The Art of Burning Bridges: Part I

One.

         Springtime in New York City is marked by inconsistency. As winter seeps beneath the streets a sort of fragile, fickle warmth settles over the concrete. Every now and then that frigidness we’re so eager to forget will expand and rise up – from sewers, through cracks in the sidewalks and into buildings and parks, seizing the city. It drains away a few days later, taking with it the greens and yellows that had scattered themselves so tentatively across the island.
         When I was younger, the transition from winter to spring felt more fluid. Each day seemed warmer and brighter than the one before it until, eventually, I found myself immersed in summer. I considered spring, like fall, to be a means to an end – nice in its own right but really nothing more than the thing that connected the cold to the hot, or captivity to freedom. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it, because I did. I still do, although less than before because what I really crave more than anything is stability, or to be someone’s most important, or both because I think they might be one and the same. I felt as if the onset of spring, which always occurs around my birthday, was a kind of secret present intended only for me. This is the type of thing a young boy will decide sometimes when there’s no logic to rely on but his own.

Two.

         My twenty-first birthday fell on a Monday. I hadn’t seen Audrey in a while – a week at least, maybe more – but this wasn’t so unusual for us, considering; and anyway, we talked on the phone whenever we had the chance, and if we didn’t we still thought about each other and missed each other and tried to remember all the things we wanted to say. Sometimes I wrote them down, but mostly I forgot.
         I got a phone call from my mother early in the morning. She lives in Norway.
         “Sweetheart,” she said when I answered. It was dark out. “Sweetheart, were you sleeping? I’m sorry.”
         “Don't worry about it,” I said. I had actually been awake.
         “Happy birthday, little one.”
         “Thanks. Yeah, the big two one.”
         “You must be so excited.”
         “Yeah. Julian's throwing me a party tonight.”
         My blinds were up. They always are; I forget time and time again to put them down and I usually don’t care – but suddenly I felt exposed, unsafe. I propped myself up, reaching sleepily for the pull, but it slipped through my fingers. I fumbled briefly and then I had a good grip. They made a whishhhhh sound as they lowered, stopping an inch or two above the window sill. I felt safer now; the quiet that comes so rarely to my part of the city settled around me and I settled back into bed.
         “Julian's the other boy in your apartment?”
         “Yes.”
         “You two are getting along?”
         “Yes.”
         “Are you seeing your father at all?”
         “Yeah, um—” I stifled a yawn. “—Audrey and I are meeting him for dinner.”
         “Oh, good. And how's Audrey?”
         Wonderful, obviously. What a stupid question. “She’s doing well.”
         “Is she still with that boy from California?”
         “Beck? I don’t know.”
         “You don’t know?”
         “Yes.”
         “Yes, you don’t know?”
         “Yes, she’s still with him.”
         “Oh. Well that’s all right, she’ll come around.”
         “Mom, can you – Jesus Christ, it’s not—!” I sat up, scandalized. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s, my god, it’s four thirty in the morning and things between Audrey and me are just fine, thank you, just how I want them.”
         “Sweetheart.”
         I was quiet.
         “Sweetheart, are you there?”
         “Yes.”
         “I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject.”
         “It's fine. I'm sorry. You caught me off guard, that's all.”
         “I just want you to be happy.”
         “I am happy.”
         “Honestly?”
         “It's four thirty in the morning.”
         “If you ever wanted to move out here—”
         “To Oslo?”
         “To Oslo.”
         “I think I should probably finish school first, don't you?”
         “It doesn't have to be right now.”
         Eyes closed, I flattened my hair with the palm of my hand. This wasn't something I wanted to be discussing.
         “Mom, you know...” I hoped she would cut me off before I had to finish my thought, but she didn't. “You know I don't...that I'm not...comfortable there.”
         “Everyone here loves you, Sam.”
         “It's not that. They're all very nice people. I just feel out of place.”
         “I know.”
         “I'm sorry.”
         “Do you promise me you're happy?”
         “Please don't keep asking that.”
         “You never answered before.”
         “I said I was happy. I said it. It's so early, I really should go.”
         Once I was off the phone, I pulled the covers over my head and rolled onto my stomach. It took me some time to fall asleep.

