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Ever since I was eight years old, I had had my heart set on one day going to a certain Division One university more famous for its football team than for its academics; this reputation is unfortunate, because it belongs to a conference in which high academic standards are a prerequisite for membership. That is to say, the football program (and going to games) might be fun but would not be my chief reason for going. In fact, in the summer after my sophomore year, I had attended a three-week science and math camp at that school; this helped give it the early inside track.
My parents had no problem with my wanting to go there, but shortly after the start of my senior year (when I began to consider colleges more seriously), they slipped me a caveat: they would only help pay my way if I picked seven schools for applying. I would choose my ace in the hole (the school I had wanted all those years), five others to which I thought I had a reasonable chance, and what we decided to call a Moon Shot.
The terms of the Moon Shot were as follows: I would have to select a school not in my home state, costing at least twice what my ace in the hole would, and with no better than half the acceptance rate. My parents’ rationale was that if I applied and didn’t get in, at least I could look back and say l had applied to it. There was yet one more condition: if I did get into my moon shot, that’s where I’d have to go. After all consideration, I decided to shoot the moon on what looked like a pleasant campus: Mecklenburg College, in an eastern Cleveland suburb called (appropriately enough for a college town) Aristotle.
As my dumb luck would have it, I got into Mecklenburg; my acceptance letter arrived in March 2014, two days before my eighteenth birthday. This was perfect timing, as I could schedule a campus visit over spring break. Though I had been to ten states by this time, these had all been among the original thirteen colonies; indeed, before this campus visit, I’d never been farther west than Pittsburgh. Once I did visit, though, the college seemed a perfect fit, and it helped that Aristotle felt a great deal like the suburb I actually lived in. I graduated from high school in May, and was ready to go.
With the way my high school was set up, I had been able to take different exams over the course of senior year; after passing them, I was off to Ohio with thirty-one credit hours completed. In short, I would be starting my sophomore year that fall. However, since I was new to that campus, I could not get out of New Student Orientation — a single credit-hour Mickey Mouse program which met twice a week for the first half of the semester. I wasn’t the happiest about what I saw as a waste of time and tuition, but I figured I might as well make the most of it and collect what I was sure would be an easy A.
That’s how the work aspect of the course went after all, and there it would have ended — if not for the first session. I was getting seated and settled, when I heard a female voice asking, “Is this seat” — the seat immediately to my right — “taken?”
In that moment, I blessed the day Mecklenburg crossed my mind. “Go… go right ahead,” I said with a blush but a small smile. She stood five-five (four inches shorter than I), with lightly curled strawberry blonde hair to her shoulders. She also had a thing for denim, with her jacket and almost-knee-length skirt of that material. It took all my effort to stay focused on the classwork and not on her, especially not focusing on the way she sat with her legs crossed. Even so, I didn’t ask anything in detail — not that day, anyway, and I didn’t pursue anything.
The next session, I got to a different seat, only for Ms Mystery to ask if she could be by me again; naturally, I said yes. This time, when attendance was taken, I paid attention.
“Ms Connelly!”
*Present,” said the voice beside me; she immediately turned toward me, a closed-lipped smile on her face.
A more indepth introduction followed after class. “Pleased to meet you, Ms Connelly.”
She gathered her things for her next class, but extended her hand. “You too, Mr Kramer” — that would be me, and she had also been paying attention.
“Gabe, actually.”
“Carly.”
We made small talk over our next classes, only to discover this was our only one together this semester. Notwithstanding, I asked where I might see her again.
“Here, why don’t you give me your cell number, lemme text you.” I did, giving her a number with a 610 area code. That’s right, I’m from southeast Pennsylvania.
I smiled with anticipation. “What’s yours?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said with a wink; she then turned, and was about her way until I would see her again. As the session only met on Mondays and Wednesdays, I wasn’t anticipating seeing her for nearly a week. Having now nothing to do but go about my own business, I did — until about four o’clock on Friday, at which time I got a text from an unknown number.
“Hey, what’s up, you busy?” the text read.
All I knew of the number was its 847 area code, which placed it in the northern suburbs of Chicago; because I didn’t recognize the number, however, I didn’t answer the text right away. Another minute followed, and with it another text.
“Gabe? It’s me… Carly, from Orientation.”
“Oh, sorry, didn’t recognize the number… yeah, I’m here, what can I do for ya?”
