Parallel

I have to do things she couldn’t do, things only I can. Like acting. Like getting cast in the Freshman Show.
    I pull the flyer off the board. Open auditions. All I have to do is sign up. With my background, I should at least have a shot at getting cast.
    A smile stretches across my face. Metamorphoses. Exactly.
    Still smiling, I slip the flyer into my bag.
    My phone rings then, and my stomach dips a little when I see Michael’s name on the caller ID. We’ve seen each other six times since my birthday (four times in class and twice on the weekend, one of which was planned in advance) and text almost every other day, but I’m still not used to him yet. Probably because I’m not sure what I should be getting used to, or whether I should be getting used to him at all. As much as I like him, my parallel could so easily ruin our relationship (assuming that sitting together in in art history, standing side by side at a fraternity toga party, and kissing behind a U-Haul at the Yale-Dartmouth football tailgate constitute a relationship). I shouldn’t get attached. My head knows this, but apparently my stomach and knees do not.
    “What’re you doing tonight?” Michael asks when I answer.
    “Nothing,” I answer, then wince. Lame.
    “Wrong. You’re going out with me.”
    “Where are we going?” I ask casually, determined to keep all traces of ohmigod-he’s-finally-taking-me-on-a-real-date! from my voice.
    “It’s a surprise,” he says mysteriously. “Can you be at my house at eight thirty?”
    “Sure,” I reply, only moderately annoyed that he didn’t offer to pick me up. Maybe this date requires preparation. He’s making dinner! I picture us sharing a bowl of spaghetti by candlelight, feeding each other tiny bites of homemade meatball.
    “Oh, and eat before you come,” he says.
    Or not.
    “What am I supposed to wear?” I ask Marissa over takeout from Thai Taste that night. “What if we’re going somewhere dressy?”
    “He would’ve told you,” she says, twirling noodles with her spoon. “Since he didn’t say anything about wardrobe, I think you should assume it’s casual.”
    “Outdoor casual or indoor casual?”
    “Hmmmm.” She chews on a chopstick, thinking. “Since he already did the outdoor date, this one is probably indoor, right?”
    “You mean the tailgate last weekend? I don’t think that counts as a date.”
    “No, silly. The kayak yesterday. Wait, is it called a kayak? Whatever—two-man crew boat. Or does that not count because it was your idea?”
    This is why having a yearlong memory gap really sucks. I’m always in the dark. When I’m with Caitlin, it’s not a big deal; she just fills in the details I’m missing. But how do I handle my roommate, who right now is looking at me like I’m an Alzheimer’s patient? “Oh, I thought you said something about last weekend,” I say lamely, pretending her question about the boat was rhetorical. “You were saying something about Ben?”
    Marissa looks at me funny. “I was?”
    “You were about to tell me about your best date.” I stuff a huge wad of noodles into my mouth before I make things worse. Lucky for me, my roommate is slightly spacey and prone to losing her train of thought, so she doesn’t doubt me here.
    “Oh. Right.” Marissa thinks for a minute, then smiles. “Summer after junior year, about two weeks into our relationship. Ben planned a picnic dinner in Central Park. He bought all these locally made meats and cheeses and baked a loaf of French bread.”
    “Ben baked ?”
    She nods, her face bright with the memory. “It was super romantic. The sun was shining when he picked me up—on his bike—and we rode through the park with the picnic basket balanced on the handlebars, me in a white linen sundress, and Ben in a khaki suit. It was like something out of an old movie, you know?”
    “It sounds perfect,” I tell her, picturing it.
    “It was,” she agrees. “Until about ten minutes after we got to our picnic spot, when it started pouring .”
    “Oh, no!”
    She nods, still smiling. “Both the bread and my dress were soaked. We tossed the food, bought “I Heart NY” sweatshirts from a street vendor, and went for pizza instead.”
    “So you’re saying I should bring an umbrella tonight,” I say as I reach for a fortune cookie.
    “I’m saying even when you know what you’re in for, you never really know what you’re in for,” she tells me, crunching on a bean sprout. “So dress