The desk was half submerged in a lake of papers.
She felt so adult, being invited for coffee.
But get outta here. With your remarkable eyes and..  WEDDING RING
The question hung invisibly in the air.
What does that mean, coffee?  Have you ever felt like you were missing some obvious sign-signal? Why does he want to have coffee with ME?” Lisa asked herself.
He isn’t the first guy to hit on her but he’s a professor.
WAS he hitting on her?
Her ***-dar said he was hitting on her.
“Sorry, I, I can’t.” she said as her mind searched for context.
She thinks: What if I make him mad - and he decides he doesn’t like me anymore?
Wait, does he like me NOW - or am I just another of a million students he’s taught?
Am I making a thing out of nothing? Am I being fractious?
Maybe coffee means coffee?
She has a hundred thoughts in a millisecond.
“Why not?” he asks, not looking up and marking some student’s paper with a red pin.
“I’m busy with humdrum deadlines,” she said, wondering if that even made sense.
He looks up and chuckles, “No problem.” He says with a smile, then he returns to grading.
After a second she turns and goes.
“I need to find Anais,” she thinks, reaching for her phone.

It’s Spring Fling today - an all-day campus concert with some up-and-coming music acts. We’ll be out there, in the rain if we have to, we're determined and somewhat waterproof. We went out earlier, doing a scan for friends to find seats and place stuff to hold our spot.

What, up until now, have been notes of preparation for summer move-out, will become a symphony tomorrow - after my last final - I’ll be a sophomore then, I suppose.

Peter has to check an experiment he’s working on. He hugs me and heads out.
“He’s so hot,” Anna observes, “he makes me think about ***, and you know what - YES!”
“You can have him," I say, he’s too tall - and besides - he’s friending-down, with me.” I admit.
“I like him,” Lisa says, “he doesn’t complain or disapprove of things.”
“He’s the modern man,” Anna says, dreamily.
“And he’s REALLY good at kissing games.” I confide, grinning like a creepy boy, to make them jealous. They all made various noises that piggybacked and incorporated into one coherent gagging sound.

It’s hard to imagine almost three months of unencumbered fun. My Grandmère says it’s my first summer as an “adult.” Is it funny that I don’t yet see myself as an adult?

Her “frosh-end” gift to me is a summer of anything I want (chaperoned, of course, to counterbalance the nefarious strategic significance of our femaleness) with her secretarial minions coordinating tickets, booking travel, airfare and hotels. ***, we have SO much planned.

There’ll be travel, plisse bikini-covers, gas-station sunglasses, marathon-beach-walks, bright-dense-tangerine sunsets, Yamazaki flavored snow-cones, moonlight swangin, ***-positivity and righteous gratitude to my Grandmère for all this.

And there won’t be any deterministic nonlinear systems analysis or multicellular biology quizzes.

Leong isn’t going back to Macau (China) over summer break so I’m stealing her. She’s spending her entire summer with me. In June, my parents are off, for the rest of the summer, to Poland with “Doctors without borders,” so we become untethered. Of course, all of our plans are covid or WWIII dependent and thus subject to cancellation without prior notice.

In May, I’m going to show Leong life in America, well, Georgia anyway. I’ll introduce her to my old high school crew, show her life on the lake, and teach her how to play frisbee golf and of course, how to waterski. We’re going to Braves games, to see Bonnie Raitt, Barenaked Ladies, and Indigo Girls concerts - and that’s just May.

In June, when my folks leave for Poland, Lisa, Anna, and Sunny will join us for the rest of the summer. First, we’re off to Dublin, Ireland for a few days where we’ll see Duran Duran in concert. Then we’ll go to London and shop for day three of the Royal Ascot.

Day three, at Ascot, is “Ladies Day,” when they parade those hats “My Fair Lady” made famous. We’ll table in the Windsor Enclosure (the “cheap seats”) where you don’t have to wear a silly hat (Americans don’t DO that, do we?) and the dress code is slightly more relaxed. Don’t fret though, the royal family will carriage right by us (an unobstructed 30 feet away) at 2PM sharp and we’ll enjoy champagne, strawberries and 5-star cuisine as horses run for their lives.

In January, all we could talk about were Florida beaches - but that’s not the situation now - the Florida atmosphere just seems too straight-white toxic. So we’re staying euro-side and will drop to Saint-Tropez until we go see Olivia Rodrigo, in Paris, on June 22nd.