To summarize, she asked if I’d had dinner yet; if not, I was free to join her. As I had not, I was; I then went over to her hall’s cafeteria, and so met up with her. Over dinner, we shared how we had come to be at Mecklenburg. I mentioned how I picked my seven schools, with this my lucky moon shot; Carly, meanwhile, had grown up in a suburb much like mine, and had felt comfortable coming here since its more intimate setting reminded her of home (as it had also for me), more comfortably so than a larger Division One campus might have. Though not ruling out graduate studies at such a larger campus, she wanted to start smaller for her undergrad work.
A short moment passed in which we discussed how our classes were progressing, and we finished dinner. Afterwards, she asked what she I had going; since my evening was free, she asked if I wanted to get to her dorm’s first floor TV lounge for Jeopardy! at seven-thirty. No one had to tell me twice; we were both there in a decent crowd of twenty, with big grins on our faces as those of us who knew, called out. (Anyone who claims not to miss Alex since he passed is either talking out of their ass, or lying.)
Once eight o’clock rolled around, I decided to head back to my own dorm; Carly, however, had another idea. “Same time Monday?” she asked, with a slight smile.
“I’ll be here.” And just like that, I had a dinner and TV buddy within my first week there.
Over some of the classwork I brought one evening to do in the two-hour gap between dinner and TV, our conversation turned that I was an English major, with an eye toward one day becoming a professor. She, though undecided as yet on a major, was leaning toward the sciences, and would seek better direction as she progressed through her four years.
One question lingered, though: did we still want to hang out like this after the orientation session concluded? The answer was happily unanimous, and we confirmed it with our final assignment. We were supposed to attend a fine arts performance, write it up with our impressions of it, and submit the write-up. We chose a chamber music performance the Thursday before fall break. As this was a fine arts performance, I decided a dress shirt and slacks were the order of the evening, and so changed into that after dinner; I was ready to make my way over, when Carly texted me: “What say we go there together?” I wasn’t going to refuse that, especially not as I would soon see, as she was dressed in a simple white blouse and blue mid-thigh skirt.
We took seats together, and settled in for what we thought would be the performance and little more; what it was, was another step we took. Near the start of the second number, I let my left hand drift toward Carly’s bare right knee; upon feeling that, she took my hand, placed it firmly there, and rested her right hand atop mine. The only thing keeping me focused was to know that we were there for a final assignment, and thus to keep our heads about us for that. Afterward, however, Carly had an idea. “Walk back with me?” I didn’t need further prodding to reach over for her hand as we set back across campus; when we got to her steps, I hugged her goodnight, only to find myself lingering unexpectedly in her arms. “Oh, come on,” she kidded. “We’re both adults.” Without waiting for my answer, she kissed my lips gently, and I leaned right in. “Whatcha think?” she smiled.
We stayed holding each other that way for a few seconds more. “What do I think?” I asked, hopefully. “I think that’s the kind of kiss I’d get from someone who wants us to be… boyfriend and girlfriend?”
She winked. “Took ya long enough.” Then, with a more hopeful note, “Wanna hang out this weekend if you got time?”
“You know it, babe!” I didn’t yet know or care what we’d be doing; I only knew I’d be with the first girlfriend I’d ever had. As she walked back in, we exchanged another kiss, and we parted for the evening, but not before sharing our first “I love you”s.
When I had been in high school, romantic attachments had taken a back burner to academics; now that I was here, there was no need of such relegation. I wasn’t planning to sit and stare at walls all day, but if Carly were beside me, I could be happy doing that — but our plans together didn’t lie that way.
First things first, though — we had fall break to deal with, which would see her back to Illinois and me to Pennsylvania. In our final two orientation sessions, we sat closely near each other — not so closely as to cause suspicion of cheating, yet not closely enough to suit our newfound tastes. Fall break trudged its way through, yet also seemed to slide by, especially when I proudly told my family I had a girlfriend. Once we were back, however, only classes and sleeping could keep us out of each other’s company — and more often than not, they did (we were college students with priorities, after all). When we could get together, though, we got together with gusto; we took in open mic nights, TV-watching hangouts, and even one Mecklenburg home football game. That game weekend was a big step for us. Not only did I get to meet her parents, but I learned why they had driven six hours to be here: Carly’s birthday is the first weekend in November. That’s right — she’s four months older than I, but was a freshman to my sophomore, as she had not tested out of the thirty-one hours as I had. Notwithstanding, we took in the game, dinner, and meeting the Connellys — no better weekend to be had.