Page 5 of Leaving the Station

the other day about how meat is associated with a more masculine identity. You know, the big strong man ripping into a lower

animal’s flesh, proving he’s at the top of the food chain.”

“Sounds like Clint,” Virginia says, laughing.

As well-meaning as they seem, I hate the way Clint and Virginia talk to each other. The way they fall into precise stereotypes

of a straight couple their age.

But Oakley’s unphased. “The fact that it’s a display is what’s really important in this situation.

There’s a theory that gender isn’t a stable identity but that it’s constructed through social interactions.

So Clint orders ribs; the three of us”—she gestures to me and Virginia—“order a vegetable dish, and we’ve proven something about ourselves to each other.

But maybe if we were dining alone the roles would be reversed.

Maybe Clint would want noodles and the rest of us would have ribs. ”

I try to stop myself from staring at Oakley. I’ve never heard anyone speak this way outside of a classroom, where everyone

would compete to try to make the most intelligent comment. She’s not competing with any of us, though. She just said it.

I want to have some sort of cogent, beautiful, theory-based reply, but I don’t know anything about this topic. All I manage

to say is, “That’s so true.” Because it is. Or it seems to be. “Well, not the ribs part. I wouldn’t get those if I was by

myself—I’m a vegetarian.”

Oakley adjusts in the booth slightly so she’s facing me. “I could’ve guessed that.”

My cheeks heat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let me guess, you love animals?” She artfully raises one dark blond eyebrow. “And you’d feel bad eating them. You’re concerned

about factory farming for both environmental and ethical reasons. And look, you’re even dressed like a farmer.” She doesn’t

say any of it meanly; she’s just stating a series of facts.

To be fair to her, I am wearing a ratty white T-shirt under black overalls, with an old flannel shirt to top it off.

“I’m from Seattle,” I say, to at least provide an explanation for the dressing-like-a-farmer part.

“That’ll do it,” she says.

It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken like this to a girl, and—though I could very well be mistaken—it feels kind of flirty.

Or at least flirt-adjacent.

The problem is that I’m too out of practice to know for sure. Not that I was ever in practice.

“Okay, but was I wrong about the rest of it?” she asks.

“Well, no,” I admit. “But it doesn’t exactly seem like a hard guess. You got the veggie noodles too. I have to imagine that

you care at least a little bit about the environment, or about animals, or something that made you order one of the only vegetarian options on the menu.”

“I’m not even a vegetarian,” she says, running her hand along the chain of her necklace. “I just thought the noodles sounded

good. Or maybe it was social pressure after you and Virginia ordered them.”

“I didn’t know we were sitting at a table with a certified genius,” Virginia says, touching Oakley’s hand and looking at Clint

like, Can you believe this?

“So, this is what they’re teaching you in those fancy little East Coast colleges, huh?” Clint asks.

“No,” Oakley tells him. “I don’t go to college.”

“Good on you,” he says. “You’ll learn more in the real world anyway. They brainwash you at those places.”

The waiter comes around with a cart and drops off our noodles and ribs. They’re glorified TV dinners, but Clint was right:

food tastes better on the train.

And it’s not just the food. If we weren’t on the train, I would politely end this conversation with Clint and Virginia and their wild commentary as fast as possible. Though, if we weren’t on the train, I don’t think I’d be talking to them at all.

There’s a romantic, rose-colored filter on everything: the run-down dining car, the reheated meals, even this elderly conspiracy

theorist.

I kind of like him.

We all inhale our food. Another train quirk—it makes you ravenous.

Oakley finishes her noodles before me and announces, “I’m going now, but it’s been nice talking to you all.” I could be imagining

it, but I’m pretty sure she looks at me longer than she does at Clint and Virginia as she says it. “So, um, could you move?”

she asks me after a beat. “I need to get out.”

Okay, yes, she definitely was meeting my eye longer because I have to scoot out of the booth so she can leave. Perfect. Cool

cool cool.

“Bye, hon,” Virginia says. “Nice chatting with you.”

“You too,” Oakley says as I stand from the booth to let her out.

And then a wild impulse strikes me: I want to follow her. If she’s leaving the train in Chicago, I might never see her again.

This feels different than the force that drew me to Alden. That was complicated, difficult to name. This is easier: she’s

smart and cute, and I’m bored.

Or maybe it’s not easier at all. Maybe I’ll repeat the same pattern of latching on to someone like a leech.

That’s a better descriptor of me than farmer: leech, bloodsucker. I take people’s life force and try to have it for myself.

But still, the idea of letting her walk off without me is worse than the thought of going with her.

Before I can make a decision, though, she’s gone.

“What a bizarre girl,” Virginia says. “Don’t you think?”