         It was warm; warm enough, at least, that Audrey and I quickly shed our hats and scarves as we stepped out onto the street. Still, my spring coat wasn’t a match for the wind, and when it blew I bounced up onto the balls of my feet and shuddered.
         “What have you written down for me this time?” Audrey asked. She was flushed, sweet looking.
         “Let’s do it later,” I told her, not wanting to take my hands out of my pockets. “Tomorrow, maybe.” Yeah, it was warm enough. My palms were sweaty; I worried about the effect this might have on the crumpled up pieces of paper, napkins, and receipts over which I’d scrawled various thoughts, half-thoughts, and sentiments. Still, I clutched them, not wanting to let go.
         When the car arrived, I opened the door for Audrey as my father taught me to do.
         She smiled. “We could have taken the subway.”
         “My dad insisted.”
         “He’s so funny.”
         “He’s a crazy person. It’s not funny, it’s a sickness.”
         “I think you’re too hard on him.”
         “You just said—”
         “I said?”
         “—that we could’ve taken the subway.”
         “We could’ve,” she replied, settling back into her seat, “but I kind of like driving through the city.”
         I ran my thumb along the rim of my wool cap and gazed absently out the window. “He’s so extravagant,” I murmured quietly. “He’s crazy, Audrey. He’s a crazy person.”
         “Come on, it’s your birthday.”
         “I know.” Every time I blinked my eyes burned. Suddenly I leaned forward, poking my head between the two front seats. “Excuse me,” I said to the driver, a hint of urgency in my voice. “Can I smoke in here?”
         He shook his head.
         “Out the window? Can I smoke out the window? Please.”
         He gave me a sort of half nod and I leaned back, pulling out my cigarette case to retrieve one.
         “Since when do you smoke?” Audrey asked.
         I shrugged as I lit it, then took a long, slow drag and exhaled out the window. “It’s been about two or three weeks now, I guess.”
         “Oh.”
         “I only smoke one or two a day.”
         “That’s fine.”
         “Is it?”
         “Yes.”
         “You’re okay with that.”
         “What am I supposed to say?”
         “It would be nice if you didn’t want me to smoke.”
         “I don’t, but I’m not your mother. What can I do?”
         I took another drag. “I don’t know.”
         We were quiet. When I finished the cigarette I flicked it out the window and Audrey said, “I wish you would put on your damn seatbelt.”
         I liked it when she cursed. She did it often enough, but I liked it anyway. It felt like a secret.
         “No.”
         “Please.”
         “No. I won’t.”
         “Fuck, Sam.”
         “Okay, okay. I will. Say fuck again.”
         “Fuck you.”
         “Okay.” I leaned back and buckled my seatbelt. “Are you going to kiss me tonight?”
         “Don’t start.”
         “It’s my birthday.”
         “I’m not going to kiss you.”
         “But it’s my birthday!”
         She ignored me, but the corners of her mouth were turned upwards.
         “Come on, Audrey. You’ve done it before.”
         “We were eight!” She was laughing now, head tilted back, hair gathered across her shoulders. “And I was in love with you.”
         “I was nine, first of all.”
         “And second of all?”
         “Second of all, you still are in love with me.” I was smiling, but it hurt a little to say those words. It wasn’t true; I really didn’t think it was true.

