Page 11 of Past Present Future

I nod. “She’s at school in Boston. Emerson College. She’s a creative writing major, ridiculously talented.”

“She’s cute. Really cute.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

A shake of his head. “I’m single. Not planning to change that anytime soon,” he says. “I abide by one rule, and one rule only. Three simple words.”

“And those are?”

He grins, holding up three fingers. “Friends. With. Benefits. I don’t know if I’m much of a serious-relationship guy.” That makes sense—over the past week, I’ve seen him in the dining hall with a few different girls, and a couple days ago he texted that he’d be home in the morning and not to wait up. He followed it up with working on the proper usage of lie/lay/laid, plus a winking emoji.

“Ah. I guess—I guess we’re pretty serious,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I’m unsure what “pretty serious” means. The fact that we’ve slept together, said “I love you,” decided to do long distance? We never had a conversation about this being a Serious Relationship, something that suddenly sounds so, well, serious that it deserves capital letters. It’s serious to me, and I’m fairly certain it is to her, too.

“That’s great, man. I’m happy for you.” And he does genuinely look it as he leaps out of his chair and starts lacing up his Nikes. “Gonna blow off some steam after class,” he says, and I refrain from asking how much steam one can accumulate on a day that mainly involved the handing out of syllabi. “Ultimate Frisbee. Got a group together and we’re going to go play in Washington Square Park. You should join.”

I check my watch. “Oh… thanks, but I have a video chat scheduled with—” I nudge my head toward the photo on my wall. I’ve been dying to hear about her writing class.

“You sure? It’s gonna be epic.”

Even if Ultimate Frisbee doesn’t sound like something I’d have a natural aptitude for, maybe I shouldn’t pass up the invitation. From everything I’ve read about NYU, it’s the kind of place where you need to chart your own path.

I was too shy to talk to anyone in linguistics, and Psych 101 is such a big lecture that I can’t imagine finding a close friend in there, although there are smaller discussion groups that meet every other day. I should be saying yes more. That’s what Skyler’s doing, and even if his participation in the NYU hookup scene has reminded me that we are very different people, he’s clearly putting himself out there.

“Well…” I glance at the photo again and make a decision. Rowan will understand—and she’d probably want me to go. “Just give me a moment,” I say, thumbing out a text, asking her if we can reschedule.

My hunch is confirmed a minute later.

Rowan: omg yes no problem, go bro it up. please send pics

“Sure,” I relent, wondering what the proper attire is for this game and if I have any of it in my closet. “I’m in.”

* * *

College is about new experiences, and that is how I wind up on a grassy field in Washington Square Park with a half dozen strangers and a single bright red Frisbee.

When we first got here, after dodging pairs of older men playing chess and kids skateboarding and tourists taking photos of the famous arch—photos I’m not ashamed I’ve taken too, since it really is a stunning architectural icon—Skyler introduced me around. “It’s great that so many of your high school friends went here too,” I said.

He gave me an odd look. “I don’t know any of these guys from high school. Akshay I met in the dining hall this morning, Donovan was in my essay class, and Thanh and Robbie are roommates on the other end of our floor.”

I was both shocked and impressed that he’d not just met but befriended this many people in such a short period of time. Then he clapped me on the back and started explaining the rules.

In theory, the game is simple: Throw the Frisbee. Catch the Frisbee. It’s advanced up and down the field like soccer, with an end zone on either side. I’ve lifted weights every morning for the past few years, something Rowan endlessly mocked when she found out about it, but I know secretly and sometimes not-so-secretly loves, given the way she ogles my arms when she thinks I’m not looking. It’s amazing, the number of things that girl thinks she can get away with because she’s being sneaky when she has no poker face to speak of. She is terrible at hiding her ogling, and I adore that about her.

Still, I have little confidence in my athletic ability. I’m slightly below-average height with a not-insubstantial percentage of muscle, and yet my coordination leaves something to be desired. I’d be lying if I said part of the reason I bulked up a bit was because it was too fun to torment Rowan in gym class. If we could turn something into a competition, we would. But none of that is doing me any good out here.

I slide my glasses into the pocket of my gym shorts, even though I can barely see without them. But if I emerge from this with four new friends, it’ll all be worth it.

We divide into two teams of three. I’m with Skyler and Donovan, and I hope with everything in me that I won’t be dead weight.

“We’ve got this,” Donovan says, bringing in his hand as we huddle. Each of his biceps is the size of my head. “Bobcats on three.” NYU’s mascot. “One, two—”

“Bobcats!” Skyler and I shout back, and maybe there is something inherently infectious about a huddle. Maybe it really is this easy, because sports are great! Sports foster camaraderie and teamwork and—uh… sportsmanship? And all those other good things I never experienced because there was no force strong enough to pull me away from my books.

I can do this. I can be a sports guy.

We spread out in our end zone, the other team having won the coin toss, aka Frisbee flip because none of us carry around coins. Skyler launches the Frisbee high in the air, Akshay catching it and making a quick pass to Robbie. I charge forward, attempting to block Thanh as he speeds toward our end zone. Robbie tosses the Frisbee his way. The interception fails. And they score.

“It’s okay,” Skyler says. “Still warming up!”

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