Leah G. Goodman

All Grown Up

Leah G. Goodman

“How is college going,” asks the nice middle-age, blonde lady at Walmart whom my mom knows but who hasn’t seen me since I was “this big.” It’s not much different than high school. Setting alarms too late in the night, waking up to them too early in the morning. Keeping my eyes on the floor in the hallways to avoid having to speak. Bending down to tie my shoe and coming back up to see the laughter on everyone else’s faces as they walk with their friends while I walk…alone. With my earbuds wedged in tightly so that even if someone does speak to me, I won’t hear it. And wanting so badly to raise my hand and join the conversation, but being stopped by all of the ways in which I imagine it could go wrong. “It’s going great so far.” I give her a weak smile and, slowly try to slip away, my hands tangled together beneath my hoodie pocket. But she manages to get another question in before I can shuffle too far away. I already know what it is. “What’s your major?” Should I lie? No, she’ll talk to my mom later. But who cares? Well, I do. But, I should embrace it. “Uhm, it’s uh.…it’s Art.” “Oh…” She doesn’t look surprised, as her eyes travel down from my ocean blue hair to my pre-ripped black skinny jeans and my blackout converse sneakers. She does, however, look like she’s at a loss for words; replaying her childhood mantra about what to do when you don’t have anything nice to say. So, I pretend to see my mother across the way in the produce section, as if I hadn’t been

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headed for checkout, and get away as quickly as possible. I figure I’d rather waste another ten minutes roaming around than spending another second making agonizing small talk with this woman. As I wave to an imaginary person, I shove my buggy forward hastily, the wheels squeaking against the slick white tile. “Well, it was good to see you!” I hear her yell behind me. All the while, I’m wishing I could say the same as I throw my hand up to say goodbye. And once I am sure she’s gone, I circle back around to the self check-out lane before practically teleporting back to my Honda Civic where it’s safe. By the time I get back to my apartment complex, it’s dark outside. I try not to pay attention to the check engine and low tire lights shining through the dash and continue quickly past the mailbox, which is bound to be bursting at its seems. And finally, when I enter the apartment it’s just about as dark inside as it is out. My roommate and I have lived here for months, but I’m not sure that it’ll ever really feel like home. We used to hang out and fantasize about what living together would be like. She wouldn’t have to worry about her drunken father busting into her bedroom door in a fit of rage in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t have to worry about my father convincing me that I’d never amount to anything. We would go grocery shopping together and have movie nights and eat ice cream out of the container and cover the other up with a blanket if they were to fall asleep on the couch. Little did we know, six months into what was supposed to be the best thing to ever happen to us, we still wouldn’t have a couch. Or a coffee table. Or anything. We’d barely be on texting terms, let alone speaking ones. Bills would be the only thing discussed besides who’s taking out the trash or doing the dishes next. It would be forbidden to eat ice cream that you didn’t buy, and you wouldn’t dare eat out of the container. Little did we know. Although things would be different,

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there would still be misery. When I walk into the apartment, I pray that she’s gone to her room, so that I can go into mine without having to crank out what little social energy I have left, struggling to speak to someone who has become a stranger. Everyone in my family tells me that they’re proud of me. For going to college, for having a car of my own, for moving out on my own. I don’t know if I could ever describe to them the deafening silence within the place where I live or the way that I’m afraid to check the mailbox. I don’t know if I could ever tell them how I learned to drive and went into debt for a car just to bury my face in the steering wheel and cry about the life that I’ve made. Sometimes when I’m driving at night, I’ll look around at the lights, turn up the radio, and pretend I’ve gone back in time to when my roommate wasn’t my roommate yet. Just my friend who wanted more out of life than what she was given. And we’re singing along to one of our favorite songs at the top of our lungs. I pretend to go back to when things were a mess, but in a different way. Back to when we weren’t all grown up. But a hell of a lot less lonely.

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