         The car dropped us off at Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, across the street and about half a block west of the restaurant.
         "What are we doing here?" Audrey asked as I helped her out of the car.
         "Shhh," I said, leading her by the hand. "Hurry, or we'll be late."
         Creeping, hunched over, I led her through the little park to the Katherine Hepburn Garden. I glanced around – briefly, casually – and when I saw the coast was clear I hopped the fence. Audrey followed without a word, somehow managing to maneuver her body in such a way that her dress neither caught itself on the railing nor rode up past mid-thigh. Once we were inside the garden I grabbed her arm and pulled her low until we were practically crawling along the ground.
         "Sam – my tights," she whispered, but I ignored her. What could I say? There was a good chance that they would get dirty or torn and it's not like I was going to lie to her.
         "Sam?"
         "Where's the...?"
         "What?"
         "Where's the fuckin'..."
         "The fucking what?"
         "The fucking deer.” I located the statue a few feet away. “There it is, come on."
         "It's a stag, Sam."
         "No, a stag is a horse."
         "A stag is also a deer."
         "I don't think you're right."
         Of course she was right. What the fuck did I know about animals? I can tell you: even less than I knew about girls. And if I knew anything about girls, anything at all, I would not have been dragging one through a park on all fours after dark. But then, it was my birthday.
         “What are we doing here?” She demanded when I sat down in the middle of the garden, leaning back against the stag.
         “Have a seat,” I said.
         “The ground is cold.” She had a habit of stressing her words when she was annoyed at me.
         “Have a seat anyway,” I told her, and pushed her hindquarters down much like I would with a dog. “Atta girl.”
         She glared at me.
         “It’s my birthday.”
         “I know Sam, but what the hell are we even doing here? I mean the restaurant is across the street and I’m hungry and it’s nighttime and I’m getting cold. And if you ruin my tights—”
         “If I ruin your tights?”
         “Yes! If Pyou ruin my tights! You’re the one who insisted we come here—!”
         “All right, all right. Come on now, calm down, Audrey.”
         “Don’t tell me—”
         “Oh, for chrissake, Audrey!”
         She quieted down beside me, probably still pouting but I wouldn’t know since I was, at this point, searching carefully through all of my pockets. I’m always doing this – losing things in my pockets, I mean. There are just too many pockets to keep track of, and not enough things to put in them. That’s what I’ve found, anyway.
         “I know I have them,” I told her, though she hadn’t asked. “Oh. Here.”
         Her eyes lit up as I handed her the joints, carefully and impeccably rolled just a few hours prior. She put hers in her mouth and mine in my mouth and I lit them both.
         “Happy birthday to me,” I said, between hits.
         “Happy birthday to you,” Audrey agreed, resting her head on my shoulder.

         We were late meeting my father. I nodded reluctantly as Audrey to helped me to my feet, then I followed her through the garden and out of the plaza. She moved with such grace, I was mesmerized. For years, Audrey had been too tall and too thin (her words, not mine); there was so much of her that she didn’t know what to do with. Now, watching her move, watching her hips and her hair sway like, I don’t know, like there was some sort of order in the world or something, I was speechless.
         I was in love with her.
         She grabbed my hand as we exited the park and we took off, running together down and across the street, up the steps of the building and into the restaurant’s foyer. When we got there we were both laughing, breathless, arms wrapped around each other and baked out of our fucking minds. We were hungry, and we knew the maître d' and he knew us, and he smiled and wished me a happy birthday and led us through the restaurant and up the stairs to where my father was waiting.
         That place on a girl’s body where her waist meets her hips, it’s a wonderful thing.

         “I ordered wine,” was what my father said when we arrived. He got to his feet and gave Audrey a hug, then a kiss on each cheek.
         “Dad?” I said. That’s how I greet him.
         He shook my hand. “Happy birthday.”
         “Thank you.”
         “Please, sit down,” He pulled out Audrey’s chair and waited for her to be seated before sitting down himself. I watched curiously as he sunk into his chair, wondering how it was possible for even an act that simple to carry with it an air of authority. Leaning forward, he smiled indifferently in my direction.
         “What year is this?” I asked as I poured myself a glass of wine. I didn’t actually care, but I know he did. He told me, and I nodded like it mattered. It didn’t.
         “Why don’t you pour some for Audrey.” Not a question. He never asks questions.
         “Of course.” I poured Audrey a glass and looked at her. She looked at me. “Drink it,” I said.
         “Sam, please be pleasant.”
         “I’m sorry.”
         Audrey flashed me a grin. At the very least we were able to find him funny. That signified to me a sort of victory I had over him, and I considered any victory against my father to be precious. It’s not that I resented him, as sons sometimes do, simply because he was my father; he was never cruel or abusive or unfair; we rarely fought. It’s simply that he was, and still is, a person that I would rather not be associated with, living a life that I would rather not live.

