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Authors: Sarina Bowen
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anyone would. Even if it comes from the likes of me.
Her narrow shoulders droop, and I’m in fucking agony . Unlikely as it seems, I’ve hurt this girl, which is something I never wanted to do. I hurt her, and it’s because I have to avoid another girl who says I hurt her. But I didn’t.
Every time I try to get away from it, even for a couple of hours, it just drags me back down.
While my heart breaks into smaller and smaller pieces, I stay in the shadows watching Lianne, even though her defeated posture kills me. But I don’t like her sitting there alone in the cold.
Please go home , I beg silently. Please .
Eventually she straightens up. That’s it , I coach. She reaches up and unwinds the scarf she’s wearing, which sparkles when it catches the light. Inexplicably, she tosses it onto the bench beside her. Then she stands, turns, and heads back toward campus.
After she’s gotten half a block away, I cross the street and rescue her scarf off the bench. The fabric is light and gauzy, with a subtle shimmer. It looks expensive, and I don’t have a clue why she’d leave it behind. I tuck the thing into my jacket and then follow her to the corner. From the shadow of another building, I watch as she reaches the art school, then passes a coffee shop with students spilling out of it.
She’s safe now, and I don’t have to worry. But my feet follow her anyway. I’m so torn up inside. If I go home now, I’ll only end up on the bed in my room, staring at the ceiling.
Outside the coffee shop two students are hawking T-shirts. Last year I’d found their designs novel, so I have several of them. There’s the Huck Farvard shirt, a perennial favorite. And another that reads, “Go ___!” And underneath: “(Harkness has no mascot, but we’re very fierce. We swear.)”
A new shirt catches my eye, and I have to stop and stare. It says:
Yes, I go to Harkness.
No, I don’t know Lianne Challice.
Seriously?
I turn my head abruptly, scanning for Lianne’s retreating back. I don’t see her anymore. I’d been watching when she walked past this spot, though. She’d passed these shirts without so much as a stutter step. Perhaps she didn’t notice, or else she’s seen them before.
Either way, it’s freaky. I don’t think I realized what she was up against before tonight. How weird it was to be her.
“See something you like?” one of the student vendors asks. She’s wearing mittens and doing a fidgety dance to stay warm in the January chill.
“Nope,” I say, and there’s an edge in my voice. How could someone possibly think this shirt was funny?
Spinning around, I head home again. Where I have nothing to do and nobody to talk to.
7
The Biscuit in the Basket
Lianne
I thought that moving to New England meant I’d experience four perfectly picturesque seasons. But apparently, that’s not how it works. Harkness, Connecticut is its own weird climate, where winter brings a lot of dreary weather, but nothing you can make snowballs from.
As I walk to my art history class on Friday, it’s raining. Or maybe it’s almost snowing. As the little blobs of ice-cold precipitation begin to pelt me in the face, it’s hard to say which.
Yippee, it’s…snaining.
As I walk, I’m composing an item of hate mail. Dear January . You are killing me, you know that? You and I have to have a talk before things get out of hand. Listen—I understand December was a tough act to follow. You’re under pressure, and I think it’s making you a little crazy.
In December, I did Shakespeare at the Public Theater in New York, while staying at Bella’s house on the Upper East Side. I went ice skating at Wollman Rink and went out for dim sum with Bella and her sister. Good times were had.
But, January? It’s like you’re not even trying. First you dump this whole sex scene thing in my lap. Thanks for that. And then I get stood up on the first date I’ve ever (not) had.
Really? That’s just mean. Like Shawshank Redemption
Her narrow shoulders droop, and I’m in fucking agony . Unlikely as it seems, I’ve hurt this girl, which is something I never wanted to do. I hurt her, and it’s because I have to avoid another girl who says I hurt her. But I didn’t.
Every time I try to get away from it, even for a couple of hours, it just drags me back down.
While my heart breaks into smaller and smaller pieces, I stay in the shadows watching Lianne, even though her defeated posture kills me. But I don’t like her sitting there alone in the cold.
Please go home , I beg silently. Please .
Eventually she straightens up. That’s it , I coach. She reaches up and unwinds the scarf she’s wearing, which sparkles when it catches the light. Inexplicably, she tosses it onto the bench beside her. Then she stands, turns, and heads back toward campus.
After she’s gotten half a block away, I cross the street and rescue her scarf off the bench. The fabric is light and gauzy, with a subtle shimmer. It looks expensive, and I don’t have a clue why she’d leave it behind. I tuck the thing into my jacket and then follow her to the corner. From the shadow of another building, I watch as she reaches the art school, then passes a coffee shop with students spilling out of it.
She’s safe now, and I don’t have to worry. But my feet follow her anyway. I’m so torn up inside. If I go home now, I’ll only end up on the bed in my room, staring at the ceiling.
Outside the coffee shop two students are hawking T-shirts. Last year I’d found their designs novel, so I have several of them. There’s the Huck Farvard shirt, a perennial favorite. And another that reads, “Go ___!” And underneath: “(Harkness has no mascot, but we’re very fierce. We swear.)”
A new shirt catches my eye, and I have to stop and stare. It says:
Yes, I go to Harkness.
No, I don’t know Lianne Challice.
Seriously?
I turn my head abruptly, scanning for Lianne’s retreating back. I don’t see her anymore. I’d been watching when she walked past this spot, though. She’d passed these shirts without so much as a stutter step. Perhaps she didn’t notice, or else she’s seen them before.
Either way, it’s freaky. I don’t think I realized what she was up against before tonight. How weird it was to be her.
“See something you like?” one of the student vendors asks. She’s wearing mittens and doing a fidgety dance to stay warm in the January chill.
“Nope,” I say, and there’s an edge in my voice. How could someone possibly think this shirt was funny?
Spinning around, I head home again. Where I have nothing to do and nobody to talk to.
7
The Biscuit in the Basket
Lianne
I thought that moving to New England meant I’d experience four perfectly picturesque seasons. But apparently, that’s not how it works. Harkness, Connecticut is its own weird climate, where winter brings a lot of dreary weather, but nothing you can make snowballs from.
As I walk to my art history class on Friday, it’s raining. Or maybe it’s almost snowing. As the little blobs of ice-cold precipitation begin to pelt me in the face, it’s hard to say which.
Yippee, it’s…snaining.
As I walk, I’m composing an item of hate mail. Dear January . You are killing me, you know that? You and I have to have a talk before things get out of hand. Listen—I understand December was a tough act to follow. You’re under pressure, and I think it’s making you a little crazy.
In December, I did Shakespeare at the Public Theater in New York, while staying at Bella’s house on the Upper East Side. I went ice skating at Wollman Rink and went out for dim sum with Bella and her sister. Good times were had.
But, January? It’s like you’re not even trying. First you dump this whole sex scene thing in my lap. Thanks for that. And then I get stood up on the first date I’ve ever (not) had.
Really? That’s just mean. Like Shawshank Redemption
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