Shelly gives me this sad look. “So you’re in the dorms?”
“Yeah, all freshmen have to live in the dorms, right?”
The sad look remains. “Right,” she confirms.
“I drove past them today. They look great. I’m kind of stoked about it.” I really am.
She pats me on the shoulder. “You just stay stoked.” She’s having fun mocking my vocabulary. “But a word of warning, this is a small school and very cliquish, if you know what I mean. There are a lot of entitled, trust-fund, spoiled brats here. Don’t let them bust your balls is all I’m sayin’.”
I nod, thankful for her concern. “Point taken. Good thing my balls are virtually bust-proof.”
I swear she almost smiles.
We part ways and I poke my head in at Grounds to thank Romero for the job lead before I head back to Maddie’s. I make the trip in nine minutes this time and can’t help but feel optimistic about my first day in Grant. I knew it was the right choice.
It’s still early in Cali and Gus is at work, so I text him my good news.
Me: Got a job at a flower shop today.
Gus: Sweet! Gotta jet to a band meeting after work. Talk to you tomorrow? Love you.
Me: OK. Good luck. Tell everyone hi. Love you.
Thursday, August 25
(Kate)
The highlight of the day: Gus and I try out Skype and decide that the person who invented it deserves to win the Nobel Prize, and/or a congressional medal of honor, and/or some other outrageously huge commendation even if it’s not technologically applicable, because Skype is genius.
The not-so-highlight of the day: I had my first appointment with Dr. Connell at Methodist Hospital in Minneapolis. It was pretty much what I expected. Just like Dr. Ridley in San Diego, Dr. Connell approached my situation with realism, which I appreciate, and respect. He gave me a rundown of treatment options and a treatment schedule. He’s a more-is-more doctor; he wants to go all in. I’m a less-is-more girl; I don’t. He wasn’t happy about that. I left with his business card, an appointment date for a month from now, and his worried face etched in my memory.
Doctors usually have a better poker face. One thing’s for sure. If I ever go to Vegas, I’m not inviting Dr. Connell to play the tables with me.
Friday, August 26
(Kate)
I’m running late as usual, so as I enter the cafeteria I scan the room quickly for any and all open seats. There are a few at every table, but I stop when my eyes land on a smallish guy sitting alone. He’s wearing a vintage pinstriped mailman’s shirt, a plaid bowtie, intentionally short red dress pants, blue argyle socks, and a pair of black and white wingtips. Somehow, I know that’s where I’m supposed to be. He’s got great style, and to wear something so bold you’ve got to have some pretty bold character to match. I decide that I need to meet him. As I approach I can tell he’s trying to be stoic, but his shoulders look hunched, and he’s got to be nervous as hell. I want to pat him on the back to relieve a little of the tension. But I don’t. I’m a little touchy-feely, and I’ve learned through trial and error that it freaks some people out. Introductions first.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask politely.
He starts at the close proximity of my voice, but turns to face me.
I smile. That bowtie is too damn cute. I ask again, “Is this seat taken?” gesturing specifically to the seat right next to him, even though every chair at the large table is empty.
As his smile widens his shoulders start to relax. “No. No, one’s sitting here. Go right ahead.” I know that the term “pixie” isn’t exactly a masculine description, but it’s the first word that comes to mind when I see his smile. He’s a well groomed, well-dressed little pixie.
“Dude, that shirt is the shit,” I say motioning as I take a seat. It’s even got a vintage nametag— Frank. He didn’t miss a thing. “I’m Kate.” I extend my hand which he grips lightly and shakes once. His hands are soft.
“Thank you … I think. Is Kate short for Katherine? I’m Clayton.” He’s formal, but not in a stuffy, snooty way. Formal in a subtle, sophisticated way. Still, this guy needs to relax. “And your shirt is fabulous, too,” he adds. I’m wearing a tank top that reads, “Tijuana is muy bueno.” The text was taken from three different donor shirts, with straps made of thick black ribbon.
“Aw, thanks Clay.” He seems genuine. “And it’s just Kate. Katherine is something not even my mother would’ve named me.”
“You’re welcome, Katherine.” He smiles coyly. “And it’s just Clayton. Clay is something not even my mother would have named me.”
I laugh. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?” I like this guy. He’s witty. And he’s not backing down, even though he looks scared shitless to be here.
Just then some campus officials file through the door and begin their hour-long spiel about the Grant College Experience. A small chuckle escapes me when the dean actually says the words Grant College Experience as he welcomes us. Clayton stifles a laugh too and motions for me to be quiet with his pointer finger to his lips. I stop when I realize we’re the only ones in the room laughing. The dean isn’t being funny or ironic, he actually means it. And everyone else is eating it up. The Experience. It takes about twenty seconds for me to realize that not only does the guy mean it, he’s really pumped to tell us all about it. He lives The Experience. Now that I know this day has a name, I can’t help but feel like I’ve just walked into some sort of a traveling tent church revival or a motivational seminar. The f**king enthusiasm that is pouring out of this guy is unbelievable. So I give in and surrender to it for the sheer entertainment factor, and even though I’m not necessarily buying what he’s selling the way everyone else in the room seems to be, it’s still entertaining as hell to watch. Some of the lines he’s throwing at us, even though he’s serious as a heart attack when he says them, they’re some of the funniest things I’ve heard in a while. Except for the stifled laugh during the introduction and the occasional glance in my direction when the dean’s said something particularly hilarious, at least to the two of us, Clayton is laser focused as if he’s being instructed on brain surgery and will be expected to perform an operation later today. His notes are so extensive that I start to feel like a slacker as I realize I haven’t put pen to paper. In retrospect, there were a few classic lines that I wish I would’ve written down because Gus would’ve laughed his ass off. All that sticks in my head now are the overused clichés. The dean is a big fan of clichés.