one
Hannah
Christmas #1, 2008
I, Hannah Gallagher, am kind of an expert on depressing playlists.
Sure, it’s a dumb superpower. I’d much rather be able to fly or read minds or turn into a puddle of metallic goo like Alex Mack, but we don’t get to pick the hand we’re dealt. Don’t I know it.
I add “Brick” by Ben Folds Five to the playlist I’m working on and follow it up with “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver. I throw in “Vindicated” by Dashboard Confessional for good measure. If you ask me, the problem with music today is there are too many songs about being dumped or someone you love not loving you back, and not enough about the disappointing state of the whole damn world.
I’ve spent the past four years honing my craft, and tonight’s playlist is going to be my opus.
I minimize a browser tab to check my LimeWire downloads. Damnit! The progress bar has barely moved, and my laptop’s fan is whirring like it’s about to blast off my lap.
If I really want “Hide and Seek,” I could buy it. But ninety-nine cents is a lot of money for a song, and I’m still mad Marissa Cooper got her pretty, popular stink all over that one. On the other hand, my playlist is a little dude-heavy, and why should men have a monopoly on angst?
Oh, screw it! It’s Christmas. I deserve this, at least.
I hop down from my lofted bed and make the arduous journey—all three steps—to the desk where my backpack is slung over the back of the chair. My wallet is somewhere in the bottom, along with a semester’s worth of dried-up pens and half-finished Spanish worksheets.
Aha!
As I close my fingers around the wallet, there’s a knock at the door.
That’s odd.
It’s not one of my friends, because I don’t have any friends here. And even if I did, they’d be home for winter break, eating ham with their happy, whole families.
When I open the door, I’m face-to-face with a willowy boy with light brown skin, who’s dressed like he escaped a Ren faire. He’s wearing a ruffled tuxedo shirt tucked into slim-tailored trousers, so slim they might actually be girls’ pants. The look—and that’s what this is, a look—is finished off with a green paisley ascot and black velvet cape. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing eyeliner, which, to be fair, he is definitely pulling off.
“Who are you?” I don’t bother being polite because I’m positive he has the wrong room.
“I’m Finn Everett,” he announces like it’s obvious, even though I know I’ve never seen him before in my life. I would remember him.
To punctuate his statement, he throws the cape over one shoulder, revealing a flash of crimson silk lining, and plants a hand on his hip. He stares down at me like he’s waiting for an answer, even though he’s the one who knocked on my door.
“Okay, Finn Everett, what do you want?”
“What are you doing on campus on Christmas? You know you’re not allowed to be here, right?”
I’ve known him for thirty seconds and I’m already exasperated. But I know how to get rid of him: “I’m an orphan.”
I’m gratified to see him flinch at the word. I wouldn’t usually describe myself this way, but I’m keen to get back to my night, and over the past few years I’ve learned nothing kills a conversation faster than the o-word. It sure sent me running for the door when a middle-aged social worker in a lumpy brown blazer sat across from me and my sister and opened with, “Now that Hannah’s an orphan, we’ll have to figure out what to do about her guardianship.”
Finn Everett looks me up and down, taking in my plaid pajama pants, oversized Boston College sweatshirt, and greasy hair that’s been in the same messy bun for the last three days. “No,” he says, shaking his head like I’m a math problem he can’t solve. “You’re too pretty to be an orphan.”
“Excuse me?”
“All those white ladies would have been fighting to bring you home from the orphanage. You’re cute. Underdressed, but cute.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “That was a compliment, by the way!”
Well, shit. He’s not one of the people who clam up when they hear about my parents; he has questions. There’s nothing worse than the question people. How? At the same time? How old were you? How do you feel about it?
“Not that kind of orphan. I’m not some Cabbage Patch doll, or whatever you’re thinking. My parents died when I was fifteen.”
“Oh, okay. Well, we’re going on an adventure.” My whole body unclenches when I realize he’s on to the next topic.
“We are?” I haven’t left my dorm in two days because the entire campus is closed, even the dining halls. I’ve been subsisting on boxes of Special K with Red Berries and microwaved bean and cheese burritos from the convenience store down the hill. What kind of adventure could we possibly have?
“Did you have something better planned?”
I do not. I’m going to listen to my playlist while I eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s Milk & Cookies ice cream, and then maybe I’ll watch Die Hard, the least sappy Christmas movie, so I can tell myself I’m in the holiday spirit. But I don’t want to tell him this, because I get how it sounds.
But Finn Everett doesn’t need confirmation. He nudges past me and looks back and forth at both sides of the room, each equipped with a bed, a desk, and a dresser. “Which closet is yours?”
One side has a generic navy blue comforter. Every square inch of cinder block wall is plastered with band posters. Guster, O.A.R., Weezer, Wilco, the Postal Service. The other side is decorated with a Lilly Pulitzer bedspread and a single poster of Jessica Simpson vacuuming in her underwear. I think it’s obvious which side is mine, but I point to the closet on the right side of the room anyway. He starts flipping through hangers. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but I’m positive he won’t find it. I live in a rotation of concert tees bought off merch tables at Paradise Rock Club and the Orpheum.
“That’s it?!” He sighs so dramatically I swallow an apology for my lack of evening gowns.
“What were you looking for?”
“Something better than”—he motions at my pajamas and pulls a face like he smelled spoiled milk—“this.”
“And where are we going that has such a strict dress code?”
“Now we’re going to have to make a pit stop. Grab your coat. Let’s go.” He snaps his fingers twice to punctuate his demand.
I must be stunned into compliance, because I find myself grabbing my puffer coat and sliding on a pair of salt-stained Ugg boots. I guess we’re going on an adventure.
* * *
? ? ?
?We spill out of Welch Hall into the brisk night air. Snow flurries dance in the wind. What’s most striking isn’t the snow, it’s the silence. Usually there are ten thousand students rushing to a Perspectives on Western Culture seminar or a spin class at the Plex, or at night—let’s be honest, sometimes during the day, too—ambling to off-campus parties in Cleveland Circle to play flip cup. But tonight it’s just us.
We cross into the unfortunately named Dustbowl, which isn’t dusty at all. Most of the year it’s a grassy quad ringed by stately stone buildings, but now it’s covered in two inches of hardened snow. When I toured the campus, it was spring, and the lawn was dotted with pairs of girls tanning on beach towels while groups of boys playing Frisbee maneuvered around them. It was exactly how I thought college should look from episodes of Dawson’s Creek. This was the slice of normal I was craving.