She sat on the old swing, held up by a weathered unfinished frame. She could still see where the branches and limbs had been sawed off. Her toes just barely touch the ground, but she could feel every muscle in her legs flex as they pushed against the reddish dirt ground below before releasing her into motion. As she traveled back and forth, she looked over the lake towards the sunset. The fireball could just barely be seen through the bundled trees, fully clothed now that summer had come. The blond girl on the swing followed a different practice from them, for a sun-dress draped across her body. But the sun! It was certainly a new way of star-gazing, noticing the orange twinkles of light that peeked through the darkness. The lake looked almost pretty in this light, not the mucky, slimy, e-coli-infested mess it truly was. She turned to the notebook before her. She despite a fading sun, she could still read it.

The page was divided into two parts, with crease between them. The left side listed causes and impacts, social, political, and economic, of the Industrial Revolution. The right side, however, told a riveting story–at least, she thought so. It was her story, the first one of her own she had written, one that wasn’t fanfiction. This story spoke of an almost-magical place. It was a place where adventures could occur without going anywhere, and friends were made who were interesting, but had different interests than you. It was a place of legends, going back generations and generations. A lifetime here was on average about 4 or 5 years. But there was no birth, and there was no death. It almost read as a fantasy. She had heard that an alum was publishing a book, that it would be out that summer or the next year, and that it would be featuring this place. She wondered how it would read, if it would look anything like her story.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Elmer Fudd: “The bugs biting you bad?”

“Hmm?” She got momentarily scared since she wasn’t supposed to be near the lake after dark. Of course, it wasn’t dark yet, but she had been stomping on thin ice recently when it came to the rules. Elmer Fudd wasn’t a nice nickname, but she really didn’t know what to call him. No one else seemed to know his name, and he wore his pants so high, had this cap on his head, and his face was shaped just so. Elmer Fudd was the ‘security guard.’ The title was almost a joke; the man’s job consisted of siting at the front gate and opening it and closing it. He rarely denied access. And he also didn’t seem to know what the rules were.

“Are the bugs biting you bad? Because I’ll get something to take care of them.” The situation would seem creepy, but she wasn’t bothered by it. It was a pretty zen night for her. She assured Elmer Fudd (never Elmer, never Fudd, always Elmer Fudd) that she was fine, and he continued making his rounds. She didn’t even know he had to do rounds. She would keep that in mind. She turned back to her notes, but by now the sun had been behind the scenery long enough to impede her reading ability. She should have known better than to come here to study; the dorm circle was quiet enough during the AP weeks. But she shrugged it off. School was important, but so were other things. Come a couple months time, she would probably wish that she had studied more, but she doubted that she would regret this evening.

Scott, a tall boy and well built, parked his old pick-up around the corner from the back parking lot, where many of the guests had parked. Then they walked straight to a large, square, brick building with small few windows. They walked alongside this building and around when it turned. Lights weren’t on in this section of campus, so it was safe to relax. They cut across a path towards an old-English style building, with white plaster and dark wood framing. This was when they realized that someone else was there. The girl squeezed her boyfriend’s hand, tight and tighter, afraid of getting caught, but Scott, recognizing the dark figure, gave a short wave which was returned. His companion relaxed.

The other person was ahead of them and approached the building first. A door opened to let him or her in, but Scott couldn’t discern a person actually opening it. He looked behind him, but no one else was there. When he and his girlfriend got to the door, they found it propped ajar with a rock. They entered and gently let the door back, still propping it with the stone left for them. Just inside, two people were waiting for them—the young man Scott had recognized as well as a tall, stunningly beautiful young black woman.

“Hey guys” Scott addressed them. “This is Emily”

“A sophomore, Scott? Really?” The woman looked so disapproving that Emily began to tear up.

“What the hell, Rhyn?” Scott snapped.

Rhyn just shrugged it off: “Door’s propped. Let’s go on up.”

“Go ahead” Scott spoke mostly to the other guy. “Dan, tell Swallow we’ll be up in a second.”

“Whatever.” Rhyn went on ahead, followed by Dan. Scott tried to sooth Emily who began openly sobbing once Rhyn was out of earshot. Scott tried telling her everything he could think of to make her feel better, but more and more she pulled away from him. He was almost at his own end when the door to the outside opened and in walked a young man, short with short black hair.

“Hey Jack,” Scott unenthusiastically greeted the new arrival.