As you can see, it’s a lot - and I can’t wait!
I hope you have big plans - make big plans - life's too short!

My roommates and I congregated in our suite's great room and we’ll head out for dinner soon.

“Have you ever eaten dog food?” Leong asked Anna.
“No,” Anna answered, “it smells like chicken - it’s got chicken in it”
“OOO!” Leong pounces, “Busted!!”
“What?!” Anna reacts.  
“How would you know that then?” Leong asks, doubtfully.
“My mom told me!” Anna cries, in self defense. “She’s a vegetarian too.”
“Your mom told you.” Leong said, like a prosecutor raising an eyebrow for the jury.

“I just took my last English class,” I report, pony-tailing my hair, “my teacher told me - privately - that my writing destroys.”
“Nice,” Lisa says.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling and grooming with pride, “I thought that was a ballin’ complement and I’ve been riding that high.”
“No doubt,” Anna says and nods.
“My English professor..” Leong says, exasperated, “is driving me crazy, I’ve written three final papers so far and she’s rejected them ALL.”
“Huh?” I gasp, “Show me one!” I demand, wiggling gimmie-fingers at her laptop.

“Here’s a question,” Lisa asks the room, “What would you change about your childhood?”
“I would have never grown up.” Sophy said.
“When I was in third grade, in the UK, a girl in my elementary school, was murdered,” I reveal.
“What?!” Anna says.
“Oh, my GOD!” Lisa gasps.
“Spill” Leong demands.
“Her name was Kennedy,” I begin, “She was in another class, I didn’t know her but I started to imagine that I’d known her. I’d think of her playing on the swings in a yellow dress, in daydreams and in nightmares.”
“I can see that,” Leong said.
“I was flummoxed, at the time, how a family could lose a little girl and a president.” I added.
Anna looked confused.
“I was in third grade,” I replied, ”what did I know?”
“Go ON,” Lisa prompts.
“We heard that she was walking home and got snatched,” I continued.
“Jesus,” Lisa said, shaking her head.
“Although I never walked home, I was careful not to be snatched for a while,” I summarized.
“I bet,” Anna agreed.
“That’s what I’d change,” I said, “Poor Kennedy.”
“People ****,” Lisa pronounced, and there was general agreement to that.

We (Lisa, Leong and I) attended a cross-campus Health *** seminar the other day. I have to admit to some self-consciousness. I was worried that some professor would see us and judge - I still have some self-work to do. I’m fighting to be freer, to be well.

In an effort to destigmatize ***, they gave out vibrators - over a hundred in ten minutes - they ran out - there was a demand. That was pretty sic. I guess no one wants their dad to see a ******* charged on the family Amazon account (again).

Which got me thinking about how sexuality is different throughout the year - by season. Of course, this is the pandemic era. The last two freshmen classes have been the most isolated in history.

Which brings me to mask-crushes. Early on in the year, you may have had a crush on someone whose face you hadn’t actually seen. That girl mask-crushing on you might not think you’re as cute maskless but then maybe she’s not as hot either.

By the seasons. Admittedly, this is a cerebral look at a hot subject but I’ve asked this around and within my peer-group these are the agreed upon numbers.

Fall is when college began, summer tan lines were fading but the cafeteria was still full of summer stories. You were meeting new people or perhaps missing someone. You might have gotten a little flirty after you settled in. Still, temperatures were dropping and it was time to start covering up. ******* was recommended as the safe pandemic alternative but in some cases, new freedoms were too much to resist. ******* - 9, hookups - 1

In Winter things really slowed down, we got out even less and classes got grimly serious. There was a seasonal effect to the darkness. Of course, we needed to stay warm and maybe we cuddled up more. We’d met people by then and hookups happened but usually within our own social groups. ******* - 7, hookups - 3

Spring came in with a sneeze as the world brightened and those thoughtless plants pollinated. It was almost shocking to see how many people there were on campus. You tend to forget how many are around because everyone was sheltering or using the tunnel system. There were chances, on nice days, to get out and have fun again - just as those clothing layers started coming off. ******* - 5, hookups - 5

Then there’s summer - in my experience, summer sexuality is different - everyone’s freer, less stressed, the clothes are thinner, smaller and more revealing. The world is greener, brighter and hotter. Everyone’s making their critical summer decisions now. Some people I’ve talked to can’t wait to go home and get laid - not me - but some pretty explicit plans have been laid out around here. ******* - 3, hookups - 7

What are your ratings?

