she could just get rid of that up-talker voice, she would really give a much better impression. Her head was actually screwed on straighter than her words would ever indicate.
“Ok,” I said. “I’ll try.”
We went to the dean’s office early on Monday morning. Missy had evidently spoken with the dean directly, so we bypassed the traditional admissions process. The dean sat us down in his office, and chatted for a while. He turned to me and said, “Miss Farber, you have five minutes to tell me your life story. I don’t want to just hear the highlights, like when you were elected to the position of class treasurer your sophomore year. I want to know what makes Angela Farber who she is.”
The summary version of my life was easy to tell. I was born in the suburbs 24 years earlier, the second child of a factory worker and a housewife. My first few years were happy, or perhaps just relatively so compared to the latter ones. My mother walked out, unannounced, when I was six, and returned to our home just in time to die of cancer four years later. My father worked two jobs, and was never around. I barely know him to this day. I drifted through life, was a loner in high school who took solace in drugs, alcohol and other lonely people. I tried community college for a semester at 18, but it never really clicked. I’ve been working full-time at the bookstore ever since. Case closed.
He nodded through the story, and I felt like he was making mental notes in the same way that the shrink jotted comments in her notebook when I spoke. He asked only one question after: “Are you the same person as you were when you went to the community college?” I said no. I knew that I had changed since, even if the outward circumstances of my life didn't give that impression. He smiled, thanked me for my time, and rose to escort us out of the office.
I asked Missy if she thought it went well. She said yes, but I wasn’t so sure. I know I was sensitive about these things, but I felt like he was judging me, deciding whether or not I, as a human being, was worthy of a second chance. And the fact of the matter is that everyone deserves a second chance, unless they’ve molested children or murdered their pregnant wife. I hadn’t done either, so I thought I should be entitled to a pretty good shot.
The following Saturday, Missy drove home at lunchtime to check the mail. She said she was waiting for a package, but I knew that she was waiting to see if I heard from the college. She came back with a letter in her hand. I held it for a moment, pondering the fact that I was standing at a fork in the road, and whatever happened with this letter was going to determine the course of my life in the short- to mid-term future. Missy was bouncing beside me. “Open it, or I’m going to take it from you and do it myself?”
I ran my finger underneath the flap of the envelope, and unfolded the letter. It was a full letter, but what I saw was this:
Dear Angela,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been granted admission for the Spring semester. Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah. We are also pleased to tell you that, based on your financial and academic circumstances, we will be offering you a combination of scholarships and grants that will fully cover your academic costs for the year. Additional fees, such as books and supplies, will remain your responsibility.
Welcome to the class of 2009!
Sincerely,
Michael Barker, Associate Dean
Missy leaped up and down and squealed for joy. My cheeks were flushed with pent-up energy. I knew that this was fabulous news, but for some reason I wasn’t as excited about it as I should be. It’s one of the symptoms of depression, the lack of emotion, but of course the meds are supposed to fix that. Evidently they weren’t doing their job, because this was far and away the best thing that had happened to me in months – possibly years – and I still felt flat. But I put on a happy face and Missy never knew how I felt inside.
She broke out of the box and ran around to tell everyone my good news. Employees came by throughout the afternoon to pat me on the back and wish me luck, which is why I didn’t think it was odd when a voice to my right said, “Congratulations.”
I said thank you without turning my head as I finished typing a search into the computer. I looked up and nearly lost my balance when I saw Nick, the EMT, looking back at me.
“Whoa! Wow! Hi!” It was all I could manage.
“Hi,” he replied, smiling. “Sounds like things are going well for you.”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, they are.” I had a moment of realization. “Wait, how did you hear? Did I get accepted because another candidate was run over, and you were sent to save them?”
“No! I was over in the children’s section, looking for a book for my nephew, when I heard her telling someone that Angela was accepted to college for the spring semester.”
“No detective work on your part,” I said. “The news just came to you, out of the blue.”
“It’s the best way to hear good news,” he said. He had the best smile, the kind that made his eyes sparkle, and the corners of his eyes crinkle at the edges. It was charming.
“So, a book for the nephew, huh?”
“Yeah, he’s turning four, and since I don’t know anything about kids… do you think this is a good book?”
I took a look at his selection. He chose “The Rainbow Fish”. It was one of my favorites, and I told him so. “”It’s a great book about sharing,” I told him. “Another funny one, although probably too advanced in its humor for a four-year-old, is ‘Click Clack Moo: Cows Who Type’. Save that for his fifth or sixth birthday.”
I noticed that he said he knew nothing about kids, but I thought I’d probe anyway and ask more questions. “So, any kids of your own?”
“No,” he said. “None for me yet. But I’d like to have a family. I’m just looking for the right woman.”
“I wish you luck,” I told him. “It seems like nearly everyone is on the quest for that person. I have a theory about dating. It’s the theory of compatible weirdness.”
“The what?” he asked, laughing at the name.
“It’s true. Hear me out. You walk into a party and there are maybe 10 women there, just for the sake of argument. They will be short and tall, fat and thin, well-educated and poorly-educated. You could look at their resumes and decide that woman #3 is right for you, but maybe she has quirks that you can’t stand. However, your buddy might think that her habit of never putting the cap on the toothpaste, or forgetting to lock the doors, might be endearing rather than enraging. So you might be better off with woman #7, because you can live with her quirks and she can live with yours, even though her paper stats might not be as good. You’re compatibly weird.”
“So you’re saying I’m weird?”
“We’re all weird,” I replied. “The trick is finding someone who doesn’t notice how weird you are.”
He laughed. I loved to hear him laugh.
“So I was wondering,” he began, and then stopped to allow me to answer a customer’s question. When I finished, he resumed his thought. “So I was wondering if maybe you would like to go out for dinner with me tomorrow night. Just to find out what kind of weird you are.”
For a moment, I wondered if he was kidding. He didn’t appear to be. My palms started to sweat and my cheeks flushed. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Didn’t I scare you away once already?”
“Truthfully?” He paused. “Yes. But there’s something you’re not taking into account.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re not taking into account the fact that for reasons I can’t explain, I can’t seem to stop thinking about you.”
My cheeks were so hot, I thought they were going to burst into flames. “Reallly? Oh, well, that’s interesting…” My voice trailed off as my brain shut down, rendering me speechless.
“There are three bookstores that are closer to my apartment than this one,” he said. “I came here because I hoped you would be working today.”
I waited for my knees to buckle and send me crashing to the ground, but they held strong. He continued. “So, what time should I pick you up at your place? 8:00?” I nodded. He smiled broadly. “It’s a date, then.”
He walked away towards cash wrap when my senses returned. “Wait! Nick!” He turned and walked back towards me.
“Don’t tell me you’re canceling on me.”
“No!” I said a little too quickly. “I moved. I’m living at 225 Oak St, #317.”
“Good thing you told me,” he said. “I’d hate to get to your old place and think you had ditched me.”
He tapped the desk with the book and turned away again. “See you tomorrow, Angela.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I watched him pay and leave. It was only then that I sunk back into my chair and noticed a grinning Missy at my side. “No worries?” she said. “Have I got the outfit for you….”
posted by Ali at 11:59 PM
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