“Everything okay?” Jack asked.

“Rhyn Watson upset her.”

“Rhyn upsets everyone. She’s a complete and total rich bitch.” Dan comforted Emily. He then turned to Scott. “Swallow upstairs?”

“I think so, but I can’t say for sure.”

“Well, I’m headed up. Hopefully she is. Swallow will keep Rhyn in check.” Jack left and Emily began to calm down. She and Scott sat down on one of the nearby couches. Scott put his arm around her and the two of them remained silent until the next batch of people got there. This time two girls walked in together. They were about the same height, but one was slightly heavier than the other. They were both dressed in jeans and graphic T’s. They walked right behind the couch with Scott and Emily, not noticing them in the dark.

“Hey y’all” Scott greeted and the two of them jumped. Hand over her chest the heavier one spoke.

“Hey Scott, umm…Emily, right? Hey”

“Everyone’s up there, go on ahead.”

“’kay” The girls went on up and once again Scott and Emily were on their own.

“Come on, let’s go up.” Scott suggested.

“I don’t want to”

“Why not?”

“I don’t belong here. I don’t know any of these people and none of them want me here. No one wants me here but you.”

“Did you just hear the nonsense you just said? Look around.”

Emily did, as best as she was able without any lights on: “So?”

“So, do you like it here at Red Mountain? The students, the teachers, the buildings?”

“Yeah” a natural smile broke out, “I really do.”

“Then you belong here. It also means that Swallow wants to meet you and will like you. No one loves this place the way she does. You love it too, so she won’t think of you as an intruder. You’re family to her now. She’ll be disappointed if you leave.”

“She’ll like me?”

“I promise”

“Okay, then”

Scott led her up two flights of stairs and then down a long hall. Emily noted passing her own dorm room. She realized once they got to the door at the end of the hall that not only had she never been through it, she had never considered to whence it may have led. Scott opened it and she realized that there was another staircase in the room behind it. This staircase was spiral, made of weathered oak wood. She went up the stairs first, now eager to get to the party. When Emily got to the top, everyone’s head turned towards her. The girl got this sickening feeling to her stomach as she realized that everyone had been talking mere seconds before.

But then some bizarre quality to the aroma made her feel sick to her stomach, like she had recently eaten something heavy that just landed like a rock in her gut. It affected her mind, too. Suddenly she felt anxious and nervous and…guilty. (Neurotic as well, but she did not recognize this). Was there something she forgot to do? Some work to turn in which had been ignored in the hustle of the week? Again her face and hands made contact. And once more some unidentifiable intangibility hit her like an asteroid crashing to earth, leaving a large empty crater. Swallow was forced to thrust her hands away and gagged. Please, she thought, for the love of everything, may the smell of butane return! Sigh. These feelings and others similar to them continued to gnaw and chew at her insides. So Swallow sat down on a stool to try and regain stability in her mind–figure out where she had gone wrong. She considered standard possibilities: did she say something stupid in front of or to someone? Not likely: academics had been the only topic in any conversation in memory that week. Plus, those were all very short conversations. Robots, it turns out, are poor substitutes for human connections. Well, then, was there someplace she was supposed to be? The calendar, whose every minute was allocated, indicated otherwise. Perhaps something she left somewhere? Nothing appeared to be missing. No question provided a helpful solution, but Swallow knew that having sorted out what it was that was bothering her she would feel better. Once she knew what was wrong she knew she could fix it. Isn’t that what an engineering degree is for?

His attention was diverted b a young woman approaching him.  He didn’t notice until a second before her arms encircled his neck that she, in fact, was the one he was waiting for.  He squeezed her tight then took a step back and looked her up and down.

“You look so different!  I didn’t recognize you!”

“I looked out of place in northern Georgia.  Besides,” she smiled, “it was time for a change.  You like it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s not you”

“What is me?”

The young man paused.  “Not that.  It’s faker than your blond hair, fake tan and expensive clothes.”

“Well, fine.  You can dress me then.”  the woman paused.  “I just made your day, didn’t I?”

“My week.” He grinned.  Finally, he asked the question that had been on his mind: “Lacey, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” Lacey avoided the question.

“What were you even doing in Georgia?  What are you doing here?  What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t just want to see you?”  she stalled again.

“Lacey!”

“I just need a break.  Take some time to see the world.  It’s like study abroad without the classes!”

“Well,” her friend spoke, raising his chin. “You certainly know where to come.  I’m going to show you nothing but fun while you’re here.”

