Adventures In College

The car had never been this quiet.

Francis shifted slightly in the back, his awkward position against the wall of suitcases and clutter to his side flared a sharp ache. He leaned away, resting his head on the rain-damp window. He glanced up at the rearview mirror, his eyes briefly locking with his mother’s before she looked away.

For a moment he fixed his gaze squarely on the mirror, as though with nothing but determination he could will his mother’s focus back. She’d barely uttered a word to him since they left home. His father, though more vocal, was not much better. Francis hadn’t expected much more from the man, but a part of him, a hopeful, naive part, still believed his father would see the logic behind his decision.

Disappointment was preferable to the cold, murky feeling that settled in Francis’s stomach.

They had been so crestfallen all morning, and though Francis knew part of the blame lied solely with him, he had to be honest—to himself, if nobody else—that he couldn’t muster anything for his parent but pity. Pity that they’d tied themselves to deeply to Francis. Or, he should say, that his mother had. She was the person he pitied. His well of sympathy had long dried out for his father.

He couldn’t imagine allowing someone to wield so much influence over him—that their every decision influenced his emotions. Such vulnerabilities weren’t as appealing to him as, evidently, they were to his family.

Francis pressed his ear to the window. Birdsong drifted from all directions, carried by the wind. Wings flapped overhead, a pleasant symphony of individually unpleasant sounds. He tilted his head to catch a glimpse of dark shapes like pinpricks against the brightness of the sky.

“So,” Francis’s father said, startling him. “Excited, bud? What do I always say?”

Francis sighed, recited, “College is what you make it.”

“And?” the older man prompted.

Francis straightened, deciding to nurse the budding conversation, as the alternative was mind-bogglingly numb. “It can either be the best four years of your life, or the worst experience you ever have.”

“Good.” He tapped his finger lightly against the steering wheel. “And what are you going to make college?”

“The best four years of my life,” Francis answered, and glanced up at the rearview mirror to receive his father’s small, proud smile.

“Don’t make them too good,” his mother cut in sternly. “Remember, you’re there for an education. Get distracted with drugs, and parties, and”—she seemed almost to brace herself for her next words—“girls, and you ruin the experience before it even starts.”

Her eyes found his again. Francis saw within them—bright, mossy-green gems that he hadn’t inherited—that the sternness possessed no bite. It melted away the moment her eyes landed on him.

“I’ll be careful, mom,” he offered, because he knew it’d please him. Then, to his father, “I’ll make sure to enjoy it.”

“Oh.” Her voice wobbled. She tore her gaze from the mirror. Francis saw his parents exchange a glance. “Take care of your sister, okay?” his mother said. “Promise me.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling her that.” Brittany was older than him by two years, and was on the verge of starting her junior year of college.

“Promise me, Francis,” she repeated, firmly.

The ache flared again, near Francis’s pelvis. A spark of pain worked through the region. He winced.

His father looked back. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” he mumbled. “Why’d we have to bring the entire house? Can’t Brittany find a way to get her things herself?”

Francis’s belonging occupied the space in the trunk. A few days after he’d finished packing and the school year was near beginning, Brittany had pleaded with their father to bring a ‘few’ things for her. According to her father, her very-emotional pitch and unrelenting pleading had worn him down.

Hence now why Francis had to share the backseat of the car with Brittany’s discarded junk.

“Your sister misses home,” his father said. “Can you blame her? She’s been away for almost two years.”

And called home a total of two times in that span, he wanted to say, but held his tongue. Some things were better left as fleeting thoughts. “If she knew she’d miss them, she should’ve took them with her.”

His father opened his mouth to respond, but Francis’s mother cut him off with a look. No arguments today, it said, not anymore. She hadn’t been entirely pleased to hear her daughter call home for the first time in nearly a year just to ask for something.

He set his head back against the window and shut his eyes. He’d been firm about not allowing his imagination to run wild, as the college season grew near. Something about high expectations almost always leading to disappointment. Now, though, he felt free to wonder.

What might college have in store? Would his roommate be friend or foe? Would his classes be a bore? Back home, he’d kept a tight-knit group of friends he’d known since childhood. They were gone now, left to go explore their own adolescent years as he had. He shuddered at the idea of having to put himself out there; having to beg for attention.

He sighed resignedly as his thoughts flickered: the potential highs were drowned by the equally-possible, frightening prospect of nights alone, with nobody to call or talk to but his parents.

No. He snapped his eyes open, shaking the thoughts away as though they were a tangible thing.