Chapter 15 Rowan

"SO WE'VE NARROWEDour list of countries down to—" I set the phone on speaker while I count. "Fifteen. From twenty."

"Seventy-five percent. Not bad."

I laugh, blowing on my nails. "We'd need months to do that many. My feet are aching just thinking about it."

As much as I love video chats, there's something great about being able to talk to Neil like this too. The old-fashioned way, as it were. I'm in an ancient, gigantic T-shirt with a hole in the armpit and mismatched socks, hair haphazardly piled on top of my head. Sheet mask on, Crest Whitestrips pressed to my teeth, an open bottle of nail polish on the desk in front of me. Full self-care mode.

January was a low point for me, but now that campus has started to thaw, my optimism is back. We're making this work. Spring break is at the end of next month, and even summer doesn't seem as far away as it used to. It helps that we've gotten creative with the distance lately. Last week, we watched a movie at the same time—Neil's choice, since he won East Coast Howl, although I'm pretty sure he picked You've Got Mail just for me. And a few nights ago, we went on a date to an Italian "restaurant," aka the pasta bar from both our dining halls, then ate together while listening to Dean Martin. I even lit a candle in my dorm room that I immediately extinguished upon realizing it could set off the fire alarm. We waxed poetic about what it'll be like to eat pasta together in Italy, a country that remains near the top of our list.

A lot of our relationship may be happening at this desk, but we're doing the best we can.

"We should probably book our first flight soon," I say. "Before it gets too expensive."

"We will. As soon as I get my next paycheck."

There are some shuffling sounds in the background. Neil was drinking a cup of tea, and I imagine him fishing out the bag, saving it for the school's compost bin. I reach to my mouth before realizing—whoops, probably shouldn't have painted my nails while whitening my teeth.

"Oh! I wanted to tell you. This might be a bit cart before horse, but… I found a Spanish copy of Vision in White online." I'm in 202 this semester, along with a first-year seminar called American Popular Culture that I can't believe counts for school credit. "I figure I already know it so well, and I can work my way up to reading it. And it's slightly more interesting than what we're reading in class. Just slightly."

"Yeah? That's fantastic. I hope it's just as romantic in Spanish."

"Probably even more so," I say, because none of our calls are complete without some discussion of academics. "Did you ever go back to that linguistics club?"

Neil's quiet for a moment. "Just once… but I don't know if it's really for me. I've actually been working on this project in psych about the links between Judaism and psychology."

"Do tell."

"Well, I noticed that the majority of psychologists we were studying were Jewish—Sigmund Freud, Alfred Adler, Erich Fromm, Abraham Maslow.…"

"Of Maslow's hierarchy of needs?"

"The very one," Neil confirms. I can hear the spark of excitement in his voice—I've always loved that. "Some of them were influenced directly by religion. The concept of self-actualization, for example, has roots in Jewish thought. I think there's also an argument to be made that Jewish tragedy drove people to seek out ways to better understand human nature and ultimately find ways to heal."

"Wow," I say, impressed. "You're not thinking of changing your major or anything, are you?"

It's mostly a joke—obviously I'd support him changing his major if he decided that was what he wanted to do. But it's so out of character that I can't wrap my mind around it. Neil and words go together like… well, like me and words.

Or the way we used to.

"No, no, of course not," he says quickly. Then, when we realize how late it's gotten: "See you next Friday?"

He'll be in Boston for the first time, coinciding with his birthday, and I'm already deep in planning mode. "Next Friday. Can't wait."

At any given time, there is a limit-does-not-exist number of student films in production at Emerson. Flyers and online notices are always asking for extras, and that's how I end up in an old warehouse in Charlestown one Saturday afternoon, clad in a yellow unitard with aluminum scales pasted to my back, green paint covering my face.

"Planet Dread, take twenty-seven," calls out Leilani, a freshman with long braids and red cat-eye glasses. She settles into a makeshift director's chair, a threadbare love seat probably destined for the dump. "And… action."

My fellow snakes and I lie flat on the ground, arms clasped above our heads. We're supposed to be slithering, which sounds a lot easier in theory than it is in practice. More than once, Leilani had to call "cut" because someone was crawling instead of slithering, so she got down on her belly to show us how we could scoot ourselves around on our toes and forearms. The flyer for this particular film failed to mention it would involve a killer core workout—my abs are already protesting.

Kait emerges from behind a tower of cardboard boxes, motioning for someone else to follow behind her. Then, in a grave voice, she says, "I don't think we're in the right place."

