Chapter 4 Neil

THERE ARE FEWthings I love more than the beginning of a school year, new binders and crisp notebooks and sharpened pencils all holding that promise of possibility.

In high school, September also meant Rowan Roth, the girl who tormented me all year and yet I inexplicably—and then all-too-explicably—missed during the summer break.

My family always bought school supplies at a dollar store or drugstore clearance aisle, though we reused as much as we could from year to year. But every August, my mom would bring us to the Office Depot in Ballard because she knew just how much I loved it.

"You can pick one thing," she'd say, while my dad grumbled about how it should be illegal to charge that much for a ballpoint pen. If he was even there—sometimes he'd complain he was too tired and stay in bed. My mom added the stipulation, "Anything you want, as long as it's under twenty dollars," after I tried to exploit the vagueness of "pick anything you want" to get an ergonomic office chair I definitely did not need when I was nine.

I approached this selection with as much logic as I could. I wouldn't pick anything too basic, no paper products or pencils. And why go for a tricolor set of slightly nicer highlighters when a twelve-pack would last me much longer?

Before I left for New York, I allowed myself to splurge on one thing with a portion of the Howl money: a new laptop to replace the aging Dell that coughed its way toward graduation, and I'm still not used to how the keys don't stick.

After a week of orientation activities that included a bus trip to Bed Bath Beyond and a welcome seminar at a theater uptown, it's time for classes. While I've enjoyed this "the city is your campus!" introduction to NYU, I'm more than ready. That phrase has already been uttered an inordinate number of times, to the point where Skyler and I have started joking about it. Have you been to the Statue of Liberty yet? It's technically part of our campus. That Olive Garden in Times Square? Campus.

Along with the mandatory Writing the Essay class for all freshmen, I'm taking Psychology 101 and a linguistics prerequisite, which I'm most looking forward to for obvious reasons. In middle school, my affinity for words—and, unfortunately, my affinity for using big ones in daily conversation whenever I could—was enough to earn me raised eyebrows and annoyed glances. In high school, slightly less so, though every so often a teacher would circle a word I'd used in a paper and write, English? Just because there was a more interesting, more apt word in another language.

Years ago, I tried to memorize as many untranslatable words as I could, captivated by the way they connected to that language's culture. Psithurism, Greek for the sound of rustling leaves. Gluggaveeur, Icelandic for when the weather looks pleasant but is best enjoyed from the inside.

Here, I have a feeling I'll find people just as passionate about words as I am.

I wake up much earlier than I need to and figure a morning walk will settle any residual nerves. This is part of the reason I'm here, after all—to explore. I wind up eating breakfast at an NYU dining hall near Union Square while consulting the map on my phone again. Linguistics is a bit of a trek from here, so I give myself plenty of time. There are a couple different downtown trains I could take—shouldn't be a problem.

Except when I get to the station at Union Square, there's a sign indicating both trains have been diverted.

"Fucking MTA," a guy in a suit mutters, a phone pressed to his ear as he turns to sprint in the other direction.

I check my phone again. The building is fewer than ten blocks away, and I've got fifteen minutes. I can make it.

This is when I learn that a New York City block is not the same as a Seattle block. I wasn't paying attention during my earlier walk, and now I'm full of regrets. As I'm dashing down University Place, dodging people with briefcases and suitcases and grocery bags, panic crawling up my throat, I can barely utter the word in my own mind. Late. I can't believe I'm about to be late for my first college class, on my favorite topic, the subject I've longed to study for years.

When I slow down in front of the building, I spend an agonizing half minute by the door, weighing my options. Go inside and risk humiliation? Or turn back and frantically email my counselor to switch classes and delay starting my linguistics courses until next semester?

But I've already been waiting so long.

The door gives a screech as I open it, prompting a full-body wince. The class inside goes silent, the professor frozen mid-sentence.

"Welcome, welcome, please find a seat," Dr. Liu says. "I know it can be tough for freshmen to find their way around on the first day."

This sparks some scattered laughs. My ears are burning, and I'm certain all my exposed skin has turned deep red.

The words themselves are kind, but the tone is flat. Condescending, even. The way he says "freshmen" makes me feel impossibly tiny. This is a class full of sophomores and juniors, and I was only eligible because I entered with so many credits from AP courses. It's a privilege to be here, and I've already fucked it up. Fifteen minutes into the start of the semester and I've branded myself a problem student.