Carrying her bags for her–clearly a gentleman–he led her to the car.  It was an old sedan from the 1940′s that he had fixed up.  He opened the door for her, then put the bags in the trunk.  He then came around and got in the driver’s side.  At his touch, the car started up.

I have no artistic skills.  All I can do are the perspective drawings I learned to do in elementary school  Also, sideways, I know.  I need to work on a way to rotate these.  Anyways, this is a rough sketch and clearly unfinished.

“First of all, I have no idea why Swallow and I are friends in the first place, much less biffles.  Most people would choose loyal friends over interesting ones.  Not Swallow.  She can’t stand uninteresting people–they just bore her too much.  Me, I’m not even remotely interesting.  Pretty, yes.  Rich, yes.  But I don’t have that much to say, so I generally stick to the loyal friends.  I don’t know how to interact with the “interesting ones”.  That isn’t to say that the two types are mutually exclusive.  But Swallow: there’s an entire universe for her to care about and all of it interests her and I’ve nothing to add to it.  As for me, hardly anything catches my interest for more than 5 minutes.  She does.  She fascinates me.  If she doesn’t do the same for you, you aren’t as smart as you think you are.

“Y’all aren’t from the South–the deep South, the old South–so I’ll forgive you for not knowing how things run.  Birmingham is called a Yankee town by some because it was built with “Yankee” money.  Tis, of course, is from an old Southern perspective, comparing Birmingham to a town like Montgomer where families, their connections, and their money have been established since well before the Civil War.  Birmingham barely manages 100 years.  But some Birmingham families do trace back that far.  I can’t trace my family’s money back 50 years.  Or 25.  Now, I know that there are people everywhere that will look down on you no matter what you do.  But it’s something else to say that children aren’t deserving of the same opportunities because of who their great-great-great-great grandparents were or weren’t.  50 years ago, my father couldn’t get food at the same place as these families.  I still feel that there are places where I am not welcome.

“But once arriving at Red Mtn. Prep, one’s pedigree, one’s money, one’s hometown didn’t matter anymore.  Our social circles weren’t determined by whether or not our parents had been friends in high school or college.  They weren’t determined by which country club we belonged to–I can’t belong to some still.  They weren’t determined by where we were in school before.  There was a system in place, but not much of a hierarchy.  There was no scramble to be on top–no need.  No matter who you were, you weren’t going to be the star pupil by putting others down.  Or the most beloved by outshining everyone else.  None of us were there to just coast through life–that’s what Mtn. Brook High School was for.  We all arrived expecting to work and to get an education.  Neither of these kept us from having fun though.

“In terms of social life, there wasn’t a queen bee or football captain.  We had a shadow princess.  People flocked to her to be her friend or her study partner, but she wasn’t Little Miss Popular.  She was just Swallow.  She had this understated charisma.  Has.  I don’t care how many activities you were involved in or how much money you had or how nice you were.  You could never be more beloved than Swallow.  No sensible person was jealous of her.  Swallow never had to go loking for friends at school.  Like I said, they came to her.  She’s having such a hard time here because, as awful as it sounds, she’s just used to being the center of the universe and for once, she isn’t the axis on which the world turns.

“I could go on forever about her.  I could write a novel.  But watch her.  Just because she’s quiet, doesn’t mean she isn’t busy.  And even though she’s kicking ass at academics, I promise she isn’t spending all her time studying.”

It made her feel so small, knowing there was something outside of these walls with more power than the president—this made her think of an old teacher’s argument: God is Russian. The storm exhibited equality more than anyone she ever knew. The same amount of rain fell for the old family farm as for the obnoxiously large corporate farm that surrounded it. A lightening bolt did not identify the race of the family living in the house before it would hit it. One exceedingly happy man was awaken by the same crash of thunder as the miserable man next door to him.

No, the difference lay in one’s response upon waking up. Some may bury themselves in a pillow and attempt to go back to sleep. Others would turn on a light or, even worse, a television and ignore it that way. But Lacey gazed up and wondered at its beauty. She wondered about other things as well. The hundreds of poets and musicians who had been inspired by the same experience…or was it? Did they—could they—love it like she did? Did they worship each and every one or was one enough for their artistic appetite, satiating just enough to fill its purpose? Farmers, too, it seemed did not love it adequately. Sure they prayed for it and rejoiced in its arrival, but they loved only the part they needed: what they could touch and what they could make money off of. But what about those intangible qualities? The color of the sky—a peachy grey—or the charcoal trees (which were anything but at any other time). Do any of them—the farmers, musicians and poets—do they see this instantaneous snapshot of color that only Monet could duplicate (though he didn’t)? Do they feel hear the raindrops like tiny children’s feet? Do they feel the thunder the way you feel a lover’s kiss?