         “You’re not wearing a tie,” he said when our food arrived, as if I wasn’t aware.
         That’s the thing about my father: when he wants to say something that might start an argument, rather than letting it go he waits until other people are around so I can’t make a scene. Scenes are really big with him; he lives in perpetual fear of scenes. Sam, please don’t make a scene. Don’t make a scene, Sam. Your point is valid, but making a scene never solves anything. When I was seven and I sneezed at my grandmother’s funeral, my father told me not to make a scene.
         Another big thing with him is observations – he makes them all the time. I’m just making an observation; no need to get defensive. It’s pretty much all he does; I'd be willing to bet it’s his favorite hobby. Are you wearing a woman’s sweater? Are you sure? It looks so girlish on you, but maybe that's the way you’re built. Why are you looking at me like that, Sam? I was just making an observation.
         He cleared his throat. “I was just making an observation, Sam.”
         “That’s fine,” I said. “The edamame is good.”
         “Did you forget to put one on?”
         “Yes. It’s at my apartment and there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
         “I don’t understand. How do you forget to put on a tie? This should be part of your routine by now.”
         I shrugged. “It was kind of hectic when I left my apartment. I woke up to Audrey ringing the buzzer so I had to get dressed quickly…I didn’t even realize it was still tied to my bedpost.”
         “Tied to your bedpost.”
         “Yes.”
         “Why was it tied to your bedpost.”
         “Auto-erotic asphyxiation.”
         Audrey choked on her soup.
         My father looked from her to me. “I’m sorry?”
         “I guess my mind was just somewhere else. It won’t happen again.”
         He looked at me, tight-lipped, for a few seconds. “It’s fine,” he said. “I should have known to bring an extra one.”
         I sat up a little straighter. “Well, I mean, I am twenty-one.”
         “And?”
         “And – it’s just – there’s no reason for you to bring an extra since you should trust me to wear one in the first place.”
         “But you didn’t.”
         “No.”
         “So.”
         “That’s not the point.”
         “I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”
         “Apparently.”
         “Sam, please be pleasant.”
         “I am being pleasant.”
         “Don’t make a scene.”
         “I’m not making a scene. I’m just saying, you shouldn’t have thought to bring an extra tie because you should trust me.”
         He took a sip of wine, then: “Have you spoken to your mother today.”
         I sighed. I made it an especially long sigh so he knew it was directed at him. “She called this morning to wish me a happy birthday.”
         “How is she doing.”
         “Well. She wants me to go out there.”
         “To Oslo.”
         “Yes.”
         “You just got back from there.”
         “No, I mean for good. She wants me to move out there.”
         He nodded into his food. Audrey watched us quietly.
         “Is that something you would be interested in.”
         “No.”
         He put his chop sticks down and looked at me. “Sam.”
         Warmth crept up from my neck and spilled into my face and ears. I picked at my crunchy asparagus. “I don’t want to.”
         “Are you feeling all right?”
         I looked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the inflection in his voice. “I’m fine, why?”
         “You look very tired.”
         “I’m okay.”
         “Are you sleeping?”
         “Not right now, no.”
         “Sam.”
         “I’m fine. I’m sleeping fine, I’m feeling fine.”
         “Is everything okay at school?”
         “Everything’s fine, Dad. Please.”
         A tense silence settled over the table as we turned our attention back to our food. Audrey rested her hand on my leg as a show of sympathy; I slid my own hand underneath and squeezed it gently in appreciation – so simple were the things she did to make me feel better. We shared a brief conversation with our eyes – Do you want to leave? In a minute. We really should stay a little longer. I don’t know if I can.