Winter tested my endurance with its sharp and burning cold and now the warm lavender evening, with its smells and sounds of spring seems like a gift. The breeze is warm, and even the broad zones of shadow contain an inviting warmth.

The campus lamps should ignite soon but groups of students are milling, talking and laughing as if no one wants to let go of the day.

As Lisa enters the courtyard the campus lights flicker to life. As she approaches, she lets her book bag slide off her shoulder. Catching it by its strap a millisecond before it hits the ground as she reaches me - without looking - like a practiced trick.

Taking my hand in hers, she asks, head tilted slightly to see my eyes, “How’d the test go?”

I’m the first one in our squad to take a final - most are next week. “Cinchy,” I say with a grin and a flick of my free wrist, “not comprehensive - it just covered the last section.”

“Yea,” she says, “look at you go!” A warm breeze wells to obscure her face with her flaxen, cornsilk hair. She lets her bag fall the last inch, and ponytails it, two-handed, with smooth, practiced ease.

Finals existed, like ancient, cultural crucibles, long before our time, but these are ours, as if they’ve always been waiting - just for us.

Yale is still new to us, but we talk, juxtaposing experiences, challenging and comforting each other, even though we’re on slightly different paths. It seems that everyone is pumped up though, a little stressed maybe, but more than ready to hit it.

Lisa was carefully pulling a strand of cotton candy off a paper-coned “barbe à papa” - winding it around her finger while absentmindedly gazing at a carousel. She seemed hypnotized by its white horses, trimmed in gold, with their brassy red and blond manes, as they hopped, like slow-motion rabbits, in circles beneath wreaths and garlands of colored lights.

My watch jiggled me awake, mid-dream. I was bemused. It took me a moment to orient myself. I groggily pushed the sheets off and performed a big stretch. It's Monday morning, I think. “Alexa, what’s today?” I ask, to be sure. “It’s Monday, April 25th,” she says.

A beautiful, if cloudy spring morning was going to bloom on the other side of my jacobian glass windows - any minute now. At least according to my weather app. “Alexa, good morning,” I say, to start my rattling, sputtering, steampunk sounding coffee maker.

College time is warped, measured more in deadlines than minutes. There’s no plan other than your class or test schedule and let me refresh you on the rules – there are no rules, I’m free to do whatever I want. I actually chuckle at that thought.

College is transformative but there’s a hoary sameness to it. Read, discuss, review and test - wash, rinse and repeat. This morning is reserved for test review. I have a final this morning - well, sort of.

Some classes have a quintet of tests instead of a big midterm and nerve-racking final. It smooths out the stress, but you still have an almost forensic exploration of ideas, and you want the answers queued-up, ready for easy access.

I quickly washed and donned my workout-wear. A glance at my watch told me I was right on time. I’d loaded my shoulder bag last night, with my book, highlighters, my phone, Air-Pods and a water bottle. I grab it as I head out. I’ll do my review on the treadmill.

Anna opens her door just as I do mine - perfect. We’re off to the gym.

Introducing my roommate Leong to my Saturday morning cartoon binge habit proved to be one of my BEST ideas EVER. She’s a very animated watcher, frequently laughing, gasping in horror and, in the end, delighted by these silly shows.

It’s almost a case for convergent evolution, how two creatures, from opposite ends of culture and the world can be so similar.

I find myself watching her, for her reaction, as much as the shows themselves - I’ve seen them before but I rediscover them vicariously and emotionally through her. We can spend hours dissecting character arcs and plot twists - we’ve found a small, stress-free heaven.

It’s 10:40am Sunday morning and Leong is dipping celery in barbecue sauce for breakfast again. “THAT’s just gross,” I deem, holding my hand up to block my view of this travesty.

“You should TALK,” she says, “Flexatarian!”

I gasped, like a slapped Chris Rock in the face of this naked aggression. “Why am I a Flexatarian! I demand, my mind reeling for context, “because I ordered the potato burrito at taco bell?” I look around for some sort of rescue or validation, but we’re alone.

“That’s so FAUX,” I say, in an injured voice, shaking my head sadly. “I’m by the book carnivore,” I say, holding my fingers in a three-fingered girl scout pledge.

“And you have to live with that trauma,” Leong says, scooping an extra large dollop of sauce with her celery as I make gagging and heaving sounds.

Some people are cynical about college -  it’s rigid, they say - why is it even needed?

Don’t be confused about college - it’s not a place for creativity. You can’t use an essay to wander restlessly through your imagination - you’ll fail - and fail quickly. Universities are places for conscientious minds.

