Left Field Love
: Chapter 32

I edge through the doorway, glancing around the massive lecture hall in awe. This is the opposite extreme from the cramped, ammonia-scented rooms I’ve attended college in until now.

Excited chatter fills the soaring space.

Sunlight spills in through windows that line the far wall and overlook Clarkson’s football stadium.

I walk up the central aisle and take a seat about halfway up the stadium-style seating.

My phone vibrates as soon as I sit down. I pull it out of my bag to see a new text from Caleb.

Caleb:Happy first day!!!!

I roll my eyes—mostly at the four exclamation points—but can’t help the smile that forms.

Lennon:You’re a dork.

Caleb:Takes one to know one, Matthews.

I respond with an eye-rolling emoji, then shove my phone back into my backpack.

“This seat taken?”

A guy with light brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses is standing to my left. He nods to the chair next to me when our eyes connect.

“Nope, it’s free,” I reply, watching out of the corner of my eye as he settles in the spot beside me. There are still plenty of other open seats.

He looks up and catches me looking. “I’m Eric,” he tells me, holding out a hand and flashing a set of straight, white teeth.

“Lennon,” I reply, shaking his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Lennon.” Eric bends down and pulls a notebook out of his backpack. “Have you had Glannon before?”

“Glannon?”

Eric smiles. “The professor.” He nods to the front of the room, where a man with a graying shock of curly hair is opening up a briefcase and removing stacks of paper from it.

“Oh. Uh, no,” I reply, although I’m guessing my first response already answered his question.

“Did you swap majors?”

“No, but this is my first year here. I just transferred.”

“Oh, cool. From where?”

“Richardson Community College.” I wait for the flash of judgment, but it doesn’t appear.

“Well, welcome,” is all Eric says. “What do you think of Clarkson so far?”

“It’s…nice. A little overwhelming, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

“Yeah, it’s a great school. I transferred here sophomore year, and I’ve been really happy so far.”

“Where did you transfer from?” I ask.

“Lincoln.”

I laugh. “Well, if you can fit in here after transferring from Lincoln, then that gives me some hope.”

Eric smiles. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Although I’m pretty sure the only people here who care about the rivalry with Lincoln are the jocks and their groupies, and I steer clear of that crowd. Are you a sports fan?”

“Um, no. Not really,” I respond. It’s the truth, but also feels disloyal Caleb.

“You’ll be fine, then,” Eric tells me.

“Great,” I reply, smiling.

“Welcome to Journalism 356: History of American Journalism,” the booming voice of our professor says.

He’s either speaking into a microphone, or the acoustics in this room are award worthy.

The few students still trickling in rush to open seats.

All conversation ceases.

“I’m Professor Glannon. Most of you have had me before. Please don’t take the fact I won’t remember your name personally. I’m old, and there’s quite a lot of you.”

Quiet laughter ripples around the room.

“I don’t have many ground rules. The main one is no eating. It’s distracting and frankly rude. Especially if you didn’t bring enough to share with all two hundred of your classmates. Second, no beverages besides coffee and water in this room. Some professors frown upon encouraging caffeine consumption. Just get enough sleep blah blah blah.”

More laughter.

“You all want to make it in the field of journalism, however. Let me tell you now, it’s a demanding career that pays terribly. You won’t ever make enough to afford a drug habit besides coffee.”

Eric chuckles beside me.

“But other than those two ground rules, anything goes. Scroll on your phones, spend half the class wandering the halls, pass notes to each other. As long as you do it subtly enough I don’t notice. I’m getting paid to teach you regardless of whether you learn anything or not. Everyone good? Any questions?”

Silence.

“All right. Jane, get those syllabi out, and we’ll get started.”

A petite, dark-haired woman stands with a thick stack of papers in hand, and my first class at Clarkson University begins.

Eric turns to me when class ends an hour later. We’re both packing up our bags, along with the rest of the class. I’m going to need to buy more notebooks. I took twelve pages worth of notes on the first lecture alone.

“What did you think?” Eric asks.

“I loved it,” I reply honestly. “A lot different from any other journalism class I’ve ever taken.”

“Yeah, Clarkson’s program is fantastic. It’s the main reason I transferred here.”

We both stand and start walking down the stairs.

“You know, I’m going to see a new documentary about social justice journalism with some friends on Saturday afternoon. Would you want to come? They’re all journalism majors too, so I can introduce you around a bit. Plus, the film’s supposed to be really good.”

“That sounds great,” I reply honestly. “But I can’t do Saturday afternoon, unfortunately.”

“No worries. I can switch it to Sunday, if that’s better for you?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. I don’t want to mess everyone’s plans up.”

Eric waves his hand in a carefree motion. “It’s no problem at all. I’ll talk to them and give you all the details in class on Friday. Really nice to meet you, Lennon.”

