I took the morning off to go down to the University campus and register for my class. I stood in the registrar’s office with gorgeous nineteen-year-old girls wearing leggings as pants and pulling it off, mentally kicking myself for doing this, but doing it anyway. There was something scary and wonderful about waiting to register for this class.
I wasn’t even going to do it, but Sarah and Ben came over last night and sat around my sofa telling me what to do. That’s how I know I have good friends, because they are overly invested in my life decisions.
“Molly wants you to take the class, too,” Sarah said while slurping some pad thai.
“I’m not talking to Molly,” I reminded her.
“I know that. Trust me, I hear it daily from her. When are you two going to make up?”
“Sarah, she’s controlling and mean. I don’t know when she got this way.”
“Do you think maybe she’s just scared? I mean, she had to hear it from me that you might move to Portland. Plus, she’s always been controlling. It never stopped you two from being friends before.”
“It was easier to take before,” I said, picking at my noodles.
“It was easier to take before what?” Sarah asked.
Ben just sat there between us, moving his head back and forth to follow the conversation. I like Ben.
“Before she got all in love on us,” I said.
“So you hate Chris?”
“I don’t hate Chris. I hate how Chris made her seem other-worldly, like now she has all the answers to life.”
“Maybe you could tell her that,” Sarah said, nudging me.
“No,” I said. “But I will register for that class. And I’m not moving to Portland. Not yet anyway. I haven’t even talked to Ian about it. I don’t even know if we’ll last through the summer.”
Ben spoke up but didn’t look at me. “Ian digs you. You’ll last.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And you should register for that class, no matter what any of us say to you. You know it would be good for you.”
So now I’m registered for a literature class on the origins of the epistolary novel, a class that starts in a few weeks and runs until the day before Ian moves to Portland in August. I don’t know why, but this is even scarier than sitting in Ian’s car, driving up the hill in that parking lot. It makes me feel like I could possibly, maybe, make something of myself one day. It also makes me feel like I could possibly, maybe, tell Ian the truth about why I don’t drive and he won’t hate me. Maybe.