The Pace

  My mom was in focus for about half of our lunch. I found myself searching around the café looking for any sign of him only to come up short with every attempt. She could sense I was a little off, and she pressed me on it. I finally had to give in and tell her I was wondering if the guy I hit was anywhere on campus. She asked me if I was afraid, and I laughed out loud.

  “No, Mom, I’m not afraid. What’s he going to do? Make me fix his car? That would be horrible.”

  “Well, he might decide that he should’ve gotten your information after all, once he thinks about it,” she added in.

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, but so what if he does. I did hit his car.”

  “You did, but he should’ve gotten your information then, not after the fact. He shouldn’t be looking for you now. That would be odd.”

  I was feeling very full at that moment. I had barely eaten anything, but I was ready to end the conversation about the whole thing. It seemed all so pointless anyway. There were 35,000 students there, and the odds of me seeing him again were slim to none. We finished our lunch, and I headed back to my car still wondering how far I would take this. If I knew his name, would I go look it up in the directory? Would I become a stalker? I shook my head at the thought and quickly tried to get a grip.

  As I approached the parking lot, I told myself it was just some guy. So what if he was cute and had eyes that could melt butter? And so what if he just happened to be leaning up against my Jeep at that very moment?

  Reflexes kicked in, with my eyes blinking a few times to confirm what I was seeing. He was definitely standing there. My hands got sweaty and my heart skipped about four beats. Thinking about running into him again and really doing it were two different things.

  A million things went through my mind, so I slowed up my pace to give myself more time to reach my car. I had no choice but to walk right up to him since he was standing at my door. Leaning casually, with his arms crossed, he was wearing dark denim jeans, and a heavy charcoal-colored V-neck sweater. I thought that was strange, since it was about 65 degrees outside. It made the whole encounter seem very surreal, and I wondered whether I was imagining it all, but then he spoke.

  “You again.”

  “So, did you come back to collect?” I asked, biting my lip and coming to a stop in front of him.

  “No,” he said, half smiling.

  “So, what…” I raised my eyebrows, hoping he would give me something to go on.

  “I just wanted to ask you a few things. Shall we?” He motioned toward a nearby path. I looked around and saw a few cars circling and waiting for my space, so I figured it would be a good idea to move away. I nodded my head to indicate yes and waited for him to lead the way.

  “You first,” he said, with a small smile.

  I walked in front of him, toward the wooded path, glad he couldn’t see my face. I was beaming. When I reached the edge of the path, I gathered my composure and turned around.

  “So?”

  “So,” he said, giving me nothing more. He was just looking at me with very engaging eyes, which was making it hard for me to concentrate. I had to do something to break the awkwardness of the whole situation.

  “So, if you didn’t come to collect then—”

  “What is your name?” he asked, fully composed.

  I ignored his question. “Do you do that a lot?”

  “Do what?”

  “Cut people off.”

  He laughed. “That’s fair, I suppose. I’m sorry. No, I didn’t come to collect,” he answered, leaning in. “Now, can you tell me your name?”

  “Sophie,” I said, with my eyes narrowing, trying to figure him out.

  “Sophie,” he repeated, as if he was trying to hear the ring in it. “That’s a nice name. How old are you…may I ask?”

  He could’ve asked me whatever he wanted, anytime he wanted, for all I cared, and for the first time, I was so glad to be eighteen. I couldn’t wait to say it out loud.

  “Eighteen,” I said confidently.

  “When did you turn eighteen?” he asked, curious.

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “What day exactly?”

  I looked at him, trying to figure out what the big deal was, and I could tell from the seriousness of his expression that I had no choice but to admit I was a newbie. He wanted specifics. “September 2nd,” I answered. “How old are you?” I shot back, just as curious.

  “Nineteen.” He was staring at me strangely, but a little more at ease.

  “And do you have a name?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Wes.” He was holding back a smile.

  “What? What’s so funny?” I asked, starting to feel self-conscious again.

  “Nothing, I’m just amazed to have run into you.”

  “Actually, I ran into you, remember? Speaking of, how is your car? I feel terrible.”

  “You shouldn’t. It’s fine. I told you not to worry. It’s already fixed, but I did notice that yours isn’t.”

  “Oh, I’m saving up for it.”

  “How much will it cost you?”

  “Just like $500.00, but I didn’t want my mom to pay for it, so I got a job, and I’ll take care of it. It’s no big deal.”

  “You talk about your mom a lot,” he said, with that half smile of his. “You said she works here, right? What’s her name?”

  Oh great. I was talking about my mom again. I wanted to find a rock and crawl under it, but he was leaning in, waiting attentively.

  “Her name is Gayle.”

  “And she works where?”

  “The medical center. She’s a radiologist.”

  He acted like that was interesting to him for some unknown reason, and he was about to say something but was interrupted by a beeping noise coming from his watch. He looked at the time and told me he needed to head to his class. I snapped out of my gazing state as we started walking back toward my car. There was no exchange of phone numbers, and I was too much of a coward to ask for his, so I told him I was sorry about the car again and he assured me, for the third time, that I shouldn’t worry about it.

