Page 29 of Leaving the Station

“Are you good with this?” he asked, and I nodded. I wanted to try it, to see what the fuss was all about.

I knew some people who had had sex in high school, and when the topic came up, they were more than happy to offer advice.

“You’ll just know what to do,” they’d say. “Your body knows.”

That wasn’t the case for me, but what my body did know was that I wanted to be on top. I helped Alden apply lube that he’d had in his drawer, then straddled him.

He lasted about ten seconds, and when his face scrunched in pleasure, I stared down at him from above, a scientist looking

at a lab rat.

He wanted me to stay and cuddle. I wanted to leave.

It wasn’t that I hated what we’d done, but it was just that: done. I had that data point. This is how babies were made. Okay.

Great. Fine.

“I’m not feeling so well,” I told him, my catchall excuse for getting out of situations I didn’t want to be in.

“Are you gonna throw up?” he asked, backing away and looking freaked out.

“Yes,” I said after seeing his reaction. “I’m definitely going to throw up.”

I pretended to retch for good measure, and he let me go without complaint.

When I made it outside, I really did feel a wave of nausea, and I vomited into a large shrub directly in front of Alden’s dorm. It splattered onto the red bricks, and I didn’t know what else to do so I walked across campus back to my building, hugging my waist to fend off the cold.

As I walked, a number of things became abundantly clear. I was not attracted to Alden. Or maybe I wasn’t attracted to Alden

all the time. I wanted to like him, to date him, on my terms. But he wanted to date me all the time.

The next was that, due to this fact, I needed to break up with him.

The third was that I couldn’t do that without breaking his heart, and without breaking mine, just a little.

Because breaking up with him would mean acknowledging to myself and to him and to the world that I wasn’t the person I’d been

trying to be for the past eighteen years.

But instead of wallowing in this pain, I surprised myself by pulling out my phone.

It rang once, twice. I was ready to shove it back in my pocket until—

“Zoe?”

“Autumn?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice drowsy with sleep.

I immediately regretted calling. I had woken her up. She’d probably only texted me over the long weekend due to boredom or

pity, and I’d never even texted her back.

She cleared her throat. “What’s going on?”

“Did you ever want to be my friend?” The question came from me without thought.

“Of course,” they said, concern evident in their voice. “Where are you?”

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in a restaurant called Jack’s Grill just off campus.

Autumn picked up our cheese fries from the counter and slid into the seat across from me. I ate as if I’d been lost in the

wilderness for days.

She pushed the basket toward me and ordered a second for herself.

“Of course I wanted to be your friend,” Autumn said after both baskets of fries were demolished and all that was left were

tiny specs of cheese and pepper. She ran her finger over the oily paper, picking up the crumbs absentmindedly. “I may have

wanted to be more than that for a minute.”

Autumn, at one point, wanted to be more than friends. I’d even thought to myself that they were the kind of person who I would

normally have a crush on. But I felt nothing for her then, other than thinking she was beautiful.

It was Alden I had feelings for. Complicated feelings but feelings nonetheless.

So I continued to deflect. “How are Rex and Shelly?”

Autumn’s lips thinned into a line. “I haven’t been talking to them much.”

“Really?”

“My architecture classes have been kicking my ass,” they said, not quite a response.

I had a real talent for finding people who were experts at talking around.

“We’re learning how to do this thing called three-point perspective in my representation class,” she began, speaking quickly.

“You have to do these calculations and make all these lines so that you can give your drawing depth.”

They continued like this for a while, and when they were done, I asked, “Why aren’t you talking to Rex and Shelly?”

She brushed a face-framing curl behind her ear. “I didn’t like how they talked to you that night.”

We both knew the night.

“But I didn’t like how you spoke to them either,” Autumn continued. “I didn’t like anything that went down.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?” I asked, swirling my finger in the empty fry basket as well. “Why didn’t you defend me?

Or them? Or anyone ?”

“I didn’t know how,” she said. “But I should’ve. And I’m sorry I didn’t.”

I nodded and pulled my hand away.

After a moment: “So, how’s your boyfriend?”

It was the worst thing she could’ve said. I’d almost forgotten about what had happened earlier that night. That was why I

had called Autumn, after all: to forget.

She was just trying to be supportive, but I didn’t want support.