         It was colder now, and I didn’t feel like waiting for the subway, not this time. The night
air stung my throat, I was drunk, it was my birthday. My eyes were burning.
         “Let’s get a cab,” I suggested hoarsely.
         Audrey slipped her warm little hand into mine. “Sure.”
         We walked to the corner and as we waited for a taxi Audrey huddled, shivering, close to me. I unbuttoned my coat and wrapped it around her. She burrowed like a little animal, her face pressed against my chest, and I brushed my hand through her hair. Again, I found myself drawn to her waist – obstructed by her coat it was still an incredible thing to touch, on which to rest my hands; they fit there so comfortably it made me ache in that place behind my ribcage – not quite my heart, but just beside it.
         When you love someone, all you can do is hope you die first.

         “Your father was right,” she said, once we were back at the apartment.
         I was sprawled out, face down, on my bed. “Jesus christ, Audrey. About what?”
         “You haven’t been sleeping.”
         I yawned. It was true – I hadn’t been sleeping but that was nothing new. I never slept. I’d been having trouble sleeping for as long as I could remember.
         “I’m fine,” I told her, rolling over. “My mother still hasn’t figured out the time difference. She called me early this morning and it took me awhile to fall back asleep, that’s all.”
         Audrey had changed out of her dinner dress and was now wearing jeans and a tee shirt. She stood in front of my mirror and pulled her hair into a high ponytail, then turned to look at me – trying, I think, to decide if she believed me.
         “I’m just tired,” I said. “Everybody’s tired. You’re tired. My dad’s tired. Name one person who isn’t tired, honestly. You eat too much and you get tired. You sleep too much and you get tired. There are so many ways to get tired and only one way to fix it. I’ll sleep tonight, it’s not a big deal.”
         “We can go to my apartment,” she offered, “if you want to.”
         “What, and miss my party?”
         “It’s just a suggestion.”
         “Well, thank you.” I got to my feet and took a step toward her before halting. There were moments when I felt like I should kiss her – moments that stood out from my already incessant desire to do so. These instances always left me temporarily paralyzed because I realized, every time, that kissing her seemed more like a reflex than a fantasy. What if, one day, I didn’t stop myself in time?
         “Are you okay?”
         “Yeah.” I was shaking; it had been a close call. “I have to change. No looking, it makes me feel cheap.”
         She turned so her back was to me; I watched her as I got dressed. She shifted slightly to flip through a book and I studied her profile. Her features were soft, dark, flushed. Audrey was always flushed, warm, her nose sprinkled with freckles no matter the time of year, her skin always tan, always looking like sunshine and summer and sand.
         It was a bizarre thing, my relationship with Audrey. I loved her so deeply that it was an actual physical sensation, a sort of pulsing, throbbing feeling that soared through my body in waves. Sometimes it was so intense I found myself doubled over – not in pain, but in a strange attempt to protect my insides – my stomach, my lungs, my heart – from coming loose.
         It was complicated; there was never any doubt about that. We grew up together, were essentially raised together – I was so much a part of her family that, even as a child, I was more comfortable with them than with my own parents. Her brothers treated me no differently than they treated Audrey, as if it never occurred to them that I, this scrawny, pasty thing, belonged elsewhere. A few years younger than they were, she and I followed them around, terrorized them – and they put up with us, to an extent. I was as much of a brother to them as they were to each other, and if it weren’t for them, for their family, I think I would have been alone.
         Of course, I stood out like a sore thumb. Audrey and her brothers were all tall and olive skinned with dark hair and dark eyes. They were athletic, strong, well-built; they filled out their clothes the way children should; they looked utterly American, as if they ate corn on the cob every single day of their lives. I was petite, even fragile looking until my late teens, pale and rosy with curly white-blond hair and gray eyes; I had long, feminine lashes and a girlish face. I couldn’t throw a ball or run fast or wrestle like they could.
         When we were little, her parents would take us to Martha’s Vineyard where they had a house about a block from the water. In their front yard was this massive oak tree with branches sprawled in all directions, forming a protective canopy under which we played. It was always a few degrees cooler beneath that tree; the air felt damper. We would lean against it breathing deeply, sucking in as much oxygen as we possibly could, puffing out our little chests and knowing, on some level, that this is the kind of thing people live for. This is why we are alive.
         I had trouble sleeping even then.