Another actor enters the frame, stroking a fake beard and looking deeply concerned. "That's the thing," he says, gazing around the warehouse. "It's the right place, but the snakes have made it uninhabitable for humans. Twenty years ago, this was a city. A civilization. And now—"

We hiss.

"And now it belongs to them." Kait reaches into her holster, pulling out a prop axe, which she brandishes like a baseball bat. "And they're not going to let us take it back without a fight."

"Cut!" Leilani says from behind the camera, and the dozen of us on the ground heave a collective, pained sigh of relief. "Amazing job," she says, giving Kait a sweet smile. "Space snakes, great slithering."

We break for some water while Leilani and a couple of her friends reset the scene. I've already made the mistake of referring to Leilani as Kait's girlfriend. We're just hanging out, Kait said when I asked. I'm not eager to get into another relationship right away.

Maybe the best part about this film is that it's reminded me of all the creativity on campus that exists outside my major. Actors and directors and painters and comedians and musicians and designers, all of us yearning to make art out of nothing. There is something about seeing others so immersed in their art that makes me want to get lost in mine, that undeniable contagious spark. The reason I was drawn to Emerson in the first place. When you have that desire deep in your bones, you can't simply shut it off. Even during a drought, it's always there, waiting to seize inspiration and weave it into something beautiful.

Maybe I never had to be tortured—just inspired. Because even if this movie, a snake-based sci-fi epic meant to be a parable for climate change, isn't going to win any awards, it's been a ridiculous amount of fun. Leilani is no-nonsense and knows exactly what she wants, a trait that's easy to admire, and the costume-design majors glued scales to our snake outfits with utmost care.

Sure, it's not high art, but none of these people are giving it any less than their full attention and love. And that makes it feel that way.

Leilani asks for one more take, promising "I think we really got it that time!" before we do it three more times.

When I get back to my dorm, stomach muscles aching, I don't rush to scrub off all the green paint. Not yet. My mind is whirring, fingertips itching to create. I peel off my unitard, flexing my hands before sitting in my desk chair. Microsoft Word will not send me into a panic spiral this time. Somehow, I'm sure of it.

The first few sentences are buttery smooth, just as lovely on the page as they are in my head. An auspicious start. For this assignment, Professor Everett brought a sack of mystery objects to class and asked us each to pick one. "Your character cries when they see this," she said. "Why?" My object: a bright purple finger trap.

Paulina's gone, so it's just me and my laptop and the soft hum of the radiator. While I assumed our Dunkin' adventure would bring us closer, that hasn't happened yet. We exchange pleasant small talk when we're in the room, but she still seems perpetually frazzled, always on her way out the door. I use that as inspiration, crafting a character who never stays put long enough to build strong connections with anyone.

One night she meets a charming guy at a carnival, both of them having been ditched by their friends, and she's so miserable at every game that all she manages to win is a cheap finger trap. The two of them gamely stick their index fingers inside, joke that now they're bound forever. After a magical night together, she fears he's getting too close and pulls away. Deletes his number. Ten years later, she runs into him the night before she's about to be married to someone she doesn't truly love—and because he's been hoping he'll see her again one day, he still has the finger trap. Cue tears.

I tinker. I nudge. I search for the right words, massaging my phrasing until the prose reads exactly the way I want it to, soft and romantic and threaded with nostalgia.

I don't break until my phone pings with a text from Kait, reminding me that we had plans to crash an MIT party later and asking if I want to get ready together. I give my work a quick reread, save, and send it off to Professor Everett.

Then I allow myself to smile, drawing in the first deep breath I've taken in the past hour.

It takes far too long to scrub off all the green paint, even with Kait's help. In the eighth-floor bathroom, we apply eyeliner and mascara, try on a couple outfits before landing on the right one. We'll meet Leilani there, along with a few other kids from the shoot.

All of it brings me back to getting ready for high school dances with Kirby and Mara. Watching them sneak glances before they knew they liked each other, Mara seeming to go catatonic while Kirby lined her lips with a deep red. Mara asking us to pause in the middle of pinning up our hair so she could get a photo that looked candid, the two of us dramatically moving our hands in slow motion. I'm hit with a pang of homesickness and longing—because I never realized, back then, that those kinds of experiences were finite. I just assumed I had all the time in the world to get ready for school dances, that the hour we spent huddled around the mirror was only a precursor to something grander when it was usually much better than the dance itself.

"A picture for your boyfriend?" Kait asks now, holding out her hand. "Because you look gorge."

"It's just because I'm not space-snake chic anymore," I say, but I finger-comb my dark waves one more time before she snaps a photo. One for Neil, and then one of the two of us together.

