The Last Hurdle

I've sent in the application, the transcript, the test scores. I've sent the FAFSA, the financial aid application, the residency form. I have a clear schedule and a murky goal (animation, if you're wondering). There's only one step left, really.

Making an appointment with the student adviser is the last step in the process. The penultimate, if you want to count the student orientation, although I don't. And it's the step that makes it real. It's the step where everything goes from being a thought on many, many papers to being an active part of my life.

I think this is the part that I've been dreading. I'm not sure why, but somewhere in the back of my head, I know that this is the reason I was so reluctant to go to college in the first place. Going to school before was just something I had to do. I wasn't really required to pay any attention beyond a personal quote. Learn enough to get by, put your energy toward getting by in other ways. Put your energy toward growing, toward living, or at least trying to have a life. It didn't occur to me that the experience of being in school was more important than most of what I put my energy into. And I don't mean learning. That was part of it, of course. I probably should've tried harder, gotten better grades, devoted more time to studying and actually learning to write papers instead of forever half-assing them. But I don't really think it matters in the end. A grade on a paper has only ever been an indicator of my place in some strange competition. It feels good to rank high, but in the end, would that be all I meant to anyone?

I just mean being there, at that time, with those people in my life. The sad part of high school for me was that I never kept a friend more than a few months. At the longest, I had them for a school year, but usually never past a semester. There were two exceptions to this: Paul and David. I'm not sure how Paul scooted under the gate, but he managed, and now I'm stuck with him. Or he's stuck to me, anyway. I'll get to David in a minute.

I don't know that it was anything these short-lived friends did. Sometimes, yes. But not always. So many times, I just remember thinking, "I just don't feel like this is the person." I could laugh and joke with them. But there was nothing there that made me feel like I couldn't live without them. So I lived without them, to a certain extent.

The few times I did find a group of friends that I could really stick with, I was wrong. High school drama reared it's ugly head. Adolescent bull shit came in right after. The first time, it wasn't my fault. I wanted everything to be okay between all of them. But things happened with them that I wasn't any part of, and people can't always forgive. So we let each other go.

The next time, it was me who made the mistake. The whole "wrong crowd" business. David, who will forever be my fucked up, bipolar, druggie buddy. David and his whole crowd. I would walk to his house and we'd sit in his room together, waiting for nightfall. We would prowl the streets with a group of friends, always fucked up on Triple Cs. We'd roam the mall in this same state, enjoying the rickety high and the flashing lights. We tried to get into other drugs, but something always went wrong. Like the time we payed $140 (forty of which I contributed) to get E, only to find out that we'd actually only bought menstrual pills. We'd been had and we were laughed at. But nobody did anything about it. The dealer lost cred and we lost dignity. What could we do? So we just went out and got messed up on something else.

It took me a long time to realize that I couldn't be a part of his crowd. We would have these moments. They would talk about the old days, when they were constantly high on cocaine. How much they wanted it again. And I said no. I said I wouldn't let them. They were my friends, and I wasn't gonna watch them waste away on THAT. And they said shut up. Who are you to tell us how to live? You've never even done it, you don't know what it's like. Damn straight I don't, but I know that shit's bad for you. I know I don't want you guys to do it. Fuck off, they told me. And so I did. I was giving up on the things we did because I knew they were messing me up. But I couldn't do anything for them. And I couldn't watch them.

David and I kept in contact for a while, until he moved to Las Vegas. I don't hear much from him anymore.

It wasn't until the middle of senior year that I found Geof, my new brother. By summer, Paul had joined the group. Paul, who's been around since puberty struck, even when I wasn't paying him any attention.

High school was a series of bad memories, when I think about it. But even with all of that, I can't possibly imagine hating it. Because it wasn't just about the big things. It wasn't about the losses among friends, or the gains among teachers. The grades or the parties. It was in stupid little moments. Ones that just got me through the day. A good joke in first period. A hug in the hallway before class. Taco rolls. Even the dumb ass conversations over AIM after school was over.

Then there was the red-head in creative writing.

I think what finally got me to accept the idea of going to college was those moments. You don't get moments like that sitting around a house. You don't get them watching TV or reading comics on the internet. You get them when you put yourself in a place with other people. And I can no longer stand not being around other people.

So it'll be a good thing I have to go talk to an adviser. Uncomfortable for me, yes. But then I can go out to the real world where other people are.