         A few hours later, Audrey and I were huddled together in the bathroom. She lifted the toilet seat and sat down on the floor beside me, brushing my hair out of my face. I was sweating. I thought it would be a really good time to tell her I loved her. I was sure of it, but I was scared.
         “I don’t feel good.”
         “I know.” She rubbed my back.
         “I’m going to die.”
         “No you’re not.”
         It occurred to me that she didn’t seem at all drunk. I raised my head, which had been resting against the toilet bowl, to look at her. She wasn’t slurring, she wasn’t swaying – how, I wondered, was this possible? My shirt was wet from sweat and spills, my hair was matted, I could barely open my eyes and there she was, fucking sitting there with a concerned look on her face, clean and dry and alert.
         “Are you even drunk?” I mumbled.
         “Yeah, a little.”
         “Ugh. Fuck you.”
         “What was that for?”
         I stood up. “You can leave. I’m fine in here on my own.”
         Suddenly I was on the floor again.
         “Sam!” She helped me back into a sitting position. “You almost hit your head on the tub.”
         “Get the fuck out of here,” I said. “I want to be left alone.”
         “I’m afraid to leave you alone.” She was looking very deeply into my face like she was trying to understand something. I pushed her away.
         “Stop it!”
         “Get out.”
         “Fine.” She got to her feet. “Find me if you need me.”
         “You can go fuck yourself, that’s what you can do.”

         By the time I left the bathroom, almost everyone was gone. Julian was sleeping on the couch with a jacket covering his feet. Our friend Ramsay sat on the kitchen floor with his long legs stretched out in front of him and a half finished bottle of beer in his hands. His two roommates sat across from him, talking; he observed them quietly, almost smirking, and I caught myself wondering who he even was.
         Nobody noticed me in the doorway. I went to my room hoping Audrey would be there and she was, asleep in my bed. Light from the streetlamps came in through the window, casting shadows over her face and body. I sat down beside her and pulled off my shoes, then undressed quietly. I didn’t want to wake her.
         “Sam?”
         “Hey, sorry. Go back to sleep.”
         “Are you feeling better?” Her eyes were closed.
         “Yes, much better. Thank you.”
         “Don’t forget about brunch with my family.”
         “I haven’t forgotten.”
         “Okay. Goodnight.”
         “Goodnight.” I leaned over and kissed her on the head. She reached up, wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me close, kissing me on the lips.
         “I love you,” I said.
         It was a long time before she responded. Then, “I love you, too.”

Four.

