Fitting In

 Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is ‘New School Year.’

This story was written by Phil Yeats. Last fall, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. For information about these books, visit his website–https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

 

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Fitting In

by Phil Yeats

 

On Labour Day, I returned to campus after a successful summer. Four months employed by a forestry company planting seedlings in the British Columbia wilderness represented a well-paid, outdoor job, with few opportunities to spend my hard-earned wages.

A noisy gaggle of students charged past as I trudged along University Boulevard to the UBC campus, weighed down with a bulging backpack and wheelie bag, One girl turned and called out. “Douglas, welcome back. Big rally on Main Mall near the library. Dump your stuff and join us. Should be interesting.” She gave a quick wave and rushed to join her friends.

I recognized her from my first university term. She was a student living in the University residence I endured for one term. I didn’t remember her name, but she was one of many who relished life in a university dorm. I hated it and moved into a room in a private residence as soon as I could.

I was returning to the same student rooming house I lived in from December to April. Returning to the same residence seemed strange. Nothing like the vagabond existence I lived growing up. When I was younger, I was home schooled as we wandered around the globe following my father’s artistic whims. During my teenage years, we lived in Canada, so I could go to normal schools, but we stayed nowhere for an entire school year. I always felt our nomadic existence and my father’s remoteness, never showing the slightest interest in me or my meagre achievements, produced my shyness and inability to make friends. A stuttering problem that disappeared when I was fifteen didn’t help. During my high school years, I remained an outsider looking on from the sidelines.

At university, I tried to fit in with my fellow students and make friends. I didn’t make much progress during first year. The lonely hours at the forestry camp gave me time for contemplation. I vowed to try harder.

Mrs. Carter, the widow who owned the house, greeted me at the door. She handed me a letter. “From your father. Came last week, so I didn’t have time to forward it.”

My parents returned to their vagabond existence after I started university. I hadn’t heard from them for months, so I was hoping for news. The letter contained a cheque and a single page with only a few words. I sighed before reading the note to Mrs. Carter. “Living in Norway with plans to spend the winter in Spain or Portugal. Will forward an address when we have one.” I appreciated my father’s financial contribution to my room and board, but hoped for more news about their activities.

After stopping for tea, I dumped my stuff in my room and made my escape. “People to meet, things to do,” I said from the doorway. I wasn’t obliged to tell Mrs. Carter my plans, but after years when my parents seemed unconcerned about where I went and what I did, I guess I was treating Mrs. Carter as a surrogate mother.

The Mall, when I arrived, was a zoo. Students milled about reconnecting with friends they hadn’t seen for four months while ignoring speakers droning on about everyone casting aside their inhibitions and living freer lives. They sounded like throwbacks to the previous decade’s summer of love and the Woodstock festival. As I listened to the speakers, I wandered through the crowd looking for the student who invited me to join them. I never found her.

Tuesday morning, I arrived at the Armory to pay my tuition fees and collect my student ID card. Queues were organized by the first letters of our various surnames. I joined the queue at the extreme right for ‘U’ to ‘Z’.

Seconds later, the girl from the previous day joined the ‘T’ queue. The ‘T’ reminded me of her name, Susan Turner, and her major, fine arts.

“Missed you yesterday,” she said. “I hoped you’d show up. It might have helped add some levity to the dead-boring rally.” She looked ahead and realized her queue had moved on, leaving a gap others were moving to fill. “Catch you later,” she added before rejoining her faster moving queue. I wanted to ask where and how, but she was gone before I got the words out.

I was left in my slow-moving queue, wondering about the jungle telegraph that allowed her to communicate with her friends in those years before cell phones and text messages. It stymied me when I tried to connect with others during first year. They seemed to develop relationships without arranging what we called dates in high school. Their loosely aggregated groups coalesced and transformed themselves, responding to forces I didn’t understand. She expected something similar to help me find her group at the Labour Day rally. It wasn’t the sort of particle-particle interaction we learned about in physics classes, but it was something I’d have to learn if I wanted to fit in.

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/