“Yep! This is it!” I said, and reached in back for my bag.
“What residence hall are you staying in?” he asked.
“Welch,” I said.
“Okay. We’ve got a four-hour drive to Williamsburg, so we need to leave here at eight tomorrow morning. Nine at the latest. You okay with that?”
“Let’s make it eight thirty. I’ll be waiting right here on the steps,” I answered, leaning forward again to memorize the name of the building, Jackson Hall. I pulled my bag out after me. “Thanks loads, Lester!”
“Have fun! Ask questions! Check out everything!” he said.
“What are you going to be doing?” I asked.
“Walk a little. Eat a bite. I brought some work with me,” he said, nodding toward his old briefcase in back, stuffed with his thesis.
The car pulled away, and I took a few steps forward to show I was at least in motion, duffel bag over my shoulder, a folder of papers in my hand. But my inability to find the notes I’d made on Chapel Hill made my mouth dry. I had the catalog of undergraduate studies, the admission form, tuition chart. … Even if I had known where the tour was starting out, I would have missed the first fifteen minutes by now.
I was walking over to the steps to sit down and look for my campus map when I saw a small group of people walking by. There were fifteen or so, both teens and adults, following a female guide who was walking backward and talking to them. The campus tour!
I waited for them to pass, and then slowly, nonchalantly, I sauntered after them, a short distance behind. I couldn’t hear everything the guide was saying, but I could at least see whatever she was pointing out.
If I were in a movie playing the part of a spy, everybody in the audience would have guessed it was me. Which person in this picture does not belong? The girl with the duffel bag, pretending to study the trees.
“Perhaps some of you aren’t aware of our rich two-hundred-year history,” the cheerful guide was saying as I transferred the bag to my other shoulder. “We’ll talk about that next….”
There were times I got a little too close to the group and some of them looked at me warily, as though I might have a bomb in my bag. And once, when I was standing on tiptoe, trying to see what the guide was pointing out, she stopped a moment and said, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
I had no name tag like the others. I had not started out with the group. I wasn’t even sure this was the right tour. I murmured that I was looking for the admissions office. Then everyone turned and stared at me as the guide replied, “Well … that’s where the tour started: Jackson Hall.”
My face aflame, I walked into the first building I came to and found a café. I ordered an iced tea and a doughnut and collapsed on a chair.
Why hadn’t I come right out and said who I was and how I was late for a tour, and whoever they were, did they mind if I tagged along? Why hadn’t I at least asked the guide to direct me to Welch Hall? If I couldn’t speak up about something as minor as this, did I belong in college at all? Everyone else on campus seemed to know what they were doing and where they were going. Everyone else had a plan.
By the time I’d finished the doughnut, though, I was feeling a little better. I decided I’d find the residence hall first, drop my bag, and explore the campus on my own.
The campus was huge—huge—but I had a map, and I spread it out on the table. Then, with my duffel bag hoisted over my shoulder once more, I set out to find Welch, the University Plaza (aka “the Brickyard”), the Memorial Bell Tower, the Free Expression Tunnel underneath the railroad tracks, where anyone could paint graffiti. … There was a lot to see.
I tramped all around, but not only could I not find any of these places, I couldn’t even find the right streets. I asked a student where I’d find the University Plaza, and he said he didn’t know.
Even though I kept transferring my bag from one shoulder to the other, both shoulders were sore. Finally I sat down on a bench and took out my cell phone. I looked through my notes again and this time found the number for Welch Hall, punched in the number, and waited. Someone answered—a student, probably.
“Hi, I’m Alice McKinley, here for a student visit, and I can’t find Welch Hall,” I said.
“It’s a huge campus, I know,” the girl said comfortingly. “Can you tell me where you are now? Maybe I can direct you.”
I looked around. “I’m sitting on a bench facing the Memorial Building.”
“The Memorial Tower?”
“I … guess so. I don’t see a tower.”
“Are you anywhere near the Brickyard? I could probably direct you from there,” she said.
“I can’t find that, either. I’ve even picked up a copy of the Daily Tar Heel, but—”
“The Tar Heel?” came the voice. “Are you sure you’re at North Carolina State?”
I felt as though I were on an elevator and was plummeting toward the basement. “I’m right here at Chapel Hill,” I told her.
“We’re in Raleigh,” the girl said. “Who were you supposed to see at Welch Hall?”
It was like one of those dreams where you suddenly discover it’s the day of your midterm exam and you haven’t studied for it. Not only haven’t you studied, but you haven’t opened the book. Not only have you not opened the book, you haven’t attended class since school started, and you don’t even know where the class is.
“My God!” I gasped. I wondered if I was going to pass out. I felt light-headed and dizzy. “I’m just checking out colleges. I thought someone said I could stay there tonight.”
“Wow,” the girl said. “Even if you wanted Raleigh, Welch doesn’t have any room for visitors. We’re full up.”
“I—I wanted Chapel Hill. But I—I must have brought the wrong map. S-Sorry to have bothered you,” I said quickly, and hung up.