         Tuesday was sunny and warm. It was always strange to wake up to such brightness after a restless night – I couldn’t shake the feeling that morning had somehow invaded my bedroom, was a parasite that drew strength from my exhaustion, was the enemy.
         We ate at a restaurant on Houston. After our plates were cleared, Stanley, Audrey’s father, handed me a gift. I was surprised – I was always surprised, every year, when they treated me like one of their own. Audrey beamed at me like some sort of crazy person and I felt myself turning red; it really is an ugly sight when this happens. It starts in my neck and creeps up to my ears and into my face, my cheeks burning the brightest, my forehead pink. I looked away, down at my hands which were shaking, back at Audrey who was still grinning; she’s so goofy sometimes but god, my god, I loved her so.
         I unwrapped my present carefully and pried the box open, my hands still shaking, my cheeks and eyes burning furiously. I looked up at Audrey and her parents, from one to the next to the next, and laughed out loud – it was what I wanted. It was exactly what I wanted, exactly how I imagined it, but that wasn’t even important – this meant I was one of them, this made me theirs.
         “Take it out,” Audrey breathed. She was behind me now, peeking over my shoulder, probably still grinning that crazy grin of hers, and I touched it, it was cold, and I took it out very carefully because it’s an antique you know, these people, they are antique nuts, let me tell you; and I held it to my ear to hear its soft ticking, and I examined the chain, beautiful, truly beautiful craftsmanship Stanley was saying, and the time on it was exactly right, and when I got my voice back I said “thank you.”
         “Genuine Rolex, 1928,” Stanley said. “And look,” he flipped it over in my hands. “Rubies. Seventeen of them.”
         I realized that my mouth was hanging open. I closed it. “Thank you,” I said again.“Thank you, I can’t even… Thank you so much.”
         Stanley and I looked at each other for a long time. He had always been so good to me, so kind to me when I wasn’t even his, just a skinny, swishy friend of his daughter’s. But he took me in right away without asking questions, and he accepted me like my father wouldn’t, or couldn’t; and even though I always felt like I wasn’t quite a part of them but almost (always almost), I really was theirs and had been since the day before my 11th birthday when I took my first hit with Audrey’s dad. He lent me a book on solipsism, which I promised to read when I finished Don Quixote, and I told him I was in love with his daughter and always would be. I held the book in my hands and I said those things, and as I spoke the words I cried – partly because the pot made me emotional, but also because Stanley said my name in such a way that it had never been said before, like it was safe in his mouth. So I cried and he hugged me, and he said I was the only person in the world he would ever consider giving his daughter away to.
         On the final night of my tenth year, sleep came easily.