As quickly and quietly as I can, I take the nearest seat and unzip my backpack slowly, tooth by tooth, to make as little sound as possible. I'll just have to wow him with my knowledge of semantics, show him how committed I am to my studies.

It's only when I take out a notebook and position it in front of me, pen poised on the first line, that I realize I am surrounded by laptops. No one is taking notes by hand, and the click-click-click of keyboards fills the room. I left my new laptop back in my dorm, worried about damaging it if I toted it all over the city. I hadn't imagined everyone would be taking notes this way, even though now it seems so painfully obvious. Personal laptops weren't allowed in classrooms back at Westview, but of course this is what people do here.

Because this isn't Westview. This is college.

And somehow, I get the feeling I've already failed some invisible test.

When I registered for the fall semester, the fact that three classes constituted a full course load seemed laughable. I wrote to a freshman adviser, asked if I could add another. She told me I'd better stick with three and reminded me not to go below fifteen credits, since my financial aid is dependent on it. Now, after seeing the linguistics syllabus and the one for my Psych 101 class in the afternoon, I can understand why. The amount of reading is no small task, which fills me with some of that first-day-of-school giddiness I've been missing today.

That's what I'm faced with when I get back to my dorm later: an evening of reading, and I'm already planning to get ahead a few chapters if I can. In high school, doing the bare minimum wasn't enough. That was average. "Meets expectations." I've always pushed myself beyond that—in part because Rowan was doing the same thing.

Rowan. I didn't realize just how much I looked forward to seeing her in class until I sat down in linguistics and she wasn't there. We said goodbye only a week ago, and yet I've already installed a countdown app on my phone, letting me know that she'll be in New York in twenty-two days. When I sent her a screenshot, she replied with an identical one.

"Good first day?" Skyler asks from his desk, glancing up from his laptop.

"Not bad." I drop my backpack into my chair. "How about you?"

"Didn't have to be in class until noon, so yeah, I'd say it was a pretty great day. My Writing the Essay prof seemed high as hell the whole class, so that'll probably be an easy one." It doesn't escape my notice that Skyler's given me much more detail than I have. I should want to share more—I wish I had some of his easy confidence. He rolls his chair toward me in the tiny room. "Dude. How is my side of the room already a hazmat risk and yours is spotless? Someone explain that to me."

I gaze around at the clothes piled on his bed, a laugh slipping out. "How is your side of the room this messy? It's only been, what, five days? I'm almost impressed."

"What can I say, it's an art. Or maybe I really did need my parents nagging at me to clean my room for all those years." Skyler tips his head toward the photo of Rowan and me in our graduation gowns pinned to the wall above my desk. Kirby captured us just as she was tugging off my cap and kissing my cheek. Rowan thought it was corny and groaned when I had it printed, but I loved how it captured her—so confident in showing her affection, even when we'd supposedly hated each other days before. "Girlfriend?"

I nod. "She's at school in Boston. Emerson College. She's a creative writing major, ridiculously talented."

"She's cute. Really cute."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

A shake of his head. "I'm single. Not planning to change that anytime soon," he says. "I abide by one rule, and one rule only. Three simple words."

"And those are?"

He grins, holding up three fingers. "Friends. With. Benefits. I don't know if I'm much of a serious-relationship guy." That makes sense—over the past week, I've seen him in the dining hall with a few different girls, and a couple days ago he texted that he'd be home in the morning and not to wait up. He followed it up with working on the proper usage of lie/lay/laid, plus a winking emoji.

"Ah. I guess—I guess we're pretty serious," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I'm unsure what "pretty serious" means. The fact that we've slept together, said "I love you," decided to do long distance? We never had a conversation about this being a Serious Relationship, something that suddenly sounds so, well, serious that it deserves capital letters. It's serious to me, and I'm fairly certain it is to her, too.

"That's great, man. I'm happy for you." And he does genuinely look it as he leaps out of his chair and starts lacing up his Nikes. "Gonna blow off some steam after class," he says, and I refrain from asking how much steam one can accumulate on a day that mainly involved the handing out of syllabi. "Ultimate Frisbee. Got a group together and we're going to go play in Washington Square Park. You should join."

I check my watch. "Oh… thanks, but I have a video chat scheduled with—" I nudge my head toward the photo on my wall. I've been dying to hear about her writing class.

