Page 53 of My Cosplay Escape
Was that what I put on the calendar? Shirley Temples, keeping track of my excuses is more complicated than keeping track of my real life. “That one meets Saturday night.”
Mom gives a great big huffy sigh.
“I must have written it down wrong. You want me to get a Lyft?” I ask.
“You’ll have to. I’m not missing my lobster dinner.”
I get an ear full about how next semester I need to schedule my time better, blah blah blah, while I’m waiting for my Lyft to arrive. “Maybe if you got a better job or a second job,” Mom suggests.
“Lyft’s here. Have a great dinner, Mom. Tell Brent and Jen I say hi! Hope the lobster is good.” I grab my very stuffed gym bag and fly out the door. If Mom only knew I was headed to my second job after lecture… Well, she’d probably tell me I should hustle out a third somehow.
Having screwed up colossally, epically, at my first attempt at college, I’ve become the kind of student who shows up to class fifteen minutes early and turns off her phone during lecture. I don’t even use airplane mode. When you’re shelling out your own dollars that you earn through sweat, tears, and humiliating costumes, the stakes change. And while I’m sure Mom would have appreciated my new serious academic nature extending to my wardrobe, most days I can’t get past my hoodies. Especially not on the days when my catsuit, boots, and makeup bag are all crammed into my gym bag along with my books.
I sit in the second row now, on the end. I take notes. I even ask the occasional question, if it spares me time on the week’s problem set. And at the end of class, while a few students always mill around, waiting to ask Dr. Burnbalm some questions, I turn on my phone.
Today when I pull out my phone to turn it back on and open up my Lyft app, I find a text from my brother filling my screen:
Brent: Hey. I wanted to make sure you heard this first from me. Jen and I are pregnant. Fertility treatments were worth it. Wanted to tell you tonight at dinner, but Mom says you’ve got class and study group.
I blink. I stare at my phone. I flick the screen off. I swipe it back on. The text doesn’t disappear. My brother and sister-in-law are having a baby.
Dr. Burnbalm logs out of the computer while the last of the students head out the door. Turning off the projector, he sees me frozen in my chair. “Any questions, Sarah?” he asks.
I hold my head in my hands. Tears slide down my nose onto the laminate square of my desk.
I can’t speak. It’s all I can do not to heave loud, ugly sobs.
I should be happy for them. I love Brent and Jen, even if their perfect smiles and perfect lives make me want to punch holes in walls. I should be happy. But I’m not. What is wrong with me?
My quiet sobs bounce and echo in the empty lecture hall.
Dr. Burnbalm says something about grabbing a TA to help him count quizzes or lock up before quietly leaving. I am alone in the lecture hall. Fudge brownies, I am always alone. I was alone at the hospital. I was alone after the hospital.
I cry harder.
The door of the lecture hall opens, and Dr. Burnbalm returns with someone. I’m sure it’s Brenda. “You sure you can manage locking up?” he says before retreating.
That’s right. Run away. Everyone does. I press my hands to my hot, wet face. Even me.
“Hey, Hoodie.”
I look up, and there is Adam. The smile falls from his face. “Sarah?” Concern now floods his voice as he takes a seat next to me. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“What are you doing here?” I wipe the tears and snot from my face with my sleeves.
“Dr. Burnbalm flagged me down upstairs.” Adam scoffs and shakes his head.
“And what?” I say accusingly. I can’t play head games now. I have zero filter and no chill.
“He said he thought he left a stray essay up here and needed some help.” He peers at me again. I must look absolutely disgusting, because his face twists into the most pained expression I’ve ever seen. “Come on, Sarah. You’ve been in this room for hours. Let’s get some air.”
“Goldfish, I don’t need your pity.” I sob, burying my face in the sleeves of my hoodie.
“Sarah, please.” Adam pulls me up, and I am going to turn and run away. I swear I am. I am going to grab my bag, hop over the first row of chairs, and run. Forget the Lyft. I’ll run back home with my bag slapping against my stomach.
But instead, I grab on to Adam’s shirt and sob into his chest. He holds me. His hands on my shoulders and back wring words from deep inside me.
“I wasn’t allowed to be sad about it. Everyone was relieved.” I sniffle. “And maybe I was too. But I was also sad and scared.” And alone.