I wanted to be told I’d made a huge mistake. More specifically, what I wanted was for her to read my mind and see that I’d called her because I didn’t want to talk about him.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said finally.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Autumn said with genuine concern in their voice. “You broke up?”

It was a yes or no question, but both answers felt wrong.

I began to cry.

Blubbering would probably have been the right word. I was making incoherent sounds, and fat, wet drops were falling onto the sticky

diner table.

Autumn reached their hand out again, but I pulled away.

“I’m gonna go.”

I pushed my seat back and the legs scraped against the floor with a terrible sound that paused most of the other conversations

in the room.

None of my actions or thoughts aligned. I had left, but I wanted Autumn to come after me. She didn’t, which was more than

fair.

I couldn’t stop running away—from diners, dorms, and well-meaning people.

It was useless, though, because I was really trying to run away from myself.

Out of habit, or as a distraction, I glanced down at my phone.

I had eleven missed calls from Alden. The most recent one was from thirty minutes ago.

I ignored those in favor of my dad’s text, which meant my situation was extremely dire. It was late in Seattle, though not

as late as here, and he was asking for my flight information.

I didn’t have any.

I’d meant to book a flight home for Thanksgiving break, but like with everything else, I’d dropped the ball.

I told him I’d send the information the next day, though I never did.

I walked slowly back to my dorm, fighting the discomfort between my legs. I’d just had sex for the first time.

It was a new identity to add to the growing list of ones that felt wrong in my body.

Wednesday, 6 p.m., near Shelby, MT

Aya stares at us with her mouth open in a perfect O .

“Is this all for me?” she asks, wandering around the observation car and gazing in awe at the—maybe excessive—decorations

that Oakley and I had bought.

“It is,” Jeff tells her. He nods over to where Oakley and I are still crouched. “Your friends wanted to make your birthday

extraspecial.”

We both stand up, though my thoughts are still on the gross Amtrak floor with Oakley.

Aya smiles even wider when she sees us, and runs to give us a huge hug.

Someone who’s staying in the sleeper compartment next to Aya’s brought a speaker, and they start the music the moment Aya

releases us.

Aya runs around the observation car like she owns the place, talking to Clint and Virginia; to Elaine, who’s here with Alberto/ Bert strapped to her chest. They all came here just for her. Well, maybe not just for her.

It’s also an excuse to stretch our legs, to chat with people on the train who we haven’t spoken to before. I have a conversation

with someone who’s afraid of planes but wants to meet her new grandbaby who lives all the way across the country. I talk to

a woman who just quit her job and is finally doing all of the things she’s wanted to do but couldn’t, like seeing Olympic

National Park out in Washington, and someone who doesn’t have any form of ID but wants to get to Portland for their childhood

best friend’s wedding.

All the while, I keep glancing back at Oakley, who’s also bouncing around, making conversation. When she meets my eye, she

smiles shyly.

I smile back, then turn away. It’s a secret that only the two of us know, a language shared through a glance.

“ATTENTION EVERYONE!” Aya shouts after an hour or so of intense partying. She’s standing on one of the tables at the far end

of the observation car, and we quiet down and turn to her.

“Thank you,” she says when the room’s attention is on her. “I just wanted to say that this has been the best birthday party

I’ve ever had. I was scared about my last year before I turned double digits, but after talking to you all I know that being

nine is actually really fun. Um, yeah. That’s it!”

Everyone claps like she just won an Academy Award, and a few people rush forward to help her down from the table.

Aya then requests that the person with the speakers play what she calls her “favorite song,” which turns out to be “Vengabus .” It’s the song where a bunch of Dutch Eurodance singers repeat the phrase we like to party over and over again.

“They played it at Rachel’s birthday,” Aya informs us. “And everybody danced.”

The moment the song starts, the same thing that happened at Rachel’s banger of a party happens here, and we all run to the

center of the train car, jumping up and down and singing along.

Aya finds me and Oakley and we spin her around. She laughs as the beat aligns with the motion of the train. Clint and Virginia

and a few other nondancers are sitting on the sidelines, clapping along in their seats.

Halfway through the song, a new party member comes upstairs.

“EDWARD!” Aya screams in that terrible, high-pitched way that only dolphins and small children can.

He dances his way over to us, then throws bags of snacks out to everyone, which earns him raucous cheers.