"You sure? It's gonna be epic."

Even if Ultimate Frisbee doesn't sound like something I'd have a natural aptitude for, maybe I shouldn't pass up the invitation. From everything I've read about NYU, it's the kind of place where you need to chart your own path.

I was too shy to talk to anyone in linguistics, and Psych 101 is such a big lecture that I can't imagine finding a close friend in there, although there are smaller discussion groups that meet every other day. I should be saying yes more. That's what Skyler's doing, and even if his participation in the NYU hookup scene has reminded me that we are very different people, he's clearly putting himself out there.

"Well…" I glance at the photo again and make a decision. Rowan will understand—and she'd probably want me to go. "Just give me a moment," I say, thumbing out a text, asking her if we can reschedule.

My hunch is confirmed a minute later.

Rowan: omg yes no problem, go bro it up. please send pics

"Sure," I relent, wondering what the proper attire is for this game and if I have any of it in my closet. "I'm in."

College is about new experiences, and that is how I wind up on a grassy field in Washington Square Park with a half dozen strangers and a single bright red Frisbee.

When we first got here, after dodging pairs of older men playing chess and kids skateboarding and tourists taking photos of the famous arch—photos I'm not ashamed I've taken too, since it really is a stunning architectural icon—Skyler introduced me around. "It's great that so many of your high school friends went here too," I said.

He gave me an odd look. "I don't know any of these guys from high school. Akshay I met in the dining hall this morning, Donovan was in my essay class, and Thanh and Robbie are roommates on the other end of our floor."

I was both shocked and impressed that he'd not just met but befriended this many people in such a short period of time. Then he clapped me on the back and started explaining the rules.

In theory, the game is simple: Throw the Frisbee. Catch the Frisbee. It's advanced up and down the field like soccer, with an end zone on either side. I've lifted weights every morning for the past few years, something Rowan endlessly mocked when she found out about it, but I know secretly and sometimes not-so-secretly loves, given the way she ogles my arms when she thinks I'm not looking. It's amazing, the number of things that girl thinks she can get away with because she's being sneaky when she has no poker face to speak of. She is terrible at hiding her ogling, and I adore that about her.

Still, I have little confidence in my athletic ability. I'm slightly below-average height with a not-insubstantial percentage of muscle, and yet my coordination leaves something to be desired. I'd be lying if I said part of the reason I bulked up a bit was because it was too fun to torment Rowan in gym class. If we could turn something into a competition, we would. But none of that is doing me any good out here.

I slide my glasses into the pocket of my gym shorts, even though I can barely see without them. But if I emerge from this with four new friends, it'll all be worth it.

We divide into two teams of three. I'm with Skyler and Donovan, and I hope with everything in me that I won't be dead weight.

"We've got this," Donovan says, bringing in his hand as we huddle. Each of his biceps is the size of my head. "Bobcats on three." NYU's mascot. "One, two—"

"Bobcats!" Skyler and I shout back, and maybe there is something inherently infectious about a huddle. Maybe it really is this easy, because sports are great! Sports foster camaraderie and teamwork and—uh… sportsmanship? And all those other good things I never experienced because there was no force strong enough to pull me away from my books.

I can do this. I can be a sports guy.

We spread out in our end zone, the other team having won the coin toss, aka Frisbee flip because none of us carry around coins. Skyler launches the Frisbee high in the air, Akshay catching it and making a quick pass to Robbie. I charge forward, attempting to block Thanh as he speeds toward our end zone. Robbie tosses the Frisbee his way. The interception fails. And they score.

"It's okay," Skyler says. "Still warming up!"

The game goes quickly, both teams easily racking up points. I make one beautiful pass to Skyler that he leaps for like a golden retriever, his body spiraling in a display of athleticism I'm not sure I've ever seen up close. I half expect him to catch it in his mouth. I even score a point, though Donovan is just a couple feet away when he throws me the Frisbee.

I won't attempt to count the number of times I miss the Frisbee completely, my nearsightedness doing me zero favors. Grass stains my knees and I'm sweatier than I've been in years, but this is fun. I'm having fun with these people I didn't know a week ago, and there is something wonderful about that.

"Watch out!" yells Donovan, and then it becomes clear I am not, in fact, a sports guy.

Because even without my glasses, there's one thing I can see with perfect clarity: the Frisbee hurtling right toward my face.