It's not the same as it was in high school, but it's not terrible, either.

The Emerson party scene mostly consists of partying at Boston's other, bigger schools—Harvard, BU, MIT. MIT is a few stops on the red line away in Cambridge, its campus spread along the Charles River, and the frat house is a quaint brick building a block from the water. Having spent the past four years as an AP kid, I already know that nerds can go hard, and that's exactly how it appears when we step inside.

The lights are dimmed, music blasting, floor littered with SOLO cups. Kait makes herself at home in the kitchen, pouring us each a shot of vodka. Deciding not to overthink it, I toss it back.

"Ughhhhh, that's awful."

"Welcome to college," Kait says with a wince. "No one can afford the good stuff."

Leilani comes up behind us, throwing an arm around Kait's shoulder. "Now the debauchery can really begin." She nods to me. "Thanks again for being one of my snakes. Hopefully I wasn't too much of a dictator?"

"Just the right amount," I tell her. "I can't wait to see the finished product."

"It'll take a lot of editing to get it there." Leilani grins at Kait as she passes her a cup. "But it'll be worth it."

And if that doesn't sound familiar.

We head toward the living room, where the couches have been pushed aside to make room for people to dance. I don't have the greatest sense of rhythm—Neil could more than attest to that—but dancing in this house of strangers feels like freedom, a blast of heat after an endless winter.

At one point, a guy in an oversize polo shirt attempts to shimmy up to me, but I give him such a vicious glare that he immediately backs away, after which Kait and Leilani dissolve into laughter. It feels good, this night.

A couple hours and too many EDM remixes later, I'm waiting in line for the bathroom when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out expecting to see a message from Neil, so I'm surprised to find an email instead. From Professor Everett. Who… was apparently working on a Friday night. Considering how I spent many a Friday night in high school, I'm not one to judge.

Then I read it, and everything changes.

Rowan,

I just finished your finger trap story. Do you think we could speak after class next week?

M.E.

My stomach sinks all the way to my toes, the floor swaying beneath me. I'd felt so great about that piece, better than I've felt about anything I've turned in so far this year. I thought I was finally writing what she wanted. I'd layered in all that backstory, labored over every word until each one felt right.

"You going in?" a girl behind me asks, motioning to the open door. Numbly, I shake my head no, and she pushes past me into the bathroom.

I read the email again and again, as though there could possibly be a hidden meaning in those two sentences. Turns out the only hidden meaning is someone I deeply admire telling me you're not good enough.

"Rowan? You okay?"

Kait's next to me, and my head is pounding and the music's too loud and this dress I borrowed from her is too tight. I dig a hand into my bangs, pressing my palm to my forehead as I wordlessly pass my phone to her.

"Shit," she says when she finishes reading, her brow scrunched with concern. "That's not good."

Yeah. I know.

Her assessment comes with a twinge of annoyance, and then a surge of unease. Because in any other scenario, Neil would have been the first person to see this email. Maybe that's another thing they don't tell you about long-distance relationships—that the first person you confide in may not be the person who means everything to you. He would have tried to reassure me, prevented me from assuming the worst. Maybe she wants to talk to you about something positive, he'd say, and I'd raise my eyebrows and joke, When has a teacher ever wanted to see a student after class for something positive? Maybe he'd be right and maybe he wouldn't, but it would have made me feel lighter.

Kait's comment makes me feel just this side of doomed.

This time when my gaze drifts back toward the living room, all I see are intertwined couples, the ones who might be in love and the ones who might be hooking up and the ones who might be somewhere in between. That could be us, swaying together in a stranger's house. No matter how many phone calls and video chats we have, it doesn't change the fact that Neil isn't here.

There's that worry at the back of my mind again, only this time it's louder.

Maybe I'm too settled in my relationship to properly write about love, disconnected from the yearning that defines all my favorite books. I'd fought my way to optimism, but reality was waiting to push me right back. Because what if I haven't just romanticized romance—what if I've romanticized writing itself?

I tighten my fist around my phone, shoving it back into my pocket.

Then I make my way into the kitchen and down two more shots. Then another. By that third one, I can no longer remember what my story was about.

By the sixth one, I can't feel anything.

I throw my hair back, dancing with Kait and Leilani, screaming the lyrics to songs I'm not sure I've ever liked but have invaded my subconscious anyway. Another shot, because it's starting to taste so much better.

This is still fun. I'm having a fucking blast.

At least until later, with my face stuck in a toilet and my hair sweat-pasted to my forehead, when I decide I'm never doing this again.