         Stanley and I remained at the restaurant long after everyone else had gone; it was nice to have him to myself, even if it was only for a little while.
         “You have anywhere to be?”
         I shook my head. "Not until later. I have a paper to get started on, but it’s not big deal. What about you?"
         "I have a class at six." He was quiet then, smiling at me. I liked the way he smiled; it took up his whole face. Audrey smiled the same way.
         "Sam." He leaned forward, carefully choosing his words. He said my name again. "Sam."
         "Stanley."
         "You signed up for classes for next semester?"
         "Yes."
         "And you signed up for one of my classes, is that correct?"
         "Yes. Your Psychology of Character workshop. I hope that's okay."
         "Of course it is. I’m glad.” He paused, gazing into his coffee cup. “But Sam, you know, I am friends with some of the professors in the Environmental Sciences department…"
         Fuck. I looked away.
         "Sam?"
         "I'm sorry?" I turned back towards him. "I'm sorry, I was distracted. You were saying?"
         "You're not showing up to class."
         "Sure I am."
         "Sam."
         "My grades are fine."
         "Yes, your grades are fine."
         A waitress came by to refill our coffees. We waited for her to move on to the next table before continuing.
         “Are you mad at me?”
         He took a long time to answer. “Not mad, exactly. I’m surprised. You were so good at Dalton.”
         "I'm still good,” I said. “I'm still a good student.”
         "Being a good student isn't all about handing in papers and doing well on tests." He was quiet for a moment, then, "I don't understand what the problem is."
         "There's no problem."
         "Then why aren't you in class?"
         I shrugged. “I just, I feel like I have better things to do.”
         “Like…?”
         “I don’t know. I read and I write. That’s good.”
         “That is good. But going to class is important.”
         I shook my head, my brow furrowed. "I'm reading things they're not teaching. What they're teaching I've already read, and I honestly don’t see the harm in skipping class if my quality of work stays the same. I hand in good papers, I do well on tests – the tests, my god, I could sleep through them.”
         Stanley pursed his lips. “You could sleep through them, huh?”
         I glanced down at my hands. “They’re easy is all I’m saying.”
         “You look tired.”
         “I had a party last night.”
         “That’s not what I mean.”
         I looked up at him, cocking my head to the side. “Didn’t you almost get kicked out of college for not going to class?”
         He nodded slowly. “Yes. That's correct.”
         “That was when you wrote your first novel.”
         “Yes.”
         “What if that’s what I’m doing?”
         “Is that what you’re doing?”
         “It could be.” I paused for a minute, thinking. “I mean, really, if I’m doing all my work—”
         “Participation is important.”
         "Yeah, but it's what...fifteen, twenty percent of my final grade? So I'll show up a few times, answer some questions and—”
         “No.”
         "I'm sorry?"
         "If that's your attitude then I don’t want you in my class."
         My jaw dropped; I wasn't expecting that. "I'm sorry?"
         "If you think you can get by putting only so much effort into things…"
         "If I'm paying for the class–"
         "This has nothing to do with money and you know that. I teach creative writing because I'm looking for something, I'm looking for a quality in others that can grow and evolve and become something brilliant. I've seen that quality in you, Sam, and your writing is good, but it's going to take work and if you're not willing to put in the effort then I don't even want you wasting my time.”
         I took a gulp of my coffee and it burned my throat. I continued to drink it, however, because I was desperate now for something to do. I was nervous.
         “I’m sorry,” I said after a moment.
         "Are you going to start going to class."
         I cringed. He asked it just like my father would.
         "Answer me, Sam."
         "I'm bored in there," I said quietly; it sounded more like a plea than a statement.
         "I know,” he said. “Trust me, I understand exactly how you feel. But sometimes you just have to be an adult and suck it up."
         "Yeah."
         "I need you to do that now, okay? I'm serious. Look at me."
         I did. He was concerned.
         “You have to go to class. Starting now. Immediately. Is that clear? And if things don't improve by the end of the semester, you're going to have to drop my class. Do you understand?”
         “Yes.”
         "Good." He smiled that great smile of his. "Did you have a good birthday?"
         "It was great, thank you." I thought of the watch in my pocket and felt the warmth rising back into my face. "Thank you," I said again. "Really. For everything.”
         “You're welcome.”
         “Um, do you want to come back to my apartment and get high?”
         Stanley threw his head back and laughed out loud.
         I shifted in my chair, a little insulted. “I mean…”
         "No, Sam, I’m sorry. I'm not laughing at you. I'm honestly not laughing at you."
         "Then what's so funny? We haven't smoked together in so long."
         "I know, I know. But I can't, not today. Not before I have to teach a class. I'm sorry."
         "No, it's okay. I mean, I was just asking."
         "Well, thank you for the invitation."
         "You're welcome." Suddenly I was eager to leave, and I leapt to my feet. “I think I should head back now,” I told him. “Is that okay, or do you want me to stay?”
         “I think you should go write your paper.” He stood up and pulled me in for a hug. “Take good care of that watch, Sam. Remember: nineteen twenty-eight.” That thrilled him so much he said it again. “Nineteen twenty-eight!”
         “I’ll guard it with my life,” I promised. “Talk to you soon.”

         My apartment was empty when I got home. Everyone that was asleep when Audrey and I left had gone; their absence felt to me like a vacuum
         There was a box wrapped in brown paper on my dresser. Inside I found a flask with a note attached: “Got a new one – figured I’d hand this down to you.” I turned it over in my hands, pausing to run my fingers along its engraving which read, A change is gonna come – my favorite Sam Cooke song.
         Something at the bottom of the box caught my eye. Reaching in, I retrieved a little bag filled with white powder. I looked around as if someone might be watching, but nobody was there. I held it up to the light to examine it more closely, though I’m not sure why – what was it, exactly, that I expected to find? Without an answer, I picked a book up off the floor and stuck the bag inside, then buried them both at the bottom of my hamper.

         It was a few days later when I found the crumpled scraps of paper that I had saved for Audrey. I sifted through them, realizing one by one that they were now illegible – a result, no doubt, of being held for so long in my sweaty palms. When I found one, finally, that could be salvaged, I flattened it out on my desk to read it.
         I feel like spring isn’t the same as it used to be.
         I took a step back and stumbled, flailing as I fell to the floor. Temporarily disoriented, I looked up and out my window at the bare treetops. Concentrating hard, I tried to remember but couldn’t – I couldn’t remember thinking that, had no recollection of writing it down. It was, nonetheless, the truth.
         The desire to sleep came over me like a blanket.