Again, But Better

Re: I’m sorry! <3
________________________________________________
Cara Primaveri
3/6/11
to Shane
We’ll discuss it when you get home.
A lump forms in my throat. There’s another email under it.
From Leo.
hey
________________________________________________
Leo Primaveri
3/6/11
to Shane

---

Heard you fucked up. Are you coming home? My mom won’t go into
detail.
What does he care?
Not yet.
I press send.
A response pings in sixty seconds later.
What happened? You okay?
I blink, eyebrows furrowing.
Why are you asking? Looking for more shit to hold
over me?
Send.
Another almost instant response:
I know how they are when they’re mad.
My vision blurs. I close the computer and retreat to my
bunk.
I miss class again on Monday.
I spend Tuesday morning at 
Packed!
staring in the general
direction of the Paris poster across the room. I haven’t been
given a task today, and I haven’t asked for one. When Declan
and Donna walk by and say good morning, I nod in response. I
haven’t made any tea. I haven’t gotten up. My limbs feel
heavy.
At noon, I wander robotically toward Wendy’s office.
She’s in there wearing a trendy yellow dress, working on her
computer. I knock softly on the molding of the doorframe
because the door’s propped open.
“Shane?” she asks in her posh accent. She closes out of
what she’s working on and her brown eyes dart over to mine.
“What’s up?”

---

“Hi, Wendy, I’m sorry to bother you. I just, I had to tell
you—I’m quitting.”
She shakes her head quickly as if she’s hearing things.
“I’m sorry?”
“I can’t work here anymore. I’m sorry,” I speak slowly,
trying to keep my voice steady. “Thank you for giving me this
opportunity.” I turn to leave.
“Shane! Sweetie, wait!”
I stop. Turn back.
“What’s wrong? Why would you quit? You’re not going to
get the school credit,” she says softly.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t work here anymore.” I turn and
power walk back to my desk. I pack my things. Donna stands
from her desk as I start toward the door.
“Shane?” she asks. I turn around. Her forehead’s wrinkled
with worry. Wendy’s standing watching me from her doorway.
I don’t want Wendy to think poorly of me, but I can’t stay. I
need this time to play catch up. I need to study. I need to earn
my parents’ forgiveness. I need to pass the MCAT. I spin on
my heel and leave, without saying goodbye.
What’s the point anymore? I can’t get a writing job when I
go home. I have to take summer classes so I can fulfill the
course requirements to graduate on time.
I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone I bailed at 
Packed!
I can’t
think about it for more than a second without feeling sick. My
flatmates are so busy with their own jobs that I get away with
it pretty easily. I spend my free time during the week in the
kitchen and at Café Nero, trying to teach myself the class
material I’ve missed these past three months.
Time goes by so much faster now that I’m not enjoying it.
The days smear into one another. It’s Monday and then it’s
Friday and then it’s Monday again.

---

I continue to barely see Pilot. It’s killing me not knowing
what he knows. Does he know? How much does he know?
What did Amy tell him?
I guess it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he has
a girlfriend. A serious, flew-across-the-Atlantic-Ocean-to-see-
him girlfriend. I’m not even supposed to be here. I keep telling
myself that. But—the Pilot-related sinking sensation in my gut
isn’t fading with time apart like I want it to. It’s intensifying as
we near the semester’s end. I need to know. I need to know
what he knows. I need to talk to him. I need this feeling to go
away.
April 1, I get an email from my father detailing my work and
class schedule starting the Monday I get back to New York.
It’s a schedule. No words. It’s been weeks since they spoke to
me. I’ve sent four more I’m-sorry emails.
My apologies aren’t working. They’re still upset. How
long will they be upset? 
What else can I do?
April 2, I dig the small bundle of postcards I’ve
accumulated from the beginning of every writing class out of
my bag, and head to the nearest post office. I send them all to
my house in New York.
A week a half later I get another email from Leo.