  I was so ecstatic on my way home that I didn’t know what to do with myself. Although, I was now worse off than I was before. It was better than I remembered. There was no doubt in my mind that he was the most perfect being on my planet. Wes, who is nineteen, only a year older than me, was all I kept repeating in my head. It was very much doable, if only I knew what I was doing. I had been cooped up in my room studying for the past year, and now was the one time I wished I had prior experience interacting with people—more specifically, guys.

  My stomach started getting that feeling again. It was a weird, fluttering feeling. I needed to get a grip if I was going to function at any sort of schoolwork when I got home. But for the car ride there, I let myself enjoy the elation.

  The only way I managed to get any work done was to blast my music in my ears. I tried to drown out the extra thoughts in my head with constant noise in order to focus on my lousy government work. Give me something to analyze and figure out, and I was fine, but I didn’t like having to remember facts, and I especially didn’t like it when my mind was wandering off.

  I was able to get through some questions, but I needed to start remembering the order of events. I tried to sit there with the rhythm of the song in my head while creating little rhymes for the facts. It wasn’t working, so I shut the book and lay on my bed, just listening to my music instead.

  When my mom got home from work that evening, she called me from the entryway. It was very rare for her to call me as soon as she got home, so I knew something was up. I went to the top of the stairs, and she motioned for me to come down. She was holding an envelope in her hand that was addressed to Gayle Slone. She handed it to me and said, “I suppose you don’t have to go looking after all.” I opened the envelope, and there was a check for $500.00 written out to my mom from Weston C. Wilson III. Alo
ng with it was a note in perfect cursive:

  Dear Ms. Slone,

  I hope this letter finds you well. My intention is to relieve a bit of a burden I may have caused for you and your daughter. She and I had an incident in the parking lot a week ago involving our cars, and I have since felt terrible about the damage it has caused. I hope this amount covers the cost to repair her vehicle. Please accept it as my apology.

  With Kind Regards,

  Weston.

  I couldn’t believe it. He had gone behind my back, to my mother, to pay for something that was my fault. I didn’t need anyone to pay for my mistakes. It was so frustrating, and what was even more frustrating was having to explain the entire ordeal to my mother. I hadn’t planned on mentioning seeing him again at all, and there I was explaining away a letter that he’d apparently dropped off at her office, which just happened to have a check in it for the amount of my deductible.

  It took me about thirty minutes to get my mother to believe that I actually had hit him and that he must have figured out how to reach her, because I told him, in passing, her name. I don’t think she believed me fully, but her suspicion was sidetracked when I ripped up the check right in front of her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, looking at me like I was insane.

  “I’m ripping this up.”

  “Yes. I see that. Why? What are you thinking? That will fix your car.”

  “Mom, I know. I just don’t want this guy to pay for this. I clearly hit him, and he is already letting me off the hook by not having me pay for his car. I’m not about to let him pay for mine, too.” Was he crazy? I thought.

  “Look. Sophie, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but this all sounds way too abnormal.”

  Before she could continue in her rambling fit, which was loaded with the insinuation that I was hiding something, I cut her off.

  “Mom, I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll nicely tell him thanks, but no thanks. If I see him again.”

  “You are so strange, Sophie. I won’t pretend to understand you.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said, walking back up the stairs. I added, “Love you,” over my shoulder. She just shook her head and walked toward her room. I went upstairs and closed my door. I wanted to feel completely alone while I tried to figure this out. I held out the letter again and reread: Weston C. Wilson III. So that was his whole name. I sat with a small grin on my face as I thought about how sneaky he was to have pulled that off, and then I felt stumped again, because I didn’t know why he was being so nice. I didn’t deserve it. I wanted to call Kerry and ask her what she thought, but I knew she would flip and go down the, “I told you so,” road. I wasn’t in the mood, and I wasn’t entirely convinced that was the case anyway.

  For the next twenty minutes, I sat trying to figure out what to do next. The more I thought about it, the more I started to feel a little bit more confident. It was much easier feeling that way when I wasn’t standing in front of him. Plus, I knew that he had gone out of his way to see me and send my mom a fancy donation. It was my turn to make the next move.

  I sat on my bed looking around my room, brainstorming. I was thinking of things I knew about him, hoping it would help me figure out what to do. What I knew was that he went to Berkeley, he drove a black car, he was nineteen, and his name was Weston Wilson. I jumped up with an idea and slid into my desk chair to begin my search. Surely there was an online student directory.

  Right on the school’s main homepage was a link titled, “Student Emails.” Once I clicked on it, it wanted me to enter a user name and password, which I didn’t have. I let out a big sigh and leaned back in my chair. There had to be a way to access a student directory, so I pressed on.

  I decided to type, “Student Directory,” in the main search box, and that’s when a query page opened up. It allowed me to search by student, or faculty name. After narrowing down the search to students, I typed his first initial and last name. There were several W Wilsons enrolled, but the Weston C. Wilson III stood out like a sore thumb.

