Turtles All the Way Down by John Green

I let myself imagine it—taking classes like Politicized Geography and Nineteenth-Century British Women in Literature in small classrooms, everyone seated in a circle. I imagined the crunch of gravel paths under my feet as I walked from class to the library, where I’d study with friends, and then before dinner at a cafeteria that served everything from cereal to sushi, we’d stop at the college coffee shop and talk about philosophy or power systems or whatever you talk about in college.

It was so fun to imagine the possibilities—West Coast or East Coast? City or country? I felt like I might end up anywhere, and imagining all the futures I might have, all the Azas I might become, was a glorious and welcome vacation from living with the me I currently was.

I broke away from the college guide only for lunch. Across the table from me, Mychal was working on a new art project—meticulously tracing the waveforms of some song onto a sheet of thin, translucent paper—while Daisy regaled our lunch table with the story of her car purchase, without ever quite revealing how she came across the necessary funds. After I’d eaten a few bites of my sandwich, I took out my phone and texted Davis. What time tonight?

Him: Looks like it’s going to be overcast tonight so no meteor shower.

Me: My primary interest is not the meteor shower.

Him: Oh. Then after school?

Me: I’ve got a homework date with Daisy. Seven?

Him: Seven works.

—

After school, Daisy and I locked ourselves in my room to study for a couple hours. “It’s only been three days since I retired from Chuck E. Cheese, but it’s already shocking how much easier school is,” she said as she unzipped her backpack. She pulled out a brand-new laptop and set it up on my desk.

“Jesus, Daisy, don’t spend it all at once,” I said quietly, so Mom wouldn’t hear. Daisy shot me a look. “What?”

“You already had a car and a computer,” she said.

“I’m just saying you don’t want to spend all of it.”

She rolled her eyes a little, and I said what again, but she disappeared into her online world. I could see her screen from the bed—she was scrolling through comments on her stories as I read one of Alexander Hamilton’s Federalist essays for history. I kept reading the words but not understanding them, then circling back, reading the same paragraph over and over again.

Daisy was quiet for a few minutes, but at last said, “I try really hard not to judge you, Holmesy, and it’s slightly infuriating when you judge me.”

“I’m not judging—”

“I know you think you’re poor or whatever, but you know nothing about being actually poor.”

“Okay, I’ll shut up about it,” I said.

“You’re so stuck in your head,” she continued. “It’s like you genuinely can’t think about anyone else.” I felt like I was getting smaller. “I’m sorry, Holmesy, I shouldn’t say that. It’s just frustrating sometimes.” When I didn’t respond, she kept talking. “I don’t mean that you’re a bad friend or anything. But you’re slightly tortured, and the way you’re tortured is sometimes also painful for, like, everyone around you.”

“Message received,” I said.

“I don’t mean to sound like a bitch.”

“You don’t,” I said.

“Do you know what I mean, though?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

We studied together quietly for another hour before she said she needed to leave for dinner with her parents. When she got up to leave, we both said, “I’m sorry,” at the same time, then laughed. By the time Davis texted me at 6:52, I had mostly forgotten about it.

Him: I’m in your driveway should I come in?

Me: No no no no nope no I will be out shortly.

Mom was emptying the dishwasher. “Headed out to dinner,” I told her, and then grabbed my coat and got out the door before she could inquire further.

“Hi,” he said as I climbed into his car.

“Hi back,” I said.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“I’m not really hungry, but we can get food somewhere if you are,” I said.

“I’m good,” he said, backing up. “I actually kind of hate eating. I’ve always had a nervous stomach.”

“Me too,” I said, and then my phone started ringing. “It’s my mom. Don’t say anything.” I tapped to answer. “Hey.”

“Tell the driver of that black SUV to turn around this instant and come back to our house.”

“Mom.”

“This isn’t going further without me meeting him.”

“You have met him. When we were eleven.”

“I am your mother, and he is your—whatever he is—and I want to talk to him.”

“Fine,” I said, and hung up. “We, uh, need to go into the house if that’s okay, and meet my mom.”

“Cool.”

Something in his voice reminded me that his mom was dead, and I thought about how everyone always seemed slightly uncomfortable when discussing their fathers in front of me. They always seemed worried I’d be reminded of my fatherlessness, as if I could somehow forget.

—

I never realized how small my house was until I saw Davis seeing it—the linoleum in the kitchen rolling up in the corners, the little settling cracks in the walls, all our furniture older than I was, the mismatched bookshelves.

Davis looked huge and misplaced in our house. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a guy inside this room. He wasn’t quite six feet tall, but somehow his presence made the ceilings seem low. I felt embarrassed of our dusty old books and the walls decorated with family photos instead of art. I knew I shouldn’t be ashamed—but I was anyway.