The way she felt Sam’s kiss?

“I really appreciate this, you know” she continued, “really.”

“Yeah, well, I mean…I’m not using it” He was unnecessarily and unconsciously flusterd. Lacey mistook his meaning.

“I know I’m intruding. Really don’t let me be imposing. Just say the word and I’ll return to my side of the fence”

“Now you’ve got me backed into a corner and you know it.”

“How!?”

“You know what my father says about fences?”

She laughed, hard. And this time he knew she was sincere: “Probably something similar to what my grandmother would say.”

“They’re rude”

“That’s it.”

“Would you care for some iced tea or a soda or something?”

“Iced tea? You’d make a fantastic southern housewife.”

“Why thank you, darlin’. But let me tell you, your chicken salad is fantastic I must get your recipe,” Sam lapsed into a falsetto Savannah accent. He went into the house to get the tea. When he came out, he looked at what Lacey was working on.

“Oh I love New York,” he remarked, setting the glass before her.

“I hate it.”

“Oooookay….”

“It’s just so crowded and uptight and…unnatural.”

“And L. A. is…”

“Less densely populated for one and also more laid back. I always get the impression that New Yorkers are running around seeming to do everything but actually accomplishing nothing. L.A. seems to accomplish more while acting all laid back.”

“Then why are you applying to schools there?”

“You’re supposed to be able to start over there…leave your past behind you” She gave a little help-me-smile.

“I thought that was L.A.”

“Have you never seen a noir film like Chinatown? Okay, that’s not quintessential noir, but still…have you seen one? The main character is always plagued by their past. When I think of L.A. I think of Chinatown. Who the hell do you think you are asking this?” She smiled at the last comment, clearly joking. Sam lapsed back into his fake accent:

“I think I’m from South Carolina, and as such, I know it to be my God-given right to know every miniscule detail of my neighbor’s business.”

Breathe. In. Out. Breathe. Good air in; bad air out. Something else. Just think. Think. Just think of something else. Anything else. Times not now, places not here. What did she need to do? She had a midterm in quantum mechanics the next week. Joy. Now she had a headache to go along with her stomachache. She really didn’t want to think about that either. Resigning herself to the nagging feeling, she packed up her books and headed back to MacC Dorm.

When she walked into the suite, she found a gathering of several math majors.

“How’s the number theory going?” she asked. They were in the common room every Wednesday evening working on their problem sets.

“Not funny” Don replied. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Lab. Always Lab. I hate my life”

“You know, you could have been a math major”

“And learn number theory? Thanks, but I prefer to learn slightly less useless things. I like science, where I can see and touch.”

“I forgot” Don replied. “You make day trips to Alpha Centauri.”

“Ha, ha! Still not as useless as number theory”

“Actually” a senior that Swallow knew by sight but not name spoke up. “since the early 70′s, number theory has an application. It’s used for cryptography now with the advance in computers.”

“You see that there, Julia” Don pointed towards the door. “Yo walk out that, and keep going. Go down the stairs and across the quad. You can join your CS friends over in B.”

“You make it sound like they have cooties, Don. Why do you have to be so mean?”

“I’m not saying that they aren’t fantastic people. It’s just that they function by a completely different set of rules than everyone else on planet earth”

“You might have a thesis topic there,” Swallow mused.

“What?”

“Interplanetary travel and interactions with extraterrestrials. Subtitled, B dorm”

“Swallow, you might want to bone up on those social skills of your own before you go judging others’” Julia remarked, rather unkindly. Swallow noted that Julia knew who she was, even though Swallow didn’t really know her. She couldn’t figure out whether that was good or bad.

“None of us were prom queen,” Swallow decided to brush it off. “I’m headed to bed. Good luck with the homework!”

Swallow went into The Nest. She put away all her work and books as well as hole-punched her handouts. All her graded work was into the designated folders and replaced the pens and pencils in the drawers. She then changed for bed, putting on an old space camp t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. She then crawled between the sheets (no blanket) and among her large pillows.