“extension” is exactly one-half hour. Instead of vacating opposite gender dorm rooms at nine pm you can stay until — gasp — nine-thirty! But then again, a lot can happen in thirty minutes.
Increased community service. Hadley makes sure each student does a certain amount of hours, but this year the boarding population has to work together on a project that varies by dorm. We have a meeting tonight to make suggestions as to Fruckner’s focus. I’m all for it.
Bishop House swap. It’s not just equality, it’s an influx of boys down to our sector. Not that I care from a potential suitor perspective (read: Charlie Addison is plenty for me), but Mary Lancaster’s psyched because her boyfriend, Carlton is now her neighbor.
Bishop House swap reverse — the girls of Bishop are now on main campus.
Exams are no longer prior to Winter break, so they don’t hang over your head at Thanksgiving. I predict this will lead to a non-productive, social, fun few weeks post-turkey and pre-Menorah (or whatever your choice of seasonal bush). Then again, it could lead to complete disaster in terms of re-entry in January.
I draw a long arrow from the last point on my Good list to that end of the Bad list, then begin a doodle that’s short-lived; little cursive lowercase ‘e’s all linked together. I miss Charlie. I don’t want to pout about being apart, but I wish we weren’t; that we could do the cross-campus couple shuffle. The CCCS takes its form in hand-holding on the way to lunch, leaf-fights in the fall, snowball tosses in the winter, hallway canoodling (note to self: add canoodling to list of words I dislike), and general gooey displays of affection. Like my love of cotton candy, I’m realizing that though I’m a pragmatic person, and have no desire to get it on in public, I do relish the thought of having my boyfriend closeby.
I look up from my line of fake cursive and check on Dalton Himmelman just to see what he’s been doing to fill the time. He’s not looking outside or asleep, rather he’s got a number two pencil (are there any other kinds? Of course, but they never get mentioned) in his mouth and a composition book open in front of him. He doesn’t catch me watching him, which I’m glad about — if for no other reason than I can’t explain my slight fascination with him other than the fact of Jacob. Dalton takes the pencil from his lips, twirls it like a Lilliputian baton and then writes furiously for about twenty seconds. He’s still writing, his sandy hair suspended from his forehead, when his eyes shift up and lock on mine. I figure he’ll glare at me or look away, but he just smiles at me while his left hand keeps moving across the page. I wish I knew what words link on his paper to form whatever thoughts are in his head — no wonder Chili has a sudden and deep crush on him. He’s that kind of guy — the guy in a movie who’d be the hot best friend, the character they don’t explore but whom you can’t shake off when the lights come on at the theatre.
Thinking of Chili makes me doodle her name now on my pad. I stop short of making hearts or stars above the two ‘i’s in her name because it seems so typical of high school doodles. She and I walked to campus together this morning, silent at first, and then all of a sudden talking through bites of a breakfast bar (her) and seven grain toast (me). Overlapping, we both said we were sorry and then wondered why we were apologizing.
“Maybe because I could have intervened and gotten it so you and I were roommates. Now you’re stuck with La Pirate.”
Chili turns to me, her first day of school new orange v-neck bright against her dark skin. “Let’s face it — probably you wouldn’t have been able to change anything and — quite possibly you could’ve made it worse.”
I chewed the crusts of the bread — my favorite part — and stopped to shake a pebble out of my flip-flop. On the way to main campus there’s a gravel driveway leading to a
Increased community service. Hadley makes sure each student does a certain amount of hours, but this year the boarding population has to work together on a project that varies by dorm. We have a meeting tonight to make suggestions as to Fruckner’s focus. I’m all for it.
Bishop House swap. It’s not just equality, it’s an influx of boys down to our sector. Not that I care from a potential suitor perspective (read: Charlie Addison is plenty for me), but Mary Lancaster’s psyched because her boyfriend, Carlton is now her neighbor.
Bishop House swap reverse — the girls of Bishop are now on main campus.
Exams are no longer prior to Winter break, so they don’t hang over your head at Thanksgiving. I predict this will lead to a non-productive, social, fun few weeks post-turkey and pre-Menorah (or whatever your choice of seasonal bush). Then again, it could lead to complete disaster in terms of re-entry in January.
I draw a long arrow from the last point on my Good list to that end of the Bad list, then begin a doodle that’s short-lived; little cursive lowercase ‘e’s all linked together. I miss Charlie. I don’t want to pout about being apart, but I wish we weren’t; that we could do the cross-campus couple shuffle. The CCCS takes its form in hand-holding on the way to lunch, leaf-fights in the fall, snowball tosses in the winter, hallway canoodling (note to self: add canoodling to list of words I dislike), and general gooey displays of affection. Like my love of cotton candy, I’m realizing that though I’m a pragmatic person, and have no desire to get it on in public, I do relish the thought of having my boyfriend closeby.
I look up from my line of fake cursive and check on Dalton Himmelman just to see what he’s been doing to fill the time. He’s not looking outside or asleep, rather he’s got a number two pencil (are there any other kinds? Of course, but they never get mentioned) in his mouth and a composition book open in front of him. He doesn’t catch me watching him, which I’m glad about — if for no other reason than I can’t explain my slight fascination with him other than the fact of Jacob. Dalton takes the pencil from his lips, twirls it like a Lilliputian baton and then writes furiously for about twenty seconds. He’s still writing, his sandy hair suspended from his forehead, when his eyes shift up and lock on mine. I figure he’ll glare at me or look away, but he just smiles at me while his left hand keeps moving across the page. I wish I knew what words link on his paper to form whatever thoughts are in his head — no wonder Chili has a sudden and deep crush on him. He’s that kind of guy — the guy in a movie who’d be the hot best friend, the character they don’t explore but whom you can’t shake off when the lights come on at the theatre.
Thinking of Chili makes me doodle her name now on my pad. I stop short of making hearts or stars above the two ‘i’s in her name because it seems so typical of high school doodles. She and I walked to campus together this morning, silent at first, and then all of a sudden talking through bites of a breakfast bar (her) and seven grain toast (me). Overlapping, we both said we were sorry and then wondered why we were apologizing.
“Maybe because I could have intervened and gotten it so you and I were roommates. Now you’re stuck with La Pirate.”
Chili turns to me, her first day of school new orange v-neck bright against her dark skin. “Let’s face it — probably you wouldn’t have been able to change anything and — quite possibly you could’ve made it worse.”
I chewed the crusts of the bread — my favorite part — and stopped to shake a pebble out of my flip-flop. On the way to main campus there’s a gravel driveway leading to a
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