Page 4 of Leaving the Station

“Who knew we’d be seated with not one but two charming young ladies?” Virginia asks. She nudges Clint’s shoulder. “Can you believe it, sweetheart?”

Clint clears his throat and rolls up one of his shirtsleeves. I’m sure he’d rather not say one way or the other how he feels

about us, just like I’d rather not break it to Virginia that something about the phrase “charming young lady” makes my skin

crawl.

I glance at Oakley, and she’s staring out the window.

She’s intimidatingly hot, sure, yes, fine. But maybe that doesn’t matter here. Much like me, Virginia, and Clint, she’s just

trying to have lunch.

The waiter comes by with a menu. The options are short ribs, veggie noodles, chicken, salmon and shrimp (combined, for some

reason), and baked ziti.

I’m wondering what kind of person orders short ribs on a train when Clint says, “I always get the ribs.” He looks up from the menu. “It’s all reheated, but even microwaved food tastes better on the train.”

“Have you done this before?” I ask. “Taken this trip?”

Virginia and Clint burst out laughing.

“Oh, hon, have we?”

“We take the train across this great country of ours at least once a year,” Clint tells me. “More now that we’re both fully

retired.”

“Cool,” I say, but what I’m thinking is, How could you bear to do the same thing over and over ?

I would get fed up with myself.

“This is my first time,” Oakley says.

She’s still facing the window.

“You know what they say about the cross-country train?” Virginia asks. I stare at her blankly, so she adds, “Once you’ve ridden

it once, you’ll never want to stop.”

“Is that the official slogan?” I ask, and Oakley snorts, which turns into a cough as Clint stares her down.

“So,” Virginia says in a chipper voice, “we have to play our little game.”

“Not before the meal,” Clint says. “At least let them eat first.”

“No no, it’s better when they’re cranky.” Virginia clasps her hands together. “Makes them more honest.”

“Let’s hear it,” Oakley says. “What’s the game?” She turns from the window then, and her face is even more striking in profile.

She has the kind of turned-up nose that I coveted as a child, probably because of some powerful internalized antisemitism.

“Okay,” Virginia says. “Here’s the question: Do your parents approve of the life you’re living?” Clint crosses his arms over his stomach as Virginia continues. “I mean to say, are they proud of you?”

“You two don’t have to answer that,” Clint says. “This isn’t even a game. It’s Virginia’s twisted idea of fun.”

Virginia slaps Clint’s hand. “Stop it, of course they have to answer.”

“Mine aren’t,” Oakley says casually.

I shift my eyes to get a better look at her, to see if she’s serious.

She is.

I want to know why this beautiful blond girl’s parents don’t approve of her. Maybe this is ignorant, but it’s hard for me

to imagine a blond person not having their parents’ approval. I can’t help but picture her childhood in a big house with a

big dog and a blond sibling and two sturdy parents (also blond, of course).

Okay, scratch that, it’s definitely ignorant. But it’s what I’m thinking.

Instead of voicing these thoughts, all I say is, “Neither are mine.”

I’m not sure why I admit it, but it’s true—or it will be soon.

“I knew it,” Virginia says triumphantly. “No one who takes the train across the country is living a life their parents approve

of. That’s my theory, and it’s yet to be proven wrong.”

“There was that guy from that movie,” Clint says.

Virginia makes a psh sound. “He doesn’t count,” she says. “And I don’t believe that any actor’s parents are truly proud of them.”

“All right, let’s ask someone else.” Clint sticks a leg out into the aisle and twists around. “Hey, Paulie, your parents proud of you?” he shouts at a guy sitting a few booths back.

“Ha,” the man who must be Paulie says. He’s wearing a trucker hat and has a face that’s more sun-spotted on one side than

the other. “Who knows? Probably not.”

“Thanks, pal,” Clint says, untwisting to face me and Oakley.

“Do you know him?” I ask Clint.

“Met him while I was coming out of the bathroom earlier.”

“See, I’m always right,” Virginia says. “The theory holds.”

“Of course you are,” Clint says in a way that makes it clear they’ve had this conversation countless times.

I’m about to try to steer the discussion back to Oakley, since I desperately want to know why her parents don’t approve of

her, but before I can, she asks Virginia, “So, do your parents approve, then? Of your life?

“Oh, absolutely not,” Virginia says. “Didn’t stop me from spending most of my adulthood trying to earn their approval, though.

They’re long dead now, and I don’t have anyone left to disappoint.” She laughs a little. “So, I take the train back and forth

across the country.” She leans forward. “Want to know how they spent their retirement? Volunteering at a local food bank.”

