Lila Shea
Let it be known that any and all interest I may or may not have in Steven Foster is in no way romantic and least of all sexual. Although he intrigues me, my first policy is a limit of one manic crush at a time. That slot is currently occupied by my Marxist sociology professor going through his salt-and-pepper phase. It is essential that this numerical restriction remains in place so that I can expend my mental efforts in other places, like keeping up with the ever-expanding collection of literary works based on Stephanie Meyer’s canon, discovering tighter ways to confine my hair, and making people I know in the Sims 4 to torture while my laptop burns into my thighs.
My second policy is that crush eligibility is eliminated if there are not enough degrees of difference between us. Portland may be a city but Reed College is hardly a village. Steven Foster, the subject in question, shares my psychology major, my vintage style (his in earth tones, mine pastels), my preference for weed over alcohol, and my Tuesday/Thursday seminar on Freud and his contemporaries. I cannot run the risk of having too much in common with someone I run into so regularly.
My third policy, above all else, is that there will be no direct interaction. Liking a boy is best done theoretically.
These policies must be reiterated following the ice cream parlor incident. I was participating in my weekly Friday night ritual of savoring two scoops of strawberry ice cream four blocks off-campus, because although there is an ice cream machine in the dining hall, the pseudo-liberal executives that run this institution insist everything be made with oak milk. In an unexpected affront, Steven Foster walked in and waved at me. We have never sat next to each other or been forced into the same group project. Although he answers questions with the confident cadence of a presidential candidate, I make one calculated comment per class to maintain my participation grade. There is no explanation for why he should greet me. But there he was, smiling with all his teeth, and I, awkward by trade, only managed to nod in response. He was with a group of friends, stuffed together in a rounded booth, flashing their necks as they tilted their heads back in laughter. I was alone. I always am.
Heed my warning. The last time I violated the policies and succumbed to my interest in my bookstore co-worker Luke, we were assigned a double shift together. Our hands brushed over a box of new arrivals and he revealed he creates stop-motion Lego animations of minor historical battles. My visions of who he might be were vaporized, hours of daydreams gone stale.
And before Luke, before the policies, I was in love. Ten months ago, but everything is fresh. The cotton of his slate gray shirts against my cheek, the gentle threading of his fingers through my hair before I cut it short and kept the remains, the irreversible detachment that appeared in his eyes when I told him what my father used to do. He left me with something that’s still in my chest, lodged somewhere between my ribs. If I gather any more of it I’m not sure I’ll be able to breathe.
Liking a boy is best done theoretically. Yes, it’s better off this way. I prefer to be alone.
Lila Shea is a senior studying English Literature/Creative Writing and Gender & Sexuality Studies. During her time at Northwestern she competed on Northwestern’s synchronized skating team, studied abroad at the University of Oxford, and wrote an honors thesis about girls’ literature. After graduating she will be moving to Athens, Greece to teach English through the Pierce Fellowship.
