Page 20 of In the Net
I roll my eyes, turning on my heels to head to the hockey facilities. “Catch you around.”
Behind me, I can hear her sigh regretfully, “Seems we always do.”
8
HARPER
As my index finger hits the period key to end my latest paragraph, I realize I’m almost finished this essay.
I look at the clock on the upper right side of my laptop. I’ve been on a roll here in Last Word for an hour and a half.
I was having trouble concentrating back in my room, so thought a change of scenery might help spark my mind. I was right. I’ve flown through two whole pages of my essay, and now I’m at the point where I’m wrapping up all my arguments and setting the stage for my conclusion.
A wave of confidence rolls through me. This essay is good. I’m proud of it. And I have a feeling it just might send me to the city I’ve always dreamed of visiting.
I let myself fall into a daydream about it. Strolling through the narrow streets of theRive Gauche, where so many of the great writers, artists, and thinkers of history lived and worked; walking down the lofty, tree-lined boulevards that exude luxury and refinement; seeing things like Notre Dame, Montmarte, views of the Eiffel Tower from a distance; spending an entire day in the Louvre.
It's almost intimidating. I feel like I could spend months in Paris and not even come close to running out of things I want to do, things I’ve dreamed of doing so many times. How am I going to fit it all into a couple days, all while preparing for and delivering a presentation at a major conference—and that’s if Idowin?
Either way, finishing this essay will at least be a weight off my back.
Now that we’re getting deeper into the semester, it’s been a challenge to juggle the demands of making this essay as good as possible with my mounting coursework. It feels like I’ve hardly had time to hang out with my friends or just unwind by myself.
An unpleasant feeling tingles in my stomach as that thought dredges up a memory of something my mom said to me earlier today when she called to check in.
I was talking to her about how much I’ve been working on this essay, how busy I’ve felt, and how badly I want to win that trip to Paris. In response, she added some characteristic words of wisdom.
“Don’t you think you should make time in your schedule to try to find a nice guy already? You know, it doesn’t get any easier after college.”
Then she dropped some very unsubtle hints about how sad it would be if I showed up without a date to my cousin’s wedding—again.
It stopped being surprising a long time ago that, whenever I’d talk to my mom about my academic ambitions, she’d steer the conversation to encouraging me to put more effort into “finding a nice guy.” Or reminding me that I’m in my “prime years” to land a future husband, and that it would be a shame if I missed out on the best opportunity I’ll have by spending so much time focusing on “writing silly papers.”
The fact is, no one in my family has ever understood my interests in literature and culture.
I’m from a family where the men all care about making money and getting drunk at the golf course on the weekends, and the women all care about remodeling their kitchens and spending their husbands’ money on expensive clothes and teaching their daughters how to “lock down” men for themselves who can afford to “let them” do the same.
I don’t begrudge anyone for living the kind of lifestyle they want, as long as that goes both ways. But my family alwayshasjudged me for wanting a life that’s centered around books and thought, rather than men and money.
My attention gets yanked back to reality when the chair on the other side of my table pulls back and a broad frame settles into it.
“I assume no one’s sitting here,” Sebastian says, having just helped himself to the chair across from me.
I measure him with a nonplussed look. His hair is especially scruffy today, curly strands brushing the black frame of his glasses. He wears an oversized, maroon-colored t-shirt, but as roomy as it is, it does nothing to hide the width of his shoulders.
“Can’t you sit anywhere else?” I ask. I’d love to get all the way to my conclusion today, but my brain just doesn’t function the way it should when Sebastian is around. Being annoyed with him just uses up too many of my mental resources, I guess.
“Trust me, I would, but look around,” he says with a shrug. When I glance around the café, I find that it’s much busier than when I arrived. The seat on the other side of my table really was the only place for anyone to sit.
Just my luck.
Sebastian pulls his laptop out of his bookbag and opens it. “And I need to make progress on this paper I’m writing so bad,even having to share a table with you is an acceptable price to pay to get me out of my house and somewhere I can focus.”
“What class?” Why did I even ask that? Purely out of reflex. Not like I care to learn any more about what’s going on in Sebastian’s life than I have to.
“It’s not for a class,” he answers. “It’s for a competition the English department is doing.”
A knot forms in my stomach. “The Paris competition?” I ask.
