The Futures(25)

As a sophomore, I wrote more. I had a regular beat by then, on the arts and culture desk, and I was getting ready to declare an art history major. Those moments when I was starting a new piece—blank document, blinking cursor—were a rare reliable pleasure in my life. Writing for the magazine was one of the only things I had control over. Sophomore year was proving to be strange. Bad strange. Compared to freshman year, everything felt precarious. The landscape of friendships had shifted, thrown off by different dorms and new roommates. Classes seemed harder. Parties seemed duller. Everyone was sinking deeper into their own worlds. Evan was consumed by hockey and didn’t have much time for me. When we were together, we bickered frequently. Our relationship didn’t seem so fated or so satisfying anymore. I felt restless, in search of something new.

“I’ve noticed you around a lot,” Adam said, dropping into the chair next to mine one midwinter afternoon. He extended his hand. “Remind me of your name.”

“Julia Edwards.”

“Nice to meet you, Julia Edwards. Adam McCard.”

I knew who he was, of course. He was the editor in chief, a senior. Adam had never before paid attention to me.

“Are you new?” he asked.

“I’m a sophomore. I wrote a few pieces last year. I’m doing more this year.”

“What are you working on?” He peered at my computer.

“Oh,” I said, tempted to cover the screen with my hands. “It’s just a little thing. It’s stupid. A review of a new show at the Center for British Art.”

“Aha. Julia. Of course. You’re the genius art critic. I love your stuff.” Someone called his name, and he stood up. The issue was about to close, and the editors would work well into the morning hours. Before he walked away, Adam put his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Julia. Let’s grab coffee this week. Get to know each other. Sound good?”

A few months later, in the spring, I arrived at the magazine offices one night, ready to go over an article with Viv. But I was told she was sick, at home in bed. We still had a few days before the issue closed, so I put my laptop back in my bag. Adam spotted me just as I was about to leave. We had been having coffee every week. I’d admitted to Abby that I was developing a little crush on him, but it was innocent. It was nothing compared to what I felt for Evan, obviously.

“Julia. Leaving already?”

“Yeah. Viv’s out sick.”

“I have half an hour until my next meeting. Why don’t we give Viv a pass on this one? I’ll edit it for you.”

My hands were shaking as I pulled out my laptop and opened the file. This was a terrible development. I had written this piece quickly, to meet Viv’s deadline, and it was full of holes. Viv was exacting, finding the flaws in my work with merciless rigor, but she actually made me feel okay about that. It was never going to be right the first time; I knew that by now. I was fine with Viv seeing a rough draft of my work, but not Adam. I liked Adam, I liked spending time with Adam, but I wasn’t ready for him to see an unedited version of my thoughts. This was going to be a disaster.

“Let’s see,” he said, squinting as he read. A few minutes later, he looked up from the laptop. “This is great.”

“Really?” I thought he was joking, but then he nodded. “Wait, really? Do you think so? I know I need a better opening, and—”

“No, it’s great. Yeah, the lede could be punchier, but once you’ve nailed that I think you’re basically done.” He leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. “So. What should we do for the next twenty-four minutes?”

I laughed, closing my computer. “Did you turn in your thesis? Or theses, I guess?” Adam was a double major in English and history. He’d spent the previous year writing about the Weimar Republic for the history department and working on a novel to fulfill the requirements for his writing concentration in English. His novel was also about the Weimar Republic. I’m not sure the English and history departments were, respectively, aware of this.

“I handed in history last week. And I’ll hand in the novel next week.”

“And that’s it, right? You’re done? I’m so jealous.”

“Don’t be. You’re the lucky one. Two years left until shit gets real.”

I rolled my eyes. He knew my complaints. Adam often took the train into the city on weekends, forgoing campus parties for the more glamorous options of New York, where he’d grown up. I was envious. Did he not get how constricted, how stifling this life felt? Class, study, party, Evan. Over and over and over.

He smiled. “You know I’d take you with me if I could. Start our own magazine or something.”

“Ha. I’d just be deadweight.”

“No way. I’m going to miss you, Jules.”

“Shucks.”

“I mean it.” He nudged my foot with his. “I really like you. You’re special.”

That was the thing about Adam. You believed everything he said. He said that he was going to be a writer after he graduated. I never imagined that he wouldn’t succeed. He would go to New York after graduation and find a job at the New Yorker or Harper’s or the Paris Review. In a few years he would have published his novel, and his picture would be gracing the cover of the arts section in the Times. There was no question about it. Adam would succeed at whatever he chose to do.