“You sure you wanna do this?”
I nodded and took a deep breath, inhaling the thick smoke into my lungs. It burned in my chest like a fire and I coughed, my eyes watering. The bowl was warm to the touch, balanced ever-so-carefully on the fingertips of my left hand. There was a small burn on the top of my right thumb from the lighter, but I ignored it. I took another small hit and passed the bowl.
It was the first finals week of my sophomore year of college and where was I? Was I working on a final essay? Taking practice exams? How about making flashcards? No, no, and no. I, Kathryn Maureen Wilhelm, was in the backseat of Gavin’s car smoking pot for the first time.
The day had begun like any other. I got up around 7:00 and went to get breakfast in the caf. I grabbed a bowl and pulled the flimsy plastic lever, releasing a cascading stream of off-brand Frosted Flakes. Glancing over, I saw Gavin sitting at a table with some of his buddies. After haphazardly filling my bowl with milk and snagging a spoon, I claimed the seat across from him. I didn’t know Gavin very well, but a friendship was blossoming between us—I wasn’t a particularly social individual, but my personality was likable enough and we had mutual friends.
Gavin had been talking about smoking when I sat down; I had been around for these conversations before, but I never took part. What could I contribute? I learned about marijuana when I was in the D.A.R.E. program in fifth grade. Nope. I was a “clean teen” in high school, working with administration to keep drugs off school property. Absolutely fucking not.
Today was different, though. For whatever reason I jumped right into the convo. Maybe I was tired of sitting quietly while conversations took place around me. Maybe I was finally ready to commit to the “carpe diem”—perhaps, more accurately, the YOLO—attitude of the average college student. Whatever it was, I said that Imight be willing to try weed if it were readily available. Gavin chuckled and asked if today would work. Playing along, I smiled and nodded, my long auburn curls bouncing. We finished up, said our goodbyes, and went along with our days. I strolled over to the library to locate a secluded nook in which to work on my chemistry review.
It was a bitterly cold Monday, but I didn’t mind. Small flurries of snow kissed my cheeks and stuck in my eyelashes as I walked. I opened the creaking door of the library and made my way down the stairs. The steps were dripping with melted snow, no doubt tracked in by the studious few that found sanctuary in the library. When the college had chosen to go “paperless,” all the books—and the librarian—were banished to the desolate basement of Curry Hall. I drifted through the aisles of books, gently running my fingers across their multicolored spines as I approached the desk. Flinging off my coat and scarf, I pulled the thick stack of papers from my backpack and began flitting through them.
The library was not the most popular study spot, but that’s what I liked most about it—that, and all the books. I loved the flickering of the harsh fluorescent lights, the musty smell of old books, the incessant clicking of the librarian’s acrylic nails, all of it. Few people found solace amidst the shelves of books the way I did.
Locating the final exam review, I was ready to begin studying. I slid a tattered notebookout of my backpack, selected my sharpest pencil, and began unwinding the cord to my headphones. Who would provide the score to my life today? Beyoncé? The original Broadway cast of Chicago? I scrolled through my music several times before selecting my Indie Jams playlist, a compilation of The Lumineers, Cage the Elephant, Cold War Kids, and countless others. Knowing my final was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, I felt no sense of urgency as I studied.
Around 4:00, I got a text from an unknown number. Hey it’s Gavin, when do you want to come over?
I didn’t recall making plans to come over, but I had been studying for several hours and could use a break so I replied. I’m down for whenever. Whatever time works best for you is good.
After an agonizing twenty minutes, Gavin sent his response. Alright, what are you doing right now?
Chemistry.
Tryna take a study break with Hunter and I?
