Chapter 3
With Clover’s help, we have successfully convinced the student helpers to man their stations earlier than was planned. Clover is leading our smaller delegation back towards Hoelly and the other southeastern dorms. The delegation, by cunning twist of fate, includes the vocal mumbler Curtis, who is sulking loudly at the back of the pack.
“I never got your name,” Clover says to me, sunglasses now perched just below her eyebrows. She now strikes me as much friendlier than initial impressions allowed. Perhaps it’s just a veneer that is required to be a serviceable helper during move-in day.
“Jacob. Although most people just call me Jake.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jake. If you haven’t already gathered, my name’s Clover,” she says, indicating the nametag resting atop her breast. I try not to look too long. Somewhere in the distance, though not far off, a train whistle sounds.
“Is that the train that runs through campus?” I ask.
“Sure is,” pipes in a voice to my left. I turn to see that, unbeknownst to me, a girl has been walking in stride with Clover and I since we left Nocker Center. Her soft, small face hides under a more angular version the makeup wants us to believe is real. A glance at her nametag offers Veronica, she/her.
“How often does the train come through here?”
“Twice a day, I think?” she pauses, giggling at her uncertainty. “It’s not much of a nuisance. You get used to it.”
“We should probably hurry up,” Clover says, though she does nothing to indicate she herself will pick up the pace. “We might not make it to the tracks by the time the train gets here.” Sure enough, the whistle sounds again, this time much closer. It’s coming from the south, and as my eyes rake over the lush campus grass around the tracks I see the locomotive heading up to greet us. The crossing is about 75 yards ahead, and our chattering delegation shows no sign of amassing the forward momentum required to beat the train.
Resigning, I attempt to capture Clover’s attention again with small talk as we take the last few steps toward the crossing point while maintaining a safe distance from the train. My attempts to outshout the train’s trundling prove unsuccessful, so we stand in silence while it goes past. There are very few freight train tracks in suburban Maryland, so I find myself fascinated with how many cars this train is towing and what they contain. Most simply bear the name of some agricultural or manufacturing company, revealing nothing about what might be inside. But towards the back, a few cars pass with tiny window slits at the top. Horses.
Finally, the train and its thunderous racket are gone and we’re moving once again. Within a couple of minutes, and after a few exchanges of harmless smalltalk, we’re back within sight of the Sienna and my father, who has piled most of its contents onto the curb. Some of the students in the group have already split away and gone to other entrances. Every time a different trio would break away, I hoped that Curtis would join them. But the predetermined groupings had placed Curtis, Clover, and Veronica’s trinity in front of the entrance to Hoelly Hall.
To this point, Curtis’ only crime has been to mutter under his breath about my father and I’s lack of time zone awareness. His commitment to sulking, however—which at first only added to a guilty verdict—has become all the more respectable as time rolls on. But his refusal to say more than a couple of words to me on the way over, even after I offered him the opportunity to elaborate on the weather, was too much. Today would hopefully be my only interaction with him.
My father, standing beside a heap of my belongings on the curb, winks at me and gives me a thumbs up. I nod back at him, smiling, knowing what we both are thinking: success. I introduce my father to Clover and Veronica, while Curtis stands behind the table with his arms crossed pointedly in our direction.
“It’s good to meet you, Mr…” Clover and Veronica both say.
“Oh, please, call me Bob,” says my father, charm fully activated.
I roll my eyes and go to grab some of my things before realizing that I still don’t have access to the building or my room. I turn to see that Curtis, of course, is beginning to lay all the necessary materials out on the table. I leave my father to his charm offensive and begrudgingly approach the table.
Curtis is on to me, and doesn’t even bother to look up as he asks “Last name?”
“Collins.”
He ruffles through baby manilla envelopes before retrieving the one labeled for me.
“Your room key and Settler ID card should be inside here.” He hands the envelope over to me.
“Is there anything I should know about Hoelly Hall that they wouldn’t have told me during Prospective Students’ weekend?” I asked.