  Just looking at the name on my computer screen made me smile, and then I found myself feeling a little stalkish, but I quickly dismissed it. He was the one waiting by my car and sending my mom letters. No, I felt no shame.

  Under student number, it said, “Unlisted,” but his campus email address was there. I clicked on it to send an email. There was a lot I wanted to say, but I didn’t want to sound too wordy or desperate, so I settled on a few sentences:

  Thank you for your offer. It was really nice of you. Unfortunately, I’m unable to accept.

  Thanks anyway,

  Sophie

  I hit send and decided to finish my government work. For some reason I felt much better. I had taken a stance on something I could feel good about, and that put me at ease for the time being, but the next day was a different story.

  I woke up and went straight to my computer. I wanted to check my email to see if there was a reply. I logged into my account, and I had one new message. It was from Kerry. Normally, I would’ve been happy to hear from her, but that day I had to admit, I was a little bummed that I didn’t get a reply from Weston C. Wilson III. I told myself it had only been a day, not even, and that he probably didn’t even check his campus email that often. I had to tell myself that about ten times, because that’s how many times I checked it. I was fidgety all day, pacing and hovering around my computer.

  Saturday came around and there was still no email. I had to show up for my first day at work that afternoon, so I had no choice but to try to put it out of mind. I was actually happier to start than I thought. It did take my mind off of things.

  I found out more about Dawn. It turned out that she attended the same virtual academy as me. Apparently, thousands of kids attend my school. She was a junior and had been attending the school since middle school. My mom was going to be ecstatic when she found out I had met someone who went to the same school as me. I rolled my eyes at the thought.

  I spent a lot of the afternoon learning how the books were received and checked in as well as how to work the register. It wasn’t that hard. There was nothing to scan. All I had to do was enter the price that was written on the book and add them all up until it was time to press the Total button. It didn’t take that much talent. I felt pretty lucky that I’d found this job. It was easy, and the place was low-key and quiet.

  The only people who worked there were my boss, Mr. Healey; Dawn; her older brother, Danny; and Ms. Mary. Danny and Mr. Healey were there most of the time; Dawn was there five days a week in the afternoons; and Ms. Mary and I alternated afternoons to help out. It was a pretty easy job, and it kept me from being bored. I had an entire store of books to flip through whenever we weren’t busy. It was a decent escape.

  The following week began with me burying myself in my assignments and by Thursday, there was still no email. I had gone to campus for my normal lunch, and I physically felt my shoulders sink as I approached my car and saw that he wasn’t there. I was ready to call Kerry for advice. There would be no, “I told you so,” at this point.

  I called her later that evening. She was just as stumped as I was about what was going on, but she told me she thought I should let it go. According to her, it was all too weird. I agreed, but it still didn’t stop me from checking my email one more time that day. Much to my disappointment, there was still no reply.

  I spent a lot of time thinking that evening. I took a long shower to clear my head, and then I sat in my reading chair, in the dark, with my eyes closed, listening to complete silence. My mind tried to figure out how I had ended up in this situation. I had never been the type of person to be bothered by anyone. I could always easily dismiss people who bothered me or hurt my feelings. I was perfectly happy being by myself all of the time, and I never really had any interest in guys. Most of the guys, with whom I ever got close enough to have a conversation, were so predictable, so I had no interest in a boyfriend before. But all of a sudden my mind was constantly fixated on this
one nineteen-year-old guy, who I had probably spoken to for a total of fifteen minutes. It was not normal.

  I cursed those brown eyes. I had never encountered anyone that made me feel like they were looking into my soul. I felt oddly exposed and vulnerable, but good at the same time. One afternoon, running my car into someone in a parking lot, had changed my thinking forever. It was a mental battle I was going to have to fight, and I knew it would only have two outcomes. The first one was that I would get over this in about a week, and the second was that I would dislike boys forever. I was leaning toward the second one until things took a drastic turn.

  About a week and a half later, I was working on my science homework one evening and took a break to check my email. I was shocked to see a new email from Weston. I paused for a good two minutes because I wasn’t sure what to expect. My stomach started to feel fluttery again, as I slowly clicked the mouse to open the email. It read:

  Dear Sophie,

  I am sorry you feel that way, but I’m not surprised. Please know that I tried to go about things legitimately, but you made it very difficult. As a result, I have taken the matter of fixing your car into my own hands. I cannot, in good conscience, have you drive around in a damaged vehicle. You deserve more.

  Sincerely,

  Wes

  I read it three times and still couldn’t figure it out. Fixing your car, matter into my own hands, good conscience, you deserve more. What in the world did that mean? The guessing game was getting old. I was so worked up; I needed to get out of the house. I slipped on some flip-flops and headed to my car in my T-shirt and shorts. It was about 7:00 p.m., so I called into my mom’s room to tell her I was going to the store. I just needed to get some air. I wanted to take the top off of my Jeep to increase the effect, but I was in too much of a hurry to deal with that.