Removing my headphones, I threw on my coat and hurriedly wrapped my scarf around my neck. I rushed up the countless stairs to the library entrance, careful not to slip on the melted snow. My usually bouncing curls were trapped beneath the royal blue scarf as I reached the base of the stairs and flung open the creaking door. Gavin was waiting in his car with Hunter smiling like a madman in the front seat. I yanked open the backdoor and slid in just as Gavin tore out of the parking lot. I exchanged hellos with Gavin and Hunter as we drove across campus to a nearly empty parking lot. Gavin put the car in park and turned to face me.
“You ready?”
“Dad. Let’s go.” I yanked my jean shorts over my bathing suit before slipping on my flipflops. Passing beneath the towering palms with their feathered leaves, we walked to the used bookstore. My brother was frustrated that he had to abandon the pool so I could get another book, but we promised him shaved ice on the way back so he didn’t complain as we walked the two blocks necessary for me to get my fix. It was our third day in Hawaii and I’d already finished every book in my suitcase; I was growing desperate for more reading material. I approached the building with overwhelming fervor, but, before I could yank open the glass door, my dad placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Why don’t you start with just one book, Sweet Pea. We can always come back.” His tone expressed both a beaming pride and an overwhelming frustration in my desire to spend our family vacation reading. We made three more trips to the bookstore before going home with suitcases weighted down by carefully selected keepsakes and well-loved paperbacks.
Gavin opened the compartment between the two front seats, pulling out a black pouch. Placing the pouch in his lap, Gavin began to remove its contents: a silvery, round container, an oddly shaped greenish-blue piece of ceramic, and a lighter. I sat back as Gavin did whatever he was doing in the front seat. Hunter kept glancing back at me, smiling wildly and chuckling softly. I caught a whiff of something familiar, but strangely foreign from the front seat. I took a deep breath, pulling the bitter smell deep into my lungs.
It seemed that by “study break,” Gavin meant we would be smoking. A tiny voice in my head had suspected as much, but a louder voice had anticipated videogames and snacks. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck. This is happening. I realized that I was holding my breath, as my fingers danced anxiously on my knees. Hoping to calm my nerves a bit, I sat forward in the seat, peering over Gavin’s shoulder.
He was holding the ceramic in his hand and lighting its contents before passing it over to Hunter. I watched, mesmerized. I had only ever seen people smoke on television or in the movies—what they smoked was usually rolled in paper,though. Suddenly, it was my turn to hold both the ceramic and the lighter. Hunter shoved both into my open hands and stared at me expectantly. I glanced down at the objects in my hands then back at Hunter.
“Are you gonna take a hit?” He chuckled.
Panic rising in my chest, I stammered, “I-I don’t know how to do it.”
“Oh, shit.That’s right.”
Hunter reached out and carefully positioned my fingers on the piece of ceramic. He explained that I needed to place “the bowl” in my mouth, light it, and breathe in. I slowly raised the ceramic bowl up to my lips, maintaining eye contact with Gavin.
“You sure you wanna do this?”
I inhaled.
The pungent scent of jambalaya percolated through the house, its tendrils of Cajun aroma passing beneath my bedroom door. “Are you going to leave your room or should I just bring you some dinner?” There wasn’t a single hint of judgement in his voice as he shouted from the kitchen. He and my mom had long since grown used to my obsessive need to read.
“It just got really good, Dad!” I was roosting in my bunk, flipping through the pages of a novel in which I had been wholeheartedly invested since before breakfast.“You can’t ask me to put it down now! That would be cruel!” The desperation in my voice was palpable as I begged to be left alone.
Gently opening my door, he glanced at the object of my affection, perched lovingly on my knees. “You’re almost done with that one. Try to go to bed before midnight,okay? You have school tomorrow.” He handed me a bowl and a spoon before leaving me to my literary pursuits.
We sat in the car for about half an hour, smoking and chatting. Our conversation ranged from the clingiest girlfriends on campus to Hunter’s taste in men to Gavin’s fast-approaching wedding. I didn’t contribute much to the conversation, but it was nice to listen. The top of my thumb was growing increasingly sore from improper lighter use—apparently, when smoking with a bowl, the lighter should be held upside down to avoid such injuries. Before long, Hunter received a phone call. It was his roommate, Charlie. I knew Charlie, but not particularly well. We hadn’t officially met until about a week ago at the bowling alley.