I sat there breathing in and out, in and out, one hand on my chest. Maybe I was having a heart attack. Finally, when the throbbing noise in my ears began to fade, I decided that the only thing left to do was find my way back to Jackson Hall and throw myself on the mercy of the admissions staff. But I was exhausted and stopped at the student union for the special of the day, glad to drop my bag at a table by the window.
I got my chicken à la king on toast and began shuffling through my papers again in a state of disbelief. Somehow I had printed out information on both North Carolina State at Raleigh and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and most of what I’d brought along, including the campus map, was for North Carolina State.
But they’re both in North Carolina, right? I asked myself. Both schools had the words North and Carolina in them. I quickly thumbed through every paper I had and found only a page or two about Chapel Hill. I yanked the duffel bag from the floor to my lap and thrust the papers back inside.
“You hitchhiking cross-country?” a guy asked.
He’d taken the empty seat across from me, and his feet had collided with mine. I took it as a joke and laughed a little. “No, I’m checking out colleges this weekend and have to carry this with me until I find a place to crash,” I said.
He took an analytical approach: “You could always try the gym,” he said. “We heard of a guy who hung out there for three days before maintenance threw him out. Used the showers, a locker—slept on an exercise mat. Probably find one of those in the women’s locker room.” He was serious!
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”
“I hiked the Appalachian Trail one summer,” he said, and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. The stems were too long, though, because the glasses slid right down again. “Not all of it. Got through South Carolina and part of Georgia, and then I got dysentery and had to quit.”
“Bummer,” I said, and got up to return my tray.
I went straight back to Jackson Hall, but the admissions office was closed.
What was this, a death wish? I grabbed my cell phone again and called the number I had for William and Mary, where I had originally left
a message about needing a place to stay. All I got was the same automated voice asking me to leave a message. I ended the call and sat watching students walking by in little groups of three or four. Classes were over for the week, and people were calling out to each other, making plans for some Friday-night fun.
Okay, I told myself. If all that is left for me is a Friday night at Chapel Hill, I’ll at least sample that.
There was a movie that evening on campus. I’d read the postings on a bulletin board. It was an Italian film revival, and one of Fellini’s films was playing. You could get in for a dollar, so I went. I sat in the middle of a row so people could exit on either side of me, and used the duffel bag as a footrest.
There were no subtitles, though; the whole film was spoken in Italian, and I realized after a while that most of the audience understood it. This might even have been an assignment, because sometimes somebody translated a line aloud. I fell asleep toward the end, and when I woke, the lights had come on and people were leaving. I dragged my duffel bag into a restroom and used the toilet, then hauled it again to my shoulder and went outside.
It was raining—a light but steady rain that was more than a passing shower, I could tell. The sidewalk was slick with pine needles, and I hadn’t brought an umbrella.
I followed a group of students to a chili dog shop, but all the tables were full, so I ate mine standing at a little counter by the window, one foot on my bag, listening to a group of guys argue about the Tar Heels’ chances against the Terrapins.
The chili dog didn’t agree with me and I needed a restroom again, so I found one of the libraries and used theirs. When I came back out and walked by the large reading room, it looked as though some students came to study all night. Several had stacks of books and papers scattered around them on the table, and I didn’t see any sign indicating library hours. Hadn’t I heard Les talk sometimes of “pulling an all-nighter” at the library?
I went in, dropped my duffel bag on a chair, got out my pen and notebook, laid my head on my arms, and drifted off.
I must have been more tired than I thought, because I woke finally to a series of thumps against my chair. I opened my eyes and had to lift my head slowly because there was a crick in my neck.
The custodian had bumped the legs of my chair with his vacuum and apologized in Spanish. Only a couple of students were still in the library, and the clerk at the desk was looking at me without smiling. I sat up and rubbed my neck. The clerk came over.
“Excuse me,” he said. “May I see your ID card?”
“Uh … I’m just visiting the campus,” I said.
“The library’s for university students and faculty only,” he told me, and glanced down at my duffel bag. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” My mouth felt crummy. “Is there any place on campus I could stay overnight?”
He shook his head and glanced up at the wall clock. Two minutes past eleven. “Have you tried the YMCA?” he said.
I went back outside. It was still raining. Still steady. I wondered whether the gym was open and couldn’t remember where I’d passed it on campus. I really needed a shower. Really needed to wash my feet. I stuffed my purse and my cell phone into the duffel bag to keep them dry and started to walk.
There were lights on in a hamburger shop and a bookstore, but I knew they’d be closing soon. The streetlights would be on all night, but they didn’t do me much good. Beyond the streetlights, I could see the outline of a department store and office buildings against the night sky. And beyond them, the glow of a neon sign, a huge eye—now open, now closed—and the words SLEEPY INN: VACANCY.
I shifted my duffel bag, turned up the collar of my jacket, and with my sneakers sloshing and squeaking through the puddles, I headed up the street.
A light in still another store went out, then another across the street. I knew I shouldn’t be out alone at this hour in a neighborhood I didn’t know—even a university neighborhood—and I kept my eyes on the Sleepy Inn sign in the distance.