This time she really laughs. “They were saints, God rest their souls. I’m sure they wouldn’t approve of this either.”

“The train is much more exciting than the food bank anyway,” Clint adds.

After this, the waiter makes his way down the aisle, and the conversation dies.

I know my parents were proud of who I was in high school. But I couldn’t continue being that person. When I got to college, it felt like a lie, even though nothing had changed except my surroundings.

Maybe that was why I spent so much time with Alden.

Day Ten of College

For most of my first week at Cornell, I would return to my dorm at the end of the day and immediately fall asleep on top of

my floral twin XL comforter.

In high school, I had a fixed schedule. I knew that by nine every night, I’d be at my desk, doing homework, my lamp shining

into my bloodshot eyes.

But that wasn’t the case here. I was regularly getting back to my room at midnight or later, having spent most of the day

with the Tees.

They took me to improv shows and club meetings (mostly for the free food) and to get plenty of late-night french fries.

And it did feel like that—like they were taking me places. They made an effort to include me, but I always felt separate from them, however much I wanted to slide comfortably

into the group.

Autumn and Shelly were both solidly declared in their respective major, which meant that Autumn was always busy with an architecture

studio assignment, and Shelly was taking a yarn analysis laboratory that took up a shocking amount of his time.

Rex didn’t know what they were doing, academically speaking, but they were already running to be an officer of the LGBTQ Student

Union.

I had none of that certainty or drive.

But there were two evenings a week where I had a purpose: Tuesdays and Thursdays, in the Straight, after my biology lecture.

I’d seen Alden a few times since that first night, but he was always on his way somewhere else. He would wave to me, then

smile like we had a shared secret, which I guess we did. We were bonded by our time at the top of the clock tower, by our

poor decision-making.

The only reason I went to class at all was because there was a chance I would run into him as I left the temporary lecture

hall. Plus, I couldn’t give up on my study of the girl’s bouncing leg, results pending.

I didn’t have Alden’s number, so after class, I would not-so-subtly sit on the same couch where I’d found him that first night,

hoping that he might join me.

Finally, he did. He sat on the armchair across from me, and I spent another few seconds staring at my notebook, pretending

not to notice him.

“Hi, Zoe,” he said when I finally looked up—casually, of course—and acted surprised by his presence.

“Hi, Alden.”

“I was just thinking about you.”

My heart fluttered almost painfully. “You were?”

“Do you know the band Dunk Sonic?”

I shook my head and closed my notebook, giving him my full attention.

“They’re so cool.” He pulled out his phone. “They’re from Seattle—that’s where you’re from, right? I’m not misremembering?”

“No—I mean yes, yeah.” I had the sudden urge to suck on the tip of my ponytail, a bad habit I’d finally broken in middle school.

“I’m from Seattle.”

“I made a playlist of their music for you, if you wanted to listen.” He tossed his phone back and forth between his hands.

“I could send it to you.”

“Yeah,” I said, slightly breathless. “That sounds nice.”

We exchanged numbers, and I expected him to leave after that, but he pulled out a deck of cards.

“Wanna play a game?”

“Yes.”

There was nothing else I wanted to do. Being with Alden felt like floating in a warm bath—I didn’t have any sense of time

or place.

He taught me a card game with too many rules and beat me handily each round.

“It’s getting late,” Alden said quietly, leaning closer to me. He’d moved from the armchair to the couch during the first

game.

He was right—it was 1:59 a.m., and the student union was empty and echoey. I’d easily lost track of time with him.

“I guess we should go back to our dorms,” I said, not meaning it.

“I guess,” he said, but he didn’t move. “It’s a shame we have to sleep at all.”

“Yeah?” I could feel heat traveling to my face, but I didn’t hide it from him.

I knew he was saying that he wanted to stay up with me.

I wanted to stay up with him too.

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

When I got back to my dorm, I was wired.

I listened to the playlist, but all I heard were Alden’s words, over and over: It’s a shame we have to sleep at all.

He made me feel like someone worth staying up for. Like I was special and important.

He made me feel like a different person entirely.

Monday, 2 p.m., near Schenectady, NY

When the waiter takes our order, Clint gets the short ribs, as promised, and Virginia, Oakley, and I all get the veggie noodles.

“Come on, none of you ladies want a little meat on your bones?” Clint asks.

Virginia rolls her eyes. “We’re not all brutes.”

Oakley puts her forearms on the table. “It’s all a gender display anyway,” she says, and I freeze. “I was reading this article