Later that night after we got home, I found the motivation to look at a couple of options for my “higher education.” A little bit of research would at least cover my bases if Mr. Mann decided to question me on it later. Part of me also felt like I was being watched at this point. I knew I was being paranoid, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that voice on the other end of the line. It was cold. It was demanding. It wasn’t like other automations I’d dealt with, but it gave me that same chill I sometimes felt around Mr. Mann.

Okay, I decided. Time to busy myself before I start thinking about it too much.

I started with the state school. An obvious choice, but also an impossible one. Even though Mr. Mann wrongly assumed that Allie and I were dating, I hate to admit he wasn’t that far off. It’s something I’d dreamed of since puberty. I’m thankful that Allie and I stayed close over the years because she turned popular real quick in high school. I’m not one to coast off a friend’s popularity, but she was always intentional to invite me to the “elite” events. Sometimes it was fun being a fly on the walls of the inner circles at school, but no matter the amount of intentionality I was never actually inside those inside circles. As for Allie, she had clout. She didn’t take any kind of cliché route. She was smart, but not top of the class. She was peppy, but not a cheerleader. She was athletic, but not a team captain. She was involved, but didn’t hold any student council position. She was just a genuinely kind person who got along with everyone and was always there to help. And let's be real, she was stunning. That didn't hurt.

She ombré-dyed her natural platinum hair frequently. During the school year, she would dye it a different color every month. About halfway through Freshman year, half our class started naming the months after whatever color she chose. That year January was Satin, February was Bubblegum, March was Creamsicle, April was Celeste, and May was Dandelion. During the summer she just chose a single color for all three months, and that summer was the Summer of Peach (many referred to it as the Summer of Peaches). Allie always had the perfect outfits to go with her color changes. It’s not like her family was wealthy or anything. Allie was a thrifter-extraordinaire. I mean, sure, they had more money than Mom and I, but that was a low bar to overcome; experts refer to it as the “poverty threshold,” I believe. Allie was never showy or flashy. That’s not really her vibe. Again, people liked her because she liked everybody. It was hard not to be in love with her.

Which was my main problem.

Everyone was in love with her. She was a serial dater and could get away with it because she never gave anyone a reason to hate her, even if she broke things off. No one ever broke up with her. There were more reasons I was hesitant about college than I was letting on. State school, probably my best shot at an affordable higher education, wasn’t just a disinterest. It was known for being a party school. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m as party-hardy as the next guy or gal or 18-year-old virgin. I’ll swipe some unopened bourbon from my mom’s pristine liquor cabinet and roll up on my bike to a kegger kickback. I’d love state school in theory. I’d hate it with Allie there. Whose hand was she holding? Who did she kiss after the football game? Who was her study date this week? I knew myself after thirteen years of jealous love, and what I learned is that I couldn’t do another four, let alone a lifetime.

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I know what you’re thinking: Why not just ask her out? You have nothing to lose.

My answer to that is shut up.

You don’t know Allie. That season of friendship had an end and this way I got to choose how that end came about. I’d prefer a lifetime of morose remorse over suppressing an eternally cringey memory. I knew we weren’t a good fit and I’m sure she knew it even better. You can’t escape yourself. What I’d managed to hold onto through high school would just dissipate in college. My fear was slowly watching the little we had left breathe its last; so instead, it’d go on intubation.

My finger hovered over the left-click of the mouse that was shifting the cursor over the gray button on my screen with the big black bold letters that read “SUBMIT.”

Are you asking me or telling me?

I sighed and rolled the wheel up. I looked over the completed state school application but it was late and maybe it was a trick of the light but every answer to every question was just varied squiggles of “allie” over and over again. I clicked out of the website, trying to think of other schools to look at. Our tech school had already closed applications and out-of-state schools that sent me early acceptance were either too expensive or had also already closed their applications. My motivation was fading fast. Plenty of reasons to avoid going to college, but in a move of curiosity, that specific curiosity that held murderous intentions for one proverbial cat, I looked up “colleges Middle of Nowhere Arizona.”

The usual Arizonan suspects filled up all the sponsored links and on down almost the entire first page, so it took me a while to actually find a school in Middle of Nowhere. Finally, I found what I was looking for and to no one’s surprise it was called “Middle of Nowhere Community College.” Their homepage looked like someone’s cousin said “I know how to write html” but what they actually meant was they used to know how and it was during the dial-up era. It took forever to load and when it finally did it looked like it hadn't been updated since The Killers toured for Hot Fuss. I use that specific example because there was a red, bold announcement about a field trip at the end of the Spring Semester to a stellastarr*/Killers show at The Mason Jar in Phoenix. The front page mainly consisted of a low-quality picture of the school. The brown and tan brick buildings blended in with the surrounding desert environment. There were tall, light turquoise, metal gates between the buildings. The letters “MNCC” were painted above the main entrance in navy blue.

Other than that there was only an address. No application. No phone number. No email. Not even a class list. Okay then. Maybe something to look up when I get there.

I tried to listen to the album again but didn’t make it much farther than I had earlier. Hot garbage. I fell asleep but not for long.

A crack of lightning woke me up. Hard rain pounded against the sides of the house. The wind howled outside. I could hear the waves crashing in the not-too-far distance. They were so loud that it felt like they were slapping against the front door. Worried, I got up to check but as my eyes adjusted I remembered that we were miles from the beach. Was there a hurricane? It was the season for it, but Mom and I typically kept pretty good tabs on that and always batted down the hatches.

I looked out the window and a still, dry, moonlit night greeted me. It was 6 AM on a Friday. One week until I left for Middle of Nowhere.