I had tried my first margarita (or seven) and grown a little blunter than intended. Charlie had tried to introduce himself and I steamrolled the hell out of him.
“Hi, Kitt.I-”
“Fuck you. I know who *hiccup* you are, Charlie Todd.”
Stunned by the brazen response, he chuckled. “Wha-”
“We had Spanish together. Two semesters ago. You sat *hiccup* in front of me in class.”
“Dr. Wells, right?” His smile widened. “I totally forgot about that.”
“Buenas noches, motherfu-Oh, shit!”
I then proceeded to fall off my stool onto the dirty floor, its soda-stained surface clung to my cotton dress. Charlie’s friend Tanner rushed over to help me back onto the barstool before sliding the pitcher of margaritas out of reach. As I struggled to regain what little composure I still possessed, Charlie asked whatI studied.
“Math, physics, and chemistry.”
“Fuck. That’s crazy. I am, like, the exact opposite.”
I scanned Charlie up and down, beanie to Chucks. “Yeah? What are you? Poli sci or English?”
“Wha-Um. Both. How did-”
“What can I say, Charlie Todd? I’m astute as hell.”
It seemed that Charlie and Tanner would be joining us in this vacant parking lot. Hunter was still pulling the phone away from his ear when they came speeding around the corner. The rusted car came screeching to a halt and they threw open the doors.
“Kitt?! No shit!” Charlie was laughing.
“Oh no! We’ve corrupted you!” A smile stretched across Tanner’s face as he feigned remorse.
I smiled back, tucking an auburn curl behind my ear. “Hi, guys.”
I slid from the center to the left so that Tanner and Charlie could join me in the backseat. Charlie suggested we pack another bowl, a notion with which Tanner agreed wholeheartedly. As Gavin prepped the study materials for another break, I conversed with Tanner and Charlie.
“You’ve really never smoked before?”
“I had never even seen weed before today.”
“I’m sorry. What?” Tanner gaped at me. “How is that possible?”
“You saw it for the first time and immediately smoked it? Fuck! That’s hilarious.” Charlie was laughing hysterically.
“Fucking hardcore.”
“Welcome to career education. This course is designed to help you determine the path you should pursue.” Mr. Stewart, in his blinding, red polo, stood at the front of the room, addressing a class of disinterested freshmen. “Why don’t we start by taking a career aptitude test? Go to Moodle and open the first link under the career education tab.”
I clicked through a hundred questions designed to tell me who I’m supposed to be. When I finally clicked submit, a list my “top careers”—based on an analysis of my personality and interests—appeared in blue. I scrolled through the results of a quiz designed to reveal my path in life and found myself more than a little confused by the careers listed. Computer programmer. Weird. That’s more Cade’s thing than mine. Statistician. Huh. Multimedia artist and animator. Hmm. Geographer. Excuse me? Poet, lyricist, and creative writer. Well, I don’t hate the idea of being a creative writer.
Gavin broke up the mindless chatter as he passed the bowl back to Charlie who took a hit, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling a thick cloud of white. No cough. Whoa. He passed the bowl to Tanner who took a large hit before handing it over to me. I recalled what Hunter had shown me at the beginning of the evening and balanced the bowl carefully on my fingertips with it resting gently on my lips.
“Ha! She’s a pro!” Tanner gawked as I maneuvered the bowl.
Forgetting momentarily that I was not, in fact, a pro, I inhaled deeply. I coughed and gagged. Handing the bowl to Gavin, I attempted to regain composure. I felt my lungs burning as tears rolled down my face; I couldn’t stop coughing and could feel the vomit rising in my throat. This is it. I smoke marijuana one time and now I’m going to die of a fucking asthma attack. Perfect!