The rain was pelting down even harder as I approached the motel, and I hurried my steps as I went up the sidewalk. The small lobby was empty, and when I pulled on the door handle, I found that the door was locked. I couldn’t believe this. The lights were on, but no one was at the desk.
Then a man came in from a back room and spread a newspaper out on the desk. I rattled the door handle. He looked up, pressed a buzzer, and the door unlocked. I went inside, my wet sneakers leaving footprints on the tile.
“Help you?” the clerk asked in monotone. He had a long, thin face with deep creases on either side of his mouth. He made no effort to hide the newspaper, probably sensing I wasn’t a serious customer.
“Yes. My brother’s staying here, and I wondered if you could tell me his room number,” I said, realizing that my jacket was dripping water too.
The man studied me. My wet hair. My duffel bag.
“Your brother?” he asked, cocking his head to one side, a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yes. Lester McKinley. He checked in this afternoon.”
I saw the outline of the man’s tongue in his cheek. He slowly put the newspaper aside and checked his computer. I could see only half the screen. Then he looked at me again. “You live around here?”
“No. I’m … sort of checking out the university,” I told him.
“Your name?”
“Alice. He knows me!” I said impatiently.
“I’ll phone his room and tell him you’re here,” he said.
The last thing Les needed to hear was that his dripping, drippy sister was standing in the lobby soaking wet, with no place to go. I had to handle this myself.
“Can’t you just tell me his room number?” I begged.
“No. Sorry.” He pressed a three-digit number, listened for a moment. “Busy,” he said, and hung up.
“Well, I’ll wait,” I said, and tried to shake some water out of my hair. The clerk frowned as some of it hit his desk. “Sorry,” I said quickly, and patiently stood aside. The clerk went back to reading his newspaper.
A minute went by. Two. Three. Les could be on the phone with a girlfriend, if he had a girlfriend. Or maybe he’d just taken the phone off the hook. After another minute of waiting, I said, “Could you try again, please?”
The look again. The tongue in the cheek. But this time I studied closely as he pressed the three-digit number: 2 … 1 … 7. I’d bet that was his room number.
“Busy,” the man said again, and hung up.
“I guess I’ll just have to wait,” I said.
I dragged my wet bag over to the vinyl couch and sat down. The clerk folded up one section of the paper and opened another. Two more minutes went by. Three.
I knew the desk clerk wouldn’t try the phone again until I begged. He enjoyed making me plead. I thought of digging out my cell phone and calling Les on that, but I had a better idea.
“Excuse me, could I use the restroom?” I asked. And when he looked up without answering, I said, “It’s urgent.”
He gave me a disgusted look, then nodded toward a doorway behind him. “Back there,” he said, and added, “Keep it neat.”
I walked to one side of his desk and through the doorway with my bag. It led to a side hall. There was a restroom marked EMPLOYEES ONLY on the left and, just down the hall, an elevator.
It took only a second to decide. I opened the door of the restroom and let it close again without going inside. Then, when the clerk turned a page of his paper and leaned over it again, I edged my way down the hall to the elevator. I pressed the button and the door slid open. I got on and pressed 2.
8
NIGHT IN CHAPEL HILL
Oh, man! I wondered how long it would take Mr. Sarcastic down at the desk to go to the door of the bathroom to check if I was still in there. How long before he simply barged in? Would he figure out what I’d done? Probably.
The elevator door didn’t open immediately when it reached the se
cond floor. I panicked at the thought of the elevator getting stuck, how I’d have to push the alarm button and scream. And how the clerk, guessing it was me, would take his time calling 911.
Then the elevator door groaned and slowly slid open. I sprang out, checked the numbers on the doors, and made a left to room 217.
There was no sound from inside. I knocked lightly.
Still no sound. What if the room number wasn’t the same as the phone number? What if I woke up a stranger? I knocked again, a little more desperately, and heard a toilet flush. Then the door opened, and there stood Les in his boxer shorts and a tee.
“Al! What the heck?” he said.
I darted inside and closed the door after me. One of the beds was strewn with books and papers, pillows piled up against the headboard. Lester’s cell phone was charging on the second bed.
“What happened?” Les asked, still standing by the door as though he expected me to leave momentarily.
“It was getting late, and I didn’t know the neighborhood,” I told him. “Please let me stay, Les. I screwed up.”
“What do you mean? They couldn’t find a place for you to sleep?”
I took off my wet jacket and put it in his bathtub, then came out and slumped down in the one chair. “Well … yeah, that too,” I said in a small voice. “But … I got the wrong school.”
He stared at me. “You … what?”
I curled into a fetal position. “I got things mixed up and brought the map and notes for Raleigh. North Carolina State.”
Les just kept staring at me. “We’re supposed to be at Raleigh?”
“No, we’re supposed to be here, but … Oh, Les, I just really goofed up. I’d Googled a lot of schools and printed stuff out before I chose the ones I did, and I brought the wrong map along.”
“But you said you had a room in a residence hall.”
“It was in Raleigh, and I didn’t know it. I thought I had a room, anyway, but when I called they said they were full, so even if we’d gone there …”