Curtis broke into a smile for the first time since I’d met him. “It’s certainly an interesting mix of people.”
“How so?”
“Well, when I lived here my first year, I was on the third floor. That was pretty chill. Hoelly has a reputation for being the hall where everyone smokes, so I fit in perfectly.” He chuckled softly, and I hesitantly joined in. “Anyways, the second floor was all-girls and filled with those hippie-type chicks who don’t wear bras, you know? That floor always boofed.”
At a loss for words, both from Curtis’ sudden case of word vomit and the chunky contents it contained, I stumbled into a response. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“It isn’t, if that’s your crowd.” Curtis gives me a good, hard look, making me instantly regret the day’s fit: khaki pants (cuffed, of course), Sperry loafers, and a Lacoste polo tucked into a belt. Perhaps the only redeeming aspect, in Curtis’ eyes, were the silver chains I had bought two weeks prior in preparation for my grand arrival in Nelson. “But I have a feeling it ain’t.”
I stick my hands deep into my khaki pockets. “It could be, I don’t know. I’m just trynna see what’s up with everyone, get a feel for the campus and who’s on it.”
“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.” Curtis hands me the mini envelope. “But you’ll have to wait for everyone else to get here.” There’s a twinkle in his eye as he returns to sorting through the arrival materials. Our brief, yet illuminating, conversation now over, I return to my father. I catch him in the process of explaining to Clover and Veronica the intricacies of a Maryland crab feast.
“... and you take the hammer and crack the claws open!” he exclaims, punctuating the remark by bringing an imaginary hammer down into an imaginary crab claw. Veronica stares at my father with an intense fascination, while Clover’s expression is better read as abject horror.
“Alright, dad,” I butt in, shaking the envelope in my hand, “let’s start moving my shit in.”
Veronica and Clover take my cue, and I catch Clover mouthing thank you as she ventures over to the table.
“I can keep assembling your bike if you want to start taking stuff up to your room,” my dad offers.
“Sounds good.”
I grab the nearest goods, a couple of duffle bags and a lamp, and proceed toward the doors to my new home. Upon closer inspection, however, the doors only lead to a roofed hallway that connects all the dorms on this side of campus. Empty bike racks fill the sides of the hall, and windows line the wall opposite the dorms. I walk a few paces up the hall and find the door to my dorm protected by an electronic lock only a Settler ID card can unlock. I pull out my ID and find myself staring blankly back. My dad took this picture of me three months ago against a plain white wall in the unfinished basement of our house. A clean-shaven, chubby-cheeked Jake occupied the square on my ID. And he simply stared. Why the fuck didn’t I smile?
The lock flashes green as I hold the ID up to the reader. We’re in. I pull the door open, hoist my luggage just inside the landing, and hold the door open while I look around for something to prop it open. After giving the hallway a quick combover, an image presents itself in my mind’s eye: a wooden doorstop being used as a paperweight. For miniature, manilla envelopes. Shit.
I quickly return to the table outside, expecting Curtis’ eyes to once again rake over my being, but he’s nowhere to be found. Veronica and Clover stand over the table now, and to their credit it already looks much neater. The doorstop now rests, unused, on the edge of the table.
“Can I borrow that?” I call over to the two as I approach.
“This?” Clover says, plucking the doorstop from the table.
“Yeah.”
“Sure,” and without further warning she tosses it across the 20 feet I still have yet to cover. Her aim is impeccable, and I give thanks that my 12 years of baseball don’t fail me as I catch it deftly in my left hand.
“Nice throw!” I admire.
“For a girl?” Clover retorts.
“Wha-?” I smile and chuckle, a nervous tick I have not been able to curb despite years of practice. “That’s not what I mea--”
“I know,” Clover interjects, “I was teasing.” She rolled her eyes, and I could see Veronica giggling next to her. “Nice catch.” Just before I turn away to put the doorstop to work Clover sends what I interpret to be a covert wink my way. Was that a wink? Probably not. Just a twitch.