“Hey, Mr. Rasby! Can I ask you something?” I shouted as I ran over to my physics teacher in a bit of a panic. “Which do you think is better, South Dakota School of Mines or a liberal arts college that will let me go to Columbia University for my Master’s in engineering?” He had spent nearly four years telling me to pursue engineering and, terminally indecisive, I did. All I needed now was for someone else to decide where I would do that.
“Wow. You had me at ‘School of Mines,’ but then you said ‘Columbia.’ Dang.” I stood there, watching him weigh the options, desperately hoping for a simple answer to the question that had been tormenting me for months. After a few moments of contemplation, silent except for the occasional hmm, he had an answer. “Kitt, you know I will always vouch for the South Dakota School of Mines, but I really think that William Jewell is going to be your best bet.”
The bowl made its way back around to Charlie who took a small hit before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He began making small, circular gestures with the hand that held the bowl as he spoke. His voice was airy and relaxed.
“I visited John Steinbeck’s house in Salinas, California. It was fucking dope. Steinbeck. God. What a fucking G.” He took a hit. “I’ve been to Ernest Hemingway’s summer home; it’s a cottage in Michigan. Fucking Michigan. Can you believe that? Ernest fucking Hemingway. The G.O.A.T.” Another hit. “Fuck.” The word escaped his lips as an exhale, like a sigh of relief, from what I didn’t know. I stared in awe at Charlie’s face; there was a contented look on it, a look I recognized, but had never myself worn. Whoa. His major didn’t seem to spark in him the same overwhelming sense of anxiety that I had come to associate with my own studies.
Tanner reached over and gently slid the bowl out of Charlie’s hand. He took a hit and handed the bowl to me. I took a small hit before passing it to the front seat. My fingertips tingled, almost like they were falling asleep, but not quite. I wiggled my nose. Are my lips numb? My hazy eyes drifted between my unlikely companions and I felt a deep appreciation for each of them. I didn’t even know them. Gavin took a long hit before rolling down the window and clearing the bowl by tapping it with the base of his lighter.
“Kitt, where do you wanna go?”
“Go?” Are we leaving the parking lot?
“We’re all headed back to the house to eat. Where do you wanna go?” Oh.
“Um. The library’s good.” I guess the party’s over.
Gavin didn’t look entirely convinced, but nodded. Charlie and Tanner slid out of the backseat.
“See ya, Kitt.”
“Glad we got to be a part of your first time.” The smirk that so often accompanies a well-placed innuendo was peeking through Tanner’s beard. What an idiot.
Blushing, I waved as they climbed back into Tanner’s car and sped away to put an end to the bout of munchies that had suddenly overcome them. I really liked this bespectacled coalition of dope-smoking scholars, despite the initial trepidation of sitting in a vacant lot with four guys I didn’t know very well and consuming an illicit substance. To be fair, I made plans with a happily engaged history buff and a gay economist not the bearded accountant and the beanie-wearing bibliophile. They showed up on their own. Hopefully I would find my way back in their company for another study break in the near future.
I was sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, working on an essay for U.S. History when Cade ran over and plopped down beside me. “Do you remember how I got an F on my Scarlet Letter essay?” He was panicked, but in away that was entirely on-brand for Cade. Here we go.
I rolled my eyes at him, a demonstration of annoyance that—for me—could only be reserved for a best friend. “Because you turned in your rough draft as your final draft? Yeah.”
“Which was bullshit because that was a good rough draft, practically a final draft.” I looked up from the screen, lips pursed and nose wrinkled. Dipshit. It wasn’t that good.
“Maybe, but she also specifically said not to turn in your rough draft as the final so…”
“Well, anyway, I convinced Mrs. Baker to let me redo the paper and turn it in before winter break.”
I closed my laptop and turned to face him, taking a deep breath before voicing what we both already knew to be true. “You never rewrote it, did you?”
