Something With My Name On It

I didn’t know Betsy. Not really.

During Orientation Week of my first year, I stopped by a cookout for Concert Choir members and interested freshmen. As I talked nervously with the Director, a frisbee landed at my feet and was retrieved by a barefoot girl in shorts and a t-shirt. She smiled and passed a laughing word with the director without stopping, then danced back to Donna Summer’s “Romeo.”

That was Betsy.

I joined the choir and saw Betsy at rehearsals twice a week. She was a senior. We never spoke. She was ordinary in a way that made everyone comfortable. Short curly hair, neither plain nor striking. She carried herself with an ease that made her more attractive than her features.

I don’t know how well she sang. But it seemed everyone in the choir knew her and liked her. I would see her at Rand Hall, usually at a table with a small group. Students stopped as they passed, leaning in for a quick word before moving on with a laugh — “Later, Bets!” — and a wave she returned without missing a beat.

I saw it, but I wasn’t a part of it.

By Spring, I tried to remain invisible. I fought through the first semester in a barely contained spiral. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. I returned after Christmas medicated. Not spiraling anymore, but numb. I walked through campus with my head down like a man crossing a minefield.

Rand Hall contained the dining hall and campus bookstore, and downstairs were the student mailboxes. Twice daily I descended into brick and tile and fluorescent light. I squatted and turned the dials on box 1622, hoping for a letter or card from home. If the box was empty, I returned later in the day to check again, looking for anything with my name on it.

Rand was surrounded on two sides by a broad patio, teeming with activity during the day. Bordering the patio was a waist-high brick wall, flat on top and as deep as a dorm room bed. On campus, it was known simply as “the wall.” In good weather, the wall was alive with students — alone or in small groups — chatting, studying, eating lunch, sunning, or snoozing.

One afternoon, I climbed the stairs from the mailboxes and walked out into a bright, warm day. I walked with purpose, intent on getting back to my room before my next class, still an hour away. Until then, I had nowhere to be. I just didn’t want to linger. I started down the steps to ground level when I heard, “Hey, Joel!”

I walked another step or two. I had isolated myself so thoroughly that my own name sounded foreign. Then I turned, expecting to see another Joel, someone striding toward the voice with a broad smile of recognition. I looked up, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the sun.

It was Betsy. She was talking to me.

I wanted to keep moving. But the way I was raised, you didn’t walk away from someone speaking to you. You engaged, whether you had time or not. I climbed the steps and sat on the wall, trying to look like I’d been there before.

“Joel, you walked right past me.” She said it with amused surprise, like we were already friends. “Where are you headed?”

“Just to class.”

“Oh, okay. How are your classes going? Are you ready for finals?”

I smiled. “Well, not really. Just ready for them to be over.” I was surprised at myself. For eight months, I had barely spoken at all.

She kept smiling, but she was looking at me more carefully. I couldn’t quite hold her gaze. I looked at the bricks. It just came out.

“I’m not sure if I’ll be back. I’m thinking of transferring.”

She turned sideways on the wall to look at me, pulling one foot in front of her and idly inspecting the sole while the other dangled. “You don’t like it here?”

I rubbed my forehead and forced a smile. “It’s just… you know. I don’t adjust that easy.”

She moved her books out of the way and leaned back on her hands. “Oh my God, my first semester sucked so bad.” She shook her head half-laughing. “I cried, like all the time. Everybody was smarter and prettier. They fit in without even trying. I didn’t want to come back after Thanksgiving. My dad was like, ‘Just try it one more time. Just finish the semester.’”

She imitated her dad’s voice and gestures as she said it. I chuckled softly in recognition.

“Yeah, my mom said the same thing.”

“The spring semester was better. I just started doing stuff, you know. I joined the choir. Study groups. I even went to professors’ office hours. It’s just different from high school.”

She shrugged.

“I was like, ‘Betsy, nobody’s watching you. They don’t care what you do.’”

We talked another minute or two. I pushed myself off the wall, dusting my jeans with my free hand. “I’ll see you.”

“Yeah, Joel. See you Tuesday!”

I left Betsy sitting cross-legged on the wall and walked back down the steps. It was April. The grass had already greened nicely, and the air was infused with the lemony scent of the southern magnolias, just beginning to bloom.

I crossed Alumni Lawn, past groups of students tossing footballs or flinging frisbees. I spotted a guy from my dorm, a lanky blond Pennsylvanian, standing in a tight circle with two other guys, kicking around a hacky sack barefoot. I stopped and watched for a minute before taking the sidewalk to Kissam Hall and my room, first on the left at the top of the stairs.

I had some time before my next class. I sat at the desk. The course catalog felt weighty, its polished pages glossier and thicker than any brochure. I picked up a pen and flipped through the pages.