He smiles, then turns to the right and disappears into the crowd of students.

I take twenty minutes to replace my next class. Despite being another journalism elective, it’s located clear across campus in an almost identical yet slightly smaller version of the brick building my first class was in. Even acknowledging the confusion of navigating the winding walkways that connect the academic buildings, there’s a smile on my face the whole time.

The atmosphere on campus is electric.

I pass other students discussing deep-sea trenches and stage lighting. Professors discussing exam formats and comparing lecture halls. Athletes dribbling basketballs or clutching racquets.

I’ve always loved school. Loved the thrill of discovering new things about the world. The satisfaction of understanding a concept. The positive reinforcement of seeing a red A at the top of a page.

This is the first time I’ve been somewhere that compulsion feels tangible. I wasn’t the only student at Landry High who worked hard. But everyone else was using it as a means to an end.

To this end.

There were other students at Richardson Community College who took their studies seriously, but not many. Most of them were taking classes to end up in a slightly better career, not for the love of learning. That mentality is a simple reality for many people. Was for me, until now. And I don’t regret my time at RCC. It’s made me more appreciative of Clarkson now.

My Multimedia Journalism class is less entertaining than History of American Journalism was, but just as engaging. Once again, I scribble notes as fast as I can to keep up with the professor’s words.

I luck out with another friendly seatmate, this time a girl named Anna who explains to me all the journalism classes with a media component are held in this building, while written journalism shares a building with the English department.

“See you next class, Lennon!” Anna says before she rushes off.

She already extensively explained the badminton class she has in ten minutes. The sports center is eight minutes away. I wish her luck before she sprints off.

When I emerge outside, campus is even busier than it was before my last class. It’s just before noon, which must be when lots of classes let out. I allow myself to be swept up in the movement, heading in the direction of the campus center but unsure where I’m actually going.

This is only my third day on campus. Not only am I still trying to replace my way around, I’m adjusting to setting my own schedule. It’s always been set for me. By the Landry educational system. By the horses. By Alex at the Landry Gazette.

For the first time, my only obligations are the classes I selected myself. It’s freeing. It’s also set me adrift. I have two hours until my final class of the day, and absolutely no idea what to do for them.

I pull my phone out to text Caleb, only to discover he’s already sent me one.

Caleb:Lunch?

Lennon:Yes!

Lennon:Where?

He responds a few seconds later.

Caleb:Peterson.

I roll my eyes.

Lennon:One of the brick buildings??

My phone vibrates in my hand.

“This is only my third day on campus.”

Caleb laughs. “Peterson is the massive circular building in the middle of campus. I didn’t think you could miss it, Matthews.”

I can see students heading straight toward a building with a rounded glass atrium in front.

“My floormates brought me to a different dining hall last night,” I grumble.

“Are you sure it was a different one? You are directionally challenged.”

“Shut up.”

“You had better comebacks when you got us lost in Landry High.”

“I’m hanging up now,” I warn.

“See you in the atrium. Call me if you can’t replace it.”

He hangs up too fast to catch my response.

I follow the crowd into air conditioning. It’s not quite as hot as the remnants of many Kentucky summers I’ve experienced, but warm enough, I wouldn’t voluntarily choose to prolong my time outdoors.

Caleb is easy to spot. He’s sitting on the arm of one of the couches sprinkled through the lobby-like space, typing something on his phone.

I’m not the only one looking at him. But I am the one he smiles when he sees, shoving his phone in his pocket and standing up straight.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I repeat, stopping a respectable distance away.

Caleb isn’t having it. He reaches out and tugs me closer, so I’m inches from his face.

He grins down at me. “This is cool, huh? Being lunch buddies.”

“Super cool,” I drawl, tempted to call him a dork again.

But I know what he means. We didn’t sit together back in high school. We were part of two very different crowds. And for the past few years, we’ve missed out on these casual, common moments.

Caleb laughs before releasing me, only to grab my hand and pull me toward the line of people waiting to enter the dining hall.

“So…how was it?” he asks me eagerly.

I’m tempted to mess with him, but I don’t. “Amazing,” I reply. “You wouldn’t believe…” I launch into a detailed retelling of my morning.

I know Caleb isn’t the least bit interested in journalism. I’ve never met a talented writer less interested. But he listens to me prattle on and on about every piece of wisdom my professors shared as we move along the buffet to grab lunch.

“How were your classes?” I ask when I finish talking about mine.

Caleb shrugs. “Fine.”

“That’s it? I just spent twenty minutes telling you about mine.”

“Thirty-three actually, but who’s counting?”

I stick my tongue out at him. “I was just thinking about what a thoughtful boyfriend you are, and then you ruined it.”

