"Welcome home!"
I look up from my laptop to see my mom at my bedroom door, still in her nurse's scrubs. She looks more tired than usual, her hair a mess as she leans against the doorframe for support. It's been hours since I was dropped off by an Uber driver, walking into the comfort (and solitude) of my humble home once more, after my first semester of senior year, but I still put on a smile for this late welcoming. Her eyes sweep over my partly unpacked luggage, a mess of shirts and supplies, as she comes in the room, stopping to pick up my favorite blue-and-white striped shirt that I threw across the floor in my frantic search for my cell phone, which I was convinced I left in my dorm room under a pile of unfinished essays. She hastily drops it, covering her nose dramatically.
"Don't you have a laundromat on the campus?" she says, thinly veiling her disgust at my lack of hygiene.
"Mom," I groan. "We've been over this."
"I know, I know. I'll let you figure it out." I stand up and let her give me a big hug.
"I missed you so much," she says, tearing up as she breaks away. Oh no. Here come the waterworks.
"I missed you too," I reply uncomfortably. She sits at the edge of my bed, kicking off her flats.
"So, did you go to any crazy parties?"
"Mom, this is me we're talking about," I laugh.
"There's still time," she mutters under her breath. I pretend not to hear. Her eyes move over my closed laptop, still humming delicately on my bed, and fall on the half-empty jar of Sunbutter next to it. She frowns and clicks her tongue. "Is this what you've been eating all day? There's food in the fridge." I wipe my mouth guiltily, smudging Sunbutter across my face. What a pathetic sight. She rolls her eyes. "Get ready, we're going to the pancake house."
She walks out of the room, leaving me to my own devices. I sigh, stretching, and stifle a yawn. I look to my desk, below the framed scholarship certificate, to the pile of graded papers from my creative writing class. The perfect hundreds stand out on the crisp, white papers like red apples in freshly fallen snow.
"You're going places, Evan," Mr. Swarovski had told me as he handed them back at the end of class right before the break. "Now it's just a matter of committing to your career plan." I had stuffed them in my frayed messenger bag, flustered at the rare praise that had befallen me, and gotten out of there as quick as I could. I smile now at the thought.
I'm getting my shoes on when I hear my phone ping loudly, cutting through the silence of my room. I pick it up. It's an alert from the Connor Project Organization, calling for Thanksgiving donations. I don't know why I still keep up with it, after all the trouble it's caused me, but I feel obligated to, like it's my problem. Even though I've tried to put the whole Connor thing behind me, it still follows me around wherever I go, both literally and figuratively. I mean, it's been a few years since the Connor Project launched and now the organization has grown so big that it has its own Board of Directors and an office in New York City that's on call 24-7. I see their sponsored commercials all the time on network television, whether I'm watching TV on my laptop or in the lounges in my dorm building. You are not alone, the commercials always say, cutting to a picture of Connor's suicide note that I wrote (long story). You will be found. Cue the dramatic music and available hotline: 1-800-4CONNOR. They don't mention my name, but I'm still all over their new website (the one that Jared made crashed after a year). Sometimes I check up on it, just to see what's going on. I turn off my phone, stuffing it into my back pocket as I make my way downstairs.
As usual, the Pancake House is crowded full of people enjoying all-day breakfast at the ripe time of 9pm. I pick the table by the bathroom, and we are handed menus by an exhausted hostess. I already know what I'm going to get, but mom flips through her menu slowly, looking for the healthiest choice. She has discarded her scrubs and flats for a nice blue cardigan fit for the occasion.
"So," she starts, closing her menu and looking at me. "How are your professors?"
"They're fine," I reply, somewhat evasively.
"And you're still set on journalism?"
"Yes." That much I'm sure.
"By the way, your father called me yesterday at my job. Says you never FaceTime anymore, and he thinks it's my fault."
"Then why doesn't he FaceTime me? Or is he too busy with his new kid?"
She frowns sympathetically. "Honey, he's really trying his best. You just have to give him a chance."
"He's never been there for me. Why should I be there for him?"
Awkward silence. She drops the subject, somewhat reluctantly. Our waitress takes it as an opportunity to take our orders. Mom orders a veggie omelette with cottage cheese, while I order a short stack of buttermilk pancakes with extra syrup, their signature dish. As the waitress saunters off, I catch sight of a dark-skinned girl in a dark blue blazer approaching the table. Alana Beck, I realize, with a sinking feeling. I'm about to crawl under the table until she passes, but it's too late. She has already seen me.
"Evan!" she calls loudly, causing some customers to turn their heads and stare at us. She looks like she hasn't slept in days, her blazer all wrinkled, and she's clutching a foam cup of steaming espresso like it's her last lifeline, sipping from it sporadically. She looks just like the Alana I knew from high school, albeit older and more professional.
I grit my teeth into a forced smile.
"Hi, Alana," I start. "How are you?"
She rubs her eyes. "Tired. Some of our phone lines crashed and we need to get a million dollars raised before Thanksgiving."
I pretend to care, nodding sympathetically. "What are you doing back at home?"
"I'm just here with my family for Thanksgiving. I'd rather be in New York City, finishing my work, but my parents said if I didn't take a break, then I'd work myself to death." She laughs nervously before continuing on, despite my lack of interest. "I don't know how much longer I can do this. You know, we can really use your help with the Connor Project. I know I kicked you off before, but people really need a sympathetic face right now, with everything that's been going on in the world." She looks at me seriously.
There's no way I can go back to the Connor Project. I've finally put that whole mess behind me and started new. If I went back to it now, it would be like a fresh wound again. I try to tell her this as nicely as possible.
"I've already got my career laid out," I say, looking to mom for support. "I'm going to become a journalist." Mom smiles obliviously, pleased to see me interacting with another human. Thanks mom.
Alana gives me an uncertain look, lost in her own thoughts. She's got the same look she had when she was about to post my note on the Connor Project website without my permission, grim and determined. She's really unnerving me now.
"Well...ok. Good luck Evan."
"Thanks," I reply, eager to be rid of her. This night is not going according to plan. She gives me one last look and walks back to where her parents are sitting across the restaurant, still clutching her espresso, just as the waitress is coming in with plates of steaming pancakes and omelettes. They smell amazing.
Later that night, I am in my room trying to get a head start on my informational writing piece, How Technology Affects Learning. Outside, it's completely silent, the soft moonlight streaming in, along with a cool breeze, through my open window. I put my old-fashioned Ticonderoga pencil down to the paper, only to have the tip snap, scattering fragments of lead everywhere. Cursing, I get up to use the old-fashioned sharpener near my bed. I'm thinking I should probably switch to mechanical pencils when my phone pings. It's 11:00. Who would be contacting me at this time? Apprehensively, I pick up the phone. It's an alert from the Connor Project Organization.
President and founder of the Connor Project, Alana Beck, steps down, naming former co-president Evan Hansen as her successor.
End of Chapter 1
