Page 87 of Leaving the Station
My seatmate won’t stop coughing, then snoring, then coughing again—a vicious cycle—and I can’t find a comfortable position no matter how hard I try.
But this is the best option, because if I go back to the observation car I risk running into Oakley. The only thing to do is stay here, in this dark car with the other coach passengers who I’ve barely gotten to know at all on this trip.
Maybe they’re wonderful people, or creeps like Guy Fieri Lite, but I’ll never know one way or the other, because I spent the whole trip getting to know a girl who can never be with me, who neverwantedto be with me in the first place. She just wanted one last go at being queer, and I was the easiest target.
My whole life up until now has been escaping to find the next best thing—the next best class to take, the next best school, the next best label, the next best identity, the next bestanything.
But what if there’s nothing better? What if Oakley was my bestthing, and she never even wanted to be with me in the first place?
Even if she did, nothing could’ve happened. She’s rejoining the Mormon Church.
I pull out my phone and play Tetris for the first time since the beginning of the trip. I try to set up a T-spin, but I don’t remember the strategy Oakley showed me. So I do what I’ve always done: stack the blocks four high until I get a Tetris.
There’s only one stop in Idaho, and when we get there, the conductor tells us that we have five minutes. It’s not a smoke stop, but I run outside anyway, desperate for fresh air.
The brick station house has its lights on, and I’m tempted to run inside and stay there. I could make a nice life for myself here in Idaho.
But no. The train woulddefinitelyleave without me this time, and I couldn’t blame the conductor for doing it. They only waited because of Aya.
Aya.
Nanami is never going to let me hang out with her in Seattle. And the worst part is, I’dloveto see her. I want to listen to her talk about trains or whatever else she finds cool that day.
I don’t have any siblings, and I thought, perhaps naively, that she could be like a little sister.
But it’s not like she has a phone. I can’t text her. All I know is her first name and that she has an aunt in Seattle and that her mom hates me, because she hates Oakley.
Oakley and I have been a unit on this trip. Nanami probably thinks I agree with everything Oakley’s told her.
So Aya will just be one more casualty of caring about someone on a four-day trip.
I climb back onto the train, where one of the conductors shakes her head at me. I raise a hand in apology, then head back into coach. When I get there, though, I’m more restless than before. I force myself to stay in my seat, but my legs are shaking and my seatmate is coughing and I can’t be in here any longer.
Maybe it’s a bad idea, but I head back to the observation car, trying not to think about how I’ve now ruined my life twice in the span of a week.
One Day before Thanksgiving Break
I stood outside my dorm without going in. My whole body hurt for various reasons, and the best thing for me would be to go to sleep, but I couldn’t.
So, I went to the one place that would calm me: the greenhouse.
I had a key, and Randall had told me I could come whenever I liked. I’d never taken him up on this until now.
When I got there, everything was still except for whirring fans. The nearby plants in the main conservatory swayed in the artificial breeze. Leaves rustled against each other, and the systems that kept the plants alive popped and hissed in the background.
I could finally breathe.
I took in huge gulps of humid air, then walked over to theAmorphophallus. I didn’t have the energy to talk to the plant like I normally would, so I just glanced inside its pot. The shoot waseven taller now, growing upward in segments that became progressively narrower.
The tiny sprout of theAmorphophallustaunted me.
What good had I done for this plant? Sure, I’d taken care of it nearly every single day for months, but even after all of my hard work and love, I was never going to see it bloom.
Everything I’d done this whole semester was pointless.
I’d spent three months lying to myself about who I was, about my gender, my sexuality, my wants and dreams, and now I was facing the consequences.
I arrived at Cornell with some amount of hope, and I was leaving with nothing.