“Funny you should ask that… because no. I did not.” He paused for a moment, carefully examining my demeanor before continuing. “And, even funnier, you’re gonna laugh…” I was not, in fact, laughing. “It’s due tomorrow.”
“You need me to write it for you, don’t you?” I had been doing Cade’s homework for years. I justified the act by telling myself he was smart enough to do the work which was true; he just couldn’t bring himself to engage in such tedious “busy work.” We had both been bored of the curriculum for years; we just coped with that boredom in different ways: I read as much as possible and Cade refused to do his homework. “That’s fine. Just give me the rough draft so I can make sure to write in your voice. You thought Baker was pissed the first time, she will lose her shit if she thinks someone else wrote your paper.”
I slid out of the backseat and carefully shut the door behind me. The brisk winter air didn’t seem quite so harsh as I stood perched on the curb. I waved goodbye to my newfound friends with a smile before turning to yank open the library doorand slowly make my way down the countless stairs. I inhaled the musty, bookish smell that permeates every good library before randomly selecting acrimson-bound book from the nearest shelf; I rapidly flipped through its pages, inhaling a more concentrated dose of book-smell to get me through the next few hours.
Reeking of marijuana, I reclaimed my seat at the corner desk, its surface still littered with study materials. Fuck! I want somepeanut butter, like, a spoonful of it. I glanced around anxiously, but there was no one around to pass any sort of judgement. A wave of relief washed over me as I picked up my pencil and continued working on the chemistry review I had abandoned a mere three hours earlier. I flitted through the pages, desperately trying to focus on chemical equations, but finding the task impossible. I couldn’t get the look of contentment on Charlie’s face out of myhead—talking about literature didn’t seem to fill him with the sense of dread that I felt on a daily basis. He genuinely loves his major. Do I?
Months later, I finally allowed myself to consider the answer. My field of study had been carefully selected and my path in life meticulously planned: I would earn degrees in physics, math, and chemistry at William Jewell College before pursuing a Master’s in chemical engineering at Columbia University. After I’d earned three Bachelor’s degrees and a Master’s, I would sign with an engineering firm in Kansas City, earning a six-figure income. It was a good plan. I would make a significant amount of money, far more than either of my parents had ever made in any job. My work would be stimulating and everchanging, developing with any scientific advancements or discoveries. So why couldn’t I breathe? With every assignment, every lecture, every lab, I watched the light at the end of my tunnel grow dimmer. By April, the light was gone altogether; I called home, gasping for air between sobs, trapped in the throes of yet another panic attack.
“Mom. *gasp* I don’t see the end. I’m suffocating and *gasp* I don’t know how to fix it.” I shoveled chocolate ice cream into my mouth and blew my nose—multitasking at its best.
“I need you to breathe, okay? Why are you suffocating?”
“I hate it, Mom. *gasp* I can’t do it anymore. *gasp* I don’t know what to do.” Tears poured down my cheeks in thick streams.
“I know.” Her voice was kind, but her tone suggested that everything I had just shared was common knowledge.
“You know?! What do you *gasp* mean?”
“You never should have gone into a S.T.E.M. field. But we couldn’t tell you that. Everything was so planned out and you seemed so sure. Nothing we said was going to change your mind. You had to figure it out on your own.”
“I-I guess.” I was flabbergasted, but, at the same time, comforted by the unrelenting support of my parents.
Hours passed before the conversation ended. Suggestions were made and opposed by both parties. Should I leave Jewell altogether? Should I take a year off? Should I come home immediately? My parents passed the phone back and forth, offering potential solutions to a problem that I had spent three years convincing myself was nothing. After countless tears had been shed and a pint of ice cream eaten, a decision was made: I would reach out to Charlie before switching majors.
Hey, pal! Are you gonna be around tonight? I was wondering if I could come over to talk with you about the English department at Jewell.