He laughs. “I loved hearing about your classes, Len. Business isn’t half as entertaining.”

I study him. I know Caleb’s major is mainly to placate his father. To ensure he can take his place in the lucrative company whose exact function I’m still not clear on. All I know is whatever Mr. Winters does adds to the Winters’ substantial wealth and requires a lot of overseas travel.

“You don’t like your classes?” I ask. This too, is unfamiliar ground between us. When I was at RCC, he’d never talk about academics here with me.

“They’re fine. Means to an end. C’s get degrees too, you know.”

“Uh-huh. You’d know,” I tease.

I’m certain Caleb is at the top of his—actually ours now, I guess—class.

“I can’t be smart and good-looking, Matthews. It’s not fair to other guys.”

“It’s really not,” I agree.

He smiles. “I’m really glad—relieved—you like your classes so much. I was a little worried I was going to have to haul all ten of your boxes back to Landry after a week.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” I tell him. “Even if I did hate my classes here—which, considering the fact RCC’s journalism department had one faculty member, was pretty unlikely—you’re here. That alone would have been worth sticking a year out for.”

Caleb half smiles, but it quickly fades. He plays with his fork, dragging a stray piece of lettuce across the otherwise empty plate. “I saw Tom Stradwell in town before we left.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, when I was out getting coffee.”

“Oh.” I’m puzzled by the sudden shift in conversation.

“He said he offered you a full-time job at the Gazette after you graduate.”

“Oh,” I say again, this time realizing what he’s getting at. “Yeah, he did.”

“Are you going to take it?”

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “There’s a lot of…factors to consider.”

Specifically, the boy sitting across from me.

Caleb nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He doesn’t ask if he’s one of them. He knows he is, but I tell him anyway.

“Like you.”

He bobs his head. Swallows a couple of times. “Right.”

We stare at each other, unsaid things hovering between us.

Along with things we’ve said and will have to say again.

“I’ve got practice,” Caleb finally says.

Of course.

“It’s not even baseball season,” I grumble. “I thought sports had seasons. Clear starts and ends.”

I’m joking, but I’m also not. I admire Caleb’s dedication and I know he works hard. I also thought the days of him rushing off to some baseball commitment would cease between summer camp and the actual start of the season. I should have known better by now, obviously.

Caleb gave me a copy of his class schedule, but not his baseball schedule. I’m sure there was a reason for that.

“Not if you want to win,” Caleb replies. His voice is teasing, but I also know he’s serious. This is an important season for him, and his teammates and coaches obviously take things just as seriously. “We’ve got a scrimmage on Saturday.”

“I know,” I respond. “I’ll be there.”

I wonder if Caleb is aware that this is the first time I’ll be seeing him pitch in a game. Ever.

We both stand, deposit our empty plates and dirty silverware in bins, and head back outside.

“You’ve got another journalism class later?”

“Nope. Pottery,” I reply.

Caleb stares at me. “Pottery?”

I shrug. “I needed an arts requirement, and I can’t play any instruments.”

“You can sing.”

“Yeah, for fun,” I respond. “I don’t want to be nitpicked for tone and range and whatever else they’re always talking about on those singing competition shows.”

“There wouldn’t be anything to nitpick, Lennon. I mean, everyone was saying…”

He trails off before he finishes the sentence, but we both know what he was going to say. Neither of us have brought up Gramps’s funeral since the August morning it took place.

“You’re good,” he finishes.

We walk out of the atrium and into the September afternoon. I’m silent; so is Caleb.

“I wish I could call him and tell him everything I just told you,” I admit, keeping my gaze on a gray squirrel scampering along the paved path we’re walking on. “About my classes and about the fire alarm going off in the middle of the night. About all of it.”

“He’d be crazy proud of you, Len,” Caleb tells me quietly.

“I know,” I whisper.

I’m not just saying it to agree. I know Gramps would be proud. It’s just not the same as getting to see the look unfold on his face first-hand. Hearing it in his voice.

“Come here.”

I turn and collapse against Caleb’s chest, resting my cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. This isn’t the weather where snuggling and sharing body heat appeals as an enjoyable experience, but we do it anyway.

He smells familiar. Comforting.

He feels solid. Safe.

“I love you, Len,” Caleb whispers into my hair.

I pull back and give him a wobbly smile. “Yeah, I love you too.”

“Text me a photo of your clay creation, yeah?”

Wobbly turns steady.

Caleb’s always been excellent at knowing just what I need.

Letting me fall apart.

Helping me hold it together.

“Yeah, I will,” I assure him.

He gives me a quick kiss and then strides away toward what I’m assuming is the sports center.

I thought it was the other way, but I definitely won’t be telling Caleb that.

I head in the opposite direction. My pottery class starts in a half hour, and it’ll probably take me every minute to replace the art building.