I never did send him my number, because he obviously didn’t actually want it. But I did start writing—as if I had never stopped, as if putting pen to paper was like riding a bike or swimming. The incidents and experiences and opinions, all flooded my mind at a speed that my fingers raced to keep pace with, some true, many made-up. I wrote one story about an awkward, sordid first kiss—his girlfriend sleeping only a few feet away as he unclasped her neon-green bra—and another about the time a girl sat and picked at a scab on her arm, creating Japanese flags by pressing the circle of blood against squares of toilet paper, her lunatic mind convinced that if she stopped, terrible things would happen.

Rise Against

February 2009

‘And there’s nothing they can do? Even though you have a 3.9?’

‘Nope. The lady at Student Services checked to see. There’s absolutely nothing they can do to help fund you if you’re an out-of-state student.’

It was midway through freshman year and Nicole had done the depressing math.

‘So, no, wait, what does this mean?’

‘I have to transfer to community college back home in Nebraska, Tara. It’s free; there’s no way I can afford another year here.’

I was about to ask whether she didn’t know that before she decided to come here in the first place, but stopped myself just in time.

Later, after Hannah and Thomas had left the room to get snacks from the vending machines in the lobby, she answered anyway. Slumping down on to her bed, she said, ‘I just thought that if I worked really hard and did really well, like I always have, this time things would somehow work out. I figured something’s gotta give at some point, you know?’

My jaw was aching. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘Nothing ever is.’

‘Did you know that Eki has a full ride here? Her parents are both doctors. Her dad’s a neurosurgeon actually, I think.’

‘That’s affi rmative action for you.’

‘It’s not fair.’

Nicole laughed, like it was funny. ‘What is?’

Almost five in the morning and we had yet to get any actual studying done.

It was like this every day. We used to stay up all night, in the study room on the Honours floor with its pitted walls and scratchy beige carpeting. The plan was to have a study party and get all our work done—yes, all of it. I would take the stairs up to the ninth floor, armed with multiple readings and essays and take-home homework sheets, and then we would order some pizza, because, well, dinner had been hours ago, and aren’t you guys hungry?