That evening, I found myself sitting—legs crossed—on the beige futon in Charlie and Hunter’s room. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp and the air was hazy no doubt from their most recent study break. Unsure where to start, I said nothing. Tanner walked in, closing and locking the door behind him—the door was rarely left unlocked as an unlocked door was often (mis)interpreted as an invitation to enter. He took a seat in the brown leather chair next to the door and puffed out a thick, white cloud of mint.
Charlie took a hit from the bong, blowing smoke out the window before turning to face me. “You wanted to talk about the English department, right? Whaddya wanna know?”
I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to know. “I guess I just wanted your opinion because…” My voice dropped. “…I was thinking of switching majors.”
Tanner, Hunter, and Charlie stared at me with looks of sheer joy plastered on their goofy faces. “That’s awesome!”
“You think so?” I was taken aback by their enthusiasm.
Tanner grinned through the cloud of vapor he exhaled. “Absolutely! Abandoning the S.T.E.M. ship for the humanities? Dude, that’s amazing!”
“You are gonna love the professors! They’re great!” Charlie offered Hunter the bong as he walked over to join me on the futon, flopping down beside me. “So,why’d you pick English?”
“Oh. Well. I actually applied to Jewell as an English major.”
“You what?” Charlie sat up, wide-eyed.
“Mr. Rasby, the grammar on these slides is really bad.” I was in homeroom, clicking through one of his chemistry PowerPoints on my laptop, editing punctuation, syntax, and spelling as I went.
He rolled his eyes and sighed, affectionately exasperated by the neurotic grammarian editing his work for no one else’s benefit but her own. “Kitt. I know my English skills aren’t great, but scientists aren’t really worried about that.”
“Um. They really should be… because this is terrible. Where are your oxford commas? Your semicolons? Your capitalization? Mr. Rasby, capitalization isn’t even that hard. Come on, man.”
Cade turned around, spinning my laptop to face him so he could click through the newly edited slides. “She’s right, Rasby. Your grammar sucks.”
I poked at the food on my plate; Elliott, Riley, and I were sitting on “the quiet side” of the caf discussing the synonymous nature of “men” and “the worst.” As the conversation fell victim to the distracted munching of bruschetta and spinach-artichoke dip, I decided to share my decision to change majors. “So, I may have decided to switch majors.”
“What to?” Elliott stared at me with cautious optimism. “Kitt! What to?!”
“English?” It wasn’t a question, exactly, but my voice forced the word out of my mouth in the form of a question, ever so slightly arching upward in pitch with the last syllable.
Elliott screamed, as he was prone to do on occasion (all the time). Riley pointed a small piece of bread topped with pico de gallo at me with a look that I couldn’t quite read. “Yes. That is such a good fit for you, Kitt. You have such a creative soul and you need to let that part of you thrive. I like this for you.”
Leaving Jewell for the summer, I felt a sense of liberation. I was going to be studying something that I was passionate about and the study breaks were significantly lessening my anxiety. Ironically, smoking on a regular basis increased my capacity to stop and breathe which is no easy task for an asthmatic prone to hyperventilation. My first week back in Louisville, my uncle invited me to breakfast at the local diner. We were pretty close before I started college so I believed his claim that he missed me and wanted to catch up now that I was home for the summer. A small part of me feared that, somehow, he had heard about the study break(s) and was really hoping to reprimand me in public. He did end up scolding me at breakfast, but, unfortunately, his disappointment had nothing to do with cannabis. Brian had heard from my mother that I’d chosen to switch majors and took it upon himself to explain that my new field of study would leave me with “no real skills.” He asked if it was too late for me to major in something useful, like business.
It hurt being told that I’d thrown my life away and wasted thousands of dollars on what was, essentially, a degree for being able to read. I was devastated, but refused to let my uncle’s disappointment push me away from studying something that didn’t leave me catatonic on a daily basis. It was going to be an uphill battle, but this time it was going to be a battle that I chose.