Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

Or I could work with Tristan, I think for a moment, before shaking this thought away. No. I can’t steal from people. That would be wrong. Plus who knows if I’ll ever see him again.

What’s the point of any of it, if my dad really won’t pay for next semester? Would I be going to college at all, let alone living in Milwaukee, if he isn’t? I had never considered any other options, because my parents were so insistent on my going to college nearby that I had no space to wonder what I would want to do if it were up to me. The only place I would have wanted to go, had I had the time to consider it, was the Art Institute of Chicago, where a few people I’d been in shows with ended up, every day posting pictures of new elaborate projects while I burned away my time clicking. So my dad wants to cut me off. So what, then? No more college? Is it so horrible that I won’t be forced to spend all my time using Adobe InDesign anymore?

No. No it would not be so horrible. Actually it would be kind of great. Right then and there, standing in my kitchen like some kind of deranged lunatic, I feel a spark of hope for the first time in a while. I think of the photos I’ve seen of skyscrapers of New York, the cozy patios of Austin, Portland’s bridges and coffee shops. I imagine showing up to each place with nothing but a backpack of clothing and art supplies. Getting a job waitressing in some small desert town, like Liz Parker. Living, without the heavy weight of expectations, whatever combination of survivor’s guilt and tremendous fear of the unknown my parents have insistently forced me to carry. Just being and painting, all the time, like I’ve always wanted but couldn’t admit to myself. Or hell. Maybe I’ll just go straight to Chernovtsy.

I don’t even notice how long I stand there staring blankly until August comes by and waves a hand in front of my face.

“Hey. Hello? Talk to me,” August says. Part of me forgot he was in the room, but no, there he is in front of me, lighting a rolled cigarette and then handing it to me. I suddenly feel dizzy, and like I need to sit down. “You okay? What boy drama did I miss while I was gone?”

“No boy drama,” I say. I take the cigarette, but I’m not quite ready to speak more. My brain won’t stop turning. Should I even bother finishing the semester?

“What’s going on?” he asks me.

“I’m fine,” I tell August. I take in a deep breath and turn. “Sorry, I just have to do something quick.” I walk past him and into my room, which is uncharacteristically messy, so I hope August doesn’t follow. The bed isn’t made, my blue and green striped comforter drooping to the floor haphazardly, next to a pile of laundry. The ashtray is full and surrounded by old coffee mugs. I ignore it all and press the power button on my computer, and while I wait for it to load, I change my mind and carry a few of these mugs out to the kitchen sink. It’s extra slow today, so I have time to dump out the ashtray and make my bed all before the computer is awake and logged in. I open my MySpace account, and click on the messenger function.

“Hello? Anna?” August is asking, trailing behind me. It occurs to me that he has been talking this whole time and I didn’t hear him. “Are you listening?”

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“Come with us to New York,” August suggests.

“You mean… train-hop with you?” I ask, surprised.

“Yeah,” August says. “I think you’ll like it.”

I think about this for a second. Should I go? I’d been asked plenty of times before—before August left he’d asked, in fact—but I never really considered it till now. I try to remember all the times I had secretly fantasized about going on such an adventure, how I’d never let myself get very far in this illusion because I knew I could not go, not with my parents around, checking up on me regularly, pulling the purse strings. It does seem fun. Whoever has real adventures anymore? Everything is on Google. Everybody is on MySpace, telling you where they are and with whom. All the crevices of the world have been explored and excavated and monetized, even your deepest insecurities. August and his friends are the only people I know who don’t play into it. They go where the train takes them, sometimes without any destination. They don’t have plans and to-do lists and transcripts of vaguely useless skills. They don’t check a map four times before stepping foot outside. They just go.

My eyes finally focusing again, I look at August, in his all-black clothes and greasy hair, dirt-streaked cheeks. This lifestyle really suits him; he looks great. He comes off more weathered, more mature. Happier, too. I let out a breath so long it’s like I’ve been holding it all morning. “When are you leaving?” I ask.

“So you’ll come?” he asks, excited.

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” I say.

“What about your dad?” August is asking. He begins stretching his arms over his head, then bends over to touch his toes. “He won’t freak out?”

“He’s not going to be a problem for a while.”

I turn to the computer and start writing out a message to Zoya: Hey! Why on earth did you send my father the DNA test instead of me?

“Why not?” he asks, curious. “Did you finally stand up to him?” August raises his hand for a high five but I don’t meet it. I’m not exactly happy about our current state of affairs.

“No,” I say, blushing. I click refresh on my internet browser. Zoya is online, which means she might answer me soon. August is now sitting on the floor and stretching his arms over each leg, one at a time. “How long till you leave again?”

August pops up straight to answer me. “A day or two. You can meet us there if you’re not ready by then.”

I shake my head, the fantasy bursting like a bubble. I feel silly for even considering it. I can’t even imagine getting on a train all alone. How would I do it? Why? And is now really the best time to go somewhere? “I don’t know, August. I don’t think I have the uniform for it,” I joke, half-seriously, half about to cry.

He stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think you have the uniform for this either,” he says, waving a hand in the direction of the room, the house, Milwaukee.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t it feel like you’re always one floor removed from everybody else?” he asks.

“No. It’s more like we’re all on the same floor, but I’m in a different building,” I explain.

August laughs. “I’d say a bit of both.” I turn back to the screen, to see if Zoya has responded, but she hasn’t. August returns to the floor to stretch. He is mid-bridge pose when the door opens, and Box walks in nervously, looking years younger now that she’s clean, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. She can’t even be eighteen, I realize.

“Thank you so much for letting me use your shower,” Box says. She bends over and ruffles August’s hair, and before I know it, August has jumped out of the bridge pose and is on his feet again. He gives Box a tight squeeze.

“Hey, kid. You need help packing?” Box asks him. The two of them are cute together. They look happy, or at least more content than anyone else I know. It makes me wonder if maybe they understand something about life that I don’t; something like you can’t be satisfied with everything until you can live with nothing.

Maybe this endless want of distraction is what the absence of beauty in your surroundings replaces. My parents should have been happy enough with getting us here, but no; then it became a series of newly desired accomplishments. European cruises and expensive clothes, new floors, healthy savings accounts. Honor roll and college degrees and clean-cut Jewish life partners for their children; money, money, money. It would never end. It would never be enough. Like when you’ve missed eating all day and then try to eat, but no matter how much you consume, it’s too late, you don’t ever feel full.