because I was pretty sure it’d scare me away.
I unraveled the earphones. I took one earbud and handed him the other, then played the first song. So we walked along the path, shoulder to shoulder, listening to Bright Eyes’s “First Day of My Life.”
Once again, I stepped out of myself. I flew up ahead on the path, stood on a perch, and looked back. It was the me I knew, wearing my favorite vintage red jacket. Nothing about me had changed except I was with a boy—a gorgeous boy, perhaps you could even call him a man—the kind you’d see in an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. Or maybe J. Crew, if they were lucky. And he was playing me a song, a romantic song he’d picked out for me alone. A song I’d heard a hundred times before, but I’d never heard at all. And he was looking at me as if he liked me, like he
really
liked me. And it did feel like the first day of my life, or at least the first day of something big and new.
“This is okay, right?” he asked, speaking over the music a little too loudly. “Just walking and listening?”
“Yes, this is perfect,” I said.
And we walked along a sun-dappled path, comfortablelike two people who’d known each other forever. If you’d shown me this image a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed you. I’d never felt particularly comfortable with guys, especially not these kinds of guys. And these kinds of guys had never been particularly interested in me. It was like Michelangelo’s sculpture of the perfect male specimen
David
holding hands with a lanky, odd Giacometti figure. Not that I’m putting myself down—I like Giacometti, I really do—but I’m no
Venus de Milo.
And, joined like this, connected by two feet of cable, Malcolm took me on what he called “The Secret Agent Tour of Wickham Hall.” We heard The xx’s “Crystalised” as we tiptoed through the catacombs. Bon Iver’s “Towers” walked us down a secret staircase in the back of the chapel. The Velvet Underground’s “I’ll Be Your Mirror” sneaked us along the muddy banks of the school’s massive lake. Nirvana’s “Come As You Are” escorted us into the crew boathouse, and Arcade Fire’s “Awful Sound (Oh Eurydice) hummed as Malcolm paddled me across the lake in one of the sculls.
We arrived at the edge of the campus, bordered by piney wilderness, during Fleet Foxes’s “Your Protector.” As if Malcolm had planned it, the landscape looked just like the video. I was visibly overtaken by the view. Think Turner—expansive and magical—with strokes and dabs of vivid fall colors.
“It’s the Minerva Wickham Nature Preserve.”
“You guys have everything here,” I said, unable to keep the awe from my voice.
He nodded. “And you’re one of us now, by the way.”
I smiled, a little uneasy. I wasn’t quite sure how I feltabout that yet. I looked out over the terrain. Lush and seemingly endless. And we walked right into it, serenaded by the Beatles’s “I’m Looking Through You.”
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON BY the time we arrived at the mountain. It wasn’t a mountain, really. That’s just what the Wickies called it. It was the top of a ridge overlooking the lake. Maybe fifteen feet above the water.
We sat near the edge, leaning against a tree with our shoulders touching, and looked out.
“Look familiar?”
I scanned the horizon and realized out loud, “It’s the view from the painting in the tomb.”
He nodded.
“So, Edward Hopper sat right here. Took all this in.”
“Pretty cool, huh?” he said.
I giggled.
“What?” he asked.
“I just can’t believe you’re as big of an art dork as me. Not possible.”
“Try me.”
“Okay. What’s
Guernica
?”
He sniffed. “Please, that’s insulting.”
“Okay, what’s
Saturn Devouring His Son
?”
“Goya. It’s intense. A father eating his own son. Goya painted it on the wall of his own house right before he died.”
I giggled again. I couldn’t believe he knew all that.
“It always reminded me
I unraveled the earphones. I took one earbud and handed him the other, then played the first song. So we walked along the path, shoulder to shoulder, listening to Bright Eyes’s “First Day of My Life.”
Once again, I stepped out of myself. I flew up ahead on the path, stood on a perch, and looked back. It was the me I knew, wearing my favorite vintage red jacket. Nothing about me had changed except I was with a boy—a gorgeous boy, perhaps you could even call him a man—the kind you’d see in an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. Or maybe J. Crew, if they were lucky. And he was playing me a song, a romantic song he’d picked out for me alone. A song I’d heard a hundred times before, but I’d never heard at all. And he was looking at me as if he liked me, like he
really
liked me. And it did feel like the first day of my life, or at least the first day of something big and new.
“This is okay, right?” he asked, speaking over the music a little too loudly. “Just walking and listening?”
“Yes, this is perfect,” I said.
And we walked along a sun-dappled path, comfortablelike two people who’d known each other forever. If you’d shown me this image a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed you. I’d never felt particularly comfortable with guys, especially not these kinds of guys. And these kinds of guys had never been particularly interested in me. It was like Michelangelo’s sculpture of the perfect male specimen
David
holding hands with a lanky, odd Giacometti figure. Not that I’m putting myself down—I like Giacometti, I really do—but I’m no
Venus de Milo.
And, joined like this, connected by two feet of cable, Malcolm took me on what he called “The Secret Agent Tour of Wickham Hall.” We heard The xx’s “Crystalised” as we tiptoed through the catacombs. Bon Iver’s “Towers” walked us down a secret staircase in the back of the chapel. The Velvet Underground’s “I’ll Be Your Mirror” sneaked us along the muddy banks of the school’s massive lake. Nirvana’s “Come As You Are” escorted us into the crew boathouse, and Arcade Fire’s “Awful Sound (Oh Eurydice) hummed as Malcolm paddled me across the lake in one of the sculls.
We arrived at the edge of the campus, bordered by piney wilderness, during Fleet Foxes’s “Your Protector.” As if Malcolm had planned it, the landscape looked just like the video. I was visibly overtaken by the view. Think Turner—expansive and magical—with strokes and dabs of vivid fall colors.
“It’s the Minerva Wickham Nature Preserve.”
“You guys have everything here,” I said, unable to keep the awe from my voice.
He nodded. “And you’re one of us now, by the way.”
I smiled, a little uneasy. I wasn’t quite sure how I feltabout that yet. I looked out over the terrain. Lush and seemingly endless. And we walked right into it, serenaded by the Beatles’s “I’m Looking Through You.”
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON BY the time we arrived at the mountain. It wasn’t a mountain, really. That’s just what the Wickies called it. It was the top of a ridge overlooking the lake. Maybe fifteen feet above the water.
We sat near the edge, leaning against a tree with our shoulders touching, and looked out.
“Look familiar?”
I scanned the horizon and realized out loud, “It’s the view from the painting in the tomb.”
He nodded.
“So, Edward Hopper sat right here. Took all this in.”
“Pretty cool, huh?” he said.
I giggled.
“What?” he asked.
“I just can’t believe you’re as big of an art dork as me. Not possible.”
“Try me.”
“Okay. What’s
Guernica
?”
He sniffed. “Please, that’s insulting.”
“Okay, what’s
Saturn Devouring His Son
?”
“Goya. It’s intense. A father eating his own son. Goya painted it on the wall of his own house right before he died.”
I giggled again. I couldn’t believe he knew all that.
“It always reminded me
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