One o’clock in the morning, digital red numbers tell me. I have a 9 o’clock class tomorrow…today, really, 8 hours later. Psychology. Taking psychology has taught me one thing – that I don’t like psychology. Not the best motivation to get up in the morning, but I will anyway. Trudging to the alarm clock, I set it for 8:30 a.m. Lights off. My body collapses on the bed, but it will find no rest with my mind this alert. Ironically, I’m usually more awake at night. My mother always said I was like a cat, nocturnal. But you have to be up and about all day, so go to sleep. Sighing, I turn on my side to try, knowing all the same that it’ll be one of those nights.

Bits of the day flash through my mind. Things I did and things I was supposed to do and things I wish I had done. 98% on my Lit paper, woohoo…hope they’re all that good. I listen to the sounds outside my window. Crap. Still have 6 chapters left to read for Myth and Folklore. Forgot to turn in my lab fee for Photography, too – have to do that tomorrow. There’s some type of bird out there, calling softly. Have to buy black and white film, too – this-and-that speed, such-and-such a brand…hmm, where do I buy it? Kevin will know; he took that class last semester. The tree branches scratch across the windowpanes, dragged by the wind. Hey, he forgot to pick up the rest of his birthday cake. I open my eyes. Yup, it’s still there. Close my eyes again. God, he’s 21… that’s so weird. So much older than the rest of us. I smile at the thought of him being legal. I bet he’s getting drunk right now.

I shift in my cocoon of blankets, trying to block out the draft from the window. Of course, there’s only a draft down here…Cate is all warm in the top bunk. It sneaks up on me again, like chill fingers creeping up my back. Got that earlier today in Solid Design, too. Working with clay, throwing it about and such, apparently heats some people up. Someone opened the window behind me and I didn’t realize it until a cold little gust went right across the nape of my neck and I started in surprise. Jon Bolden laughed at me. He went right into his project, too, just like the last one…doesn’t think about it, just starts. And of course it turns out great. How does he do it? I try that and it turns out looking like a piece of junk.

I kick my blankets in exasperation at my elusive art project. I saw Jon in the theater later, too, rehearsing for the one-acts. He really does have a horrible British accent...I wonder if Steve is working with him on that. Glad my play doesn’t have accents; we’re having enough trouble with lines as it is. Carle decreed we were going off-script today - I spent the entire rehearsal feeding lines to Josh and Cory and Danielle. Still, assistant directing is more fun than acting. Sure, you have to tell them what and where and how and when to say or do something, but once they get it, you just sit back and watch. Memories of my acting part from earlier this year come up. Me playing the part of Nandini, a captured Indian rebel, about to be tortured in a jail cell by the evil Saroj Pal and for some reason getting the absurd urge to laugh in his face instead of scream when he “burns” me with a fake cigarette on stage. Heh. No worries about that this time. It’s a comedy, I’ll be in the audience – I’m allowed to laugh. None of the nervousness, either.

I shudder, recalling that feeling of being frozen by the fear of making a fool of myself in front of an audience. I think I’d be better at comedy than drama, personally – at least then I’d be intentionally making a fool of myself. I wanted to be in Ken’s play back then – a French comedy, not an Indian drama. He tells me now that he wanted me for the lead female part, but Deep cast me in his first. I wonder if he really means that, or is just saying that now because we’re dating. I sigh again and turn over onto my other side. Ken is another one of my puzzles. It’s like there’s 2 of him – one minute he’s a complete gentleman and sweetheart, doing little things to surprise me and make me laugh or smile. But then sometimes it seems there’s no more to him than what everybody sees – flirty, confident, funny…the Ken that doesn’t like serious or sad things. I still find it odd that he’s dating me, of all people. I laugh to myself and turn on my back, staring at the underside of Cate’s bed where she is already asleep and snoring softly. What a pair – the 18- year-old melancholy and somewhat cynical writer-artist-political activist and the 22-year-old charismatic and slightly alcoholic director-comedian-flirt.

And my mom wants to meet him. That makes me wince. A scary first. I’ve never had to introduce my mom to a guy like this; she’s always either known them beforehand or I didn’t date them long enough to bother with it. And of course it doesn’t help that her first impression of him was when I came home for Thanksgiving break and had a rather large hickey on the side of my neck. White trash-ish, she called it. I had managed to hide it for 2 days, but I only own so many turtlenecks. I talked to him tonight about possibly going home with me some weekend. I can’t believe he wants to introduce himself to her with “Hi, I’m the guy that’s marking up your daughter’s neck.” A snort of derision. That’d be wonderful. All I need right now is my mom disapproving of the guy I’m dating. Like there’s not enough stress with the rest of my life. Sheesh. I turn onto my side again, determined to find some comfortable position.

Not that it’d make a difference if she disapproved anyway. I’m going to date whomever I like, period. Right now that person is Ken and if she can’t handle that, well, hell, she’s 4 hours away, what’s she going to do? She already said she didn’t really care what I did down here as long as I keep my grades up. Of course, she was talking about partying and drinking, but I can apply it to dating, too. She used to be really strict with me, even during my senior year of high school –I can’t believe she actually held me to a curfew! - but lately she’s mostly been letting me run my own life. Maybe she finally realized that I’m not a kid anymore.

I pull the blankets up closer to my chin. Not that I’ve been a kid for awhile. It’s been over 2 years since I could last have been called that. I remember the exact day I grew up, when I was suddenly and forcibly thrown into the real world. Strange how a single gunshot can change so many people’s lives so much. Since my father’s suicide, I’ve been like a second mom in the household. I worked a part-time job, I did laundry and dishes, I cooked and cleaned, I helped take care of my little sisters, I went to the grocery store…no wonder I love college life so much - it’s easier than living at home. And with all of the reminders there…no, not going to focus on that. Think of something else. I don’t like thinking about my dad right before sleep; bad dreams.

Shifting uneasily in my bed, I conclude once more that it is impossible to find a comfortable position on this thing. Do they purposefully make college mattresses this uncomfortable? Some kind of No Staying in Bed through Class guarantee? Though Cate seems to be enjoying hers well enough. I try punching my pillow into a more accommodating lump. No luck. I flop my arms down by my sides in annoyance. This is ridiculous. It has to be like 4 in the morning by now. I roll over on my side, squinting at my alarm clock across the room (strategic placement to force me up in the morning). A red 2 o’clock stares back at me uncompromisingly. Argh! I need sleep! You’d think my mind would’ve tired itself out by now, with all of it’s jumping about. I shake my head and settle half on my side and half on my stomach. I try to clear my mind.

Time passes. I can hear Cate’s clock ticking away the minutes of sleep I’m not getting. Why is it that the times I most…yawn….want sleep are the times that…another yawn…it’s the longest in coming? Mega-yawn. Some kind of cruel...joke… that……fate likes……to play…………zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

02/06/2003

Posted on 02/07/2003
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