Conscientiousness - the desire to do the needed well and thoroughly - is the best predictor of success in college, in graduate school, in law, in management and anyplace that has structure and rules.

In science, most progress is incremental. Oh sure, there’s the occasional Einstein who changes everything, but that’s rare. The reason science is so powerful is that it allows regular, educated people to advance knowledge one microstep at a time. Imagine a hundred thousand people microstepping and exchanging knowledge and wow, now we’re zooming.

You don’t want a surgeon in their well lit operating theater to have an inspiration and try something new on you. You want them to apply the state-of-the-art procedure diligently and carefully.

Entrepreneurs and artists don’t always do well in college. Those careers require constant “out of the box” thinking. When a person starts a company, there are no rules, it’s necessary for the entrepreneur to make things work on the fly. Artists are almost required to break or create new rules. Conscientiousness certainly plays a part in those fields but it’s not the main predictor of success.

Creativity is necessary - every company needs a small group of people generating new ideas but it’s a high risk, high reward game. Few new ideas pan out - the odds that your idea will be unique, practical, affordable and reach the marketplace at exactly the right time to be successful are astronomically low.

Someone who wants to - who feels they have to be creative - is almost cursed. Yes, it’s ironic that I’m publishing this on a poetry site - but in most cases creative people fail - it’s much better for the average someone to be practical. Practical people are generally more successful in life although the rare creative can be extremely successful (Musk, Jobs, Gates).

Colleges teach how our world works - a simulacrum of what is currently known - in hopes that the student will be able, one day, to ask the next question - the one that will push their particular science ahead that one microstep and move us all into the bright future.

Peter knocked and Lisa opened the door. She didn’t greet him, like she usually did, she just nodded and looked away, making a face that reminded Peter of when he was ten - and in trouble. I was on the large, red couch, coiled up tightly at one end, a textbook in my lap and a highlighter in hand, like a knife. The song “Bad Sneakers” was playing throughout the suite.

Anna was in the kitchen, washing glasses in the sink and she didn’t look up, watching the suds like she thought something important was happening beneath those bubbles. Peter knew something was wrong - it was a little obvious - he just didn’t know WHAT.  

“What’s going on?” Peter asked, maybe a bit too brightly, as he settled on the edge of a stiff-backed chair. After a moment of silence, he said, question-like, “You seem like you’re in a bad mood.”

“I won’t ALWAYS be in a good mood,” I said defensively, “and you won’t be warned ahead of time - good luck to you.” I’d looked up but I quickly looked away and took a deep breath.
After a moment Peter asked, “What would you like to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking around, then I added restlessly, “take a walk.”

The common room windows were full of a night sky and harmless rain clouds, which spread out like a soggy layer of wet bread. A misty rain was falling, only to be thrown about by the wind. “Ok,” Peter says, standing and turning back towards the door, “Let’s do it.” I slipped on shoes and grabbed a small umbrella on our way out.

Occasionally, rain drops made a popping sound on the taunt skin of our umbrellas as we walked in a silence that lasted about five minutes. “Your girlfriend yelled at me in the cafeteria today.” I said, watching my feet.
“Wha..” he started, and after pausing for a moment, said. “I’m sorry she did that.”

After a little more walking he started, “ Shriley’s an EX girlfriend. We were together for about a year,” he paused again. “She cheated, I found out, but somehow she’s angry at ME because I won’t let her “explain” it.” He said with a shrug. “We’re DONE.” he said softly, “It’s an established fact.” He looked at me as we walked.

The feeling I’d had of a great weight on my chest seemed to lighten a bit. The clouds were clearing and the crescent moon was reflected, small and waxing, over and over in little puddles formed by the uneven pavement, as if the moon was following us around, watching us.

“That was a minute ago - before we met and that situation, it’s locked-down. I’ve got twenty people who can testify to that.”

“Still,” I said, “She seems 730. Maybe we should take a pause and take a breath.” After another minute of silence I added, “The game seems saturated - and with midterms..” my voice trailed off.

He looked disappointed. “Sure, I get it,” he said, “craziness and midterms don’t mix.”

Shriley knew confronting me would elicit turmoil - but what could I do? They’re graduate students and I’m a lowly pre-med freshman. I was sad and discouraged when we said good night. We’d never even kissed.

After the door closed, I leaned against it and mumbled “Grades ruin everything.” Leong hung up my umbrella and gave me a hug.