How to drop out of college
We got a text that an indie show had started in our favorite craft room, so we ditched the “Sonic” idea and ran to the east side. By some precious miracle, all my friends were there. As I weaved through the crowd, bumping into familiar faces and outstretched hands, it was almost religious, as if I was suspended in a state of grace.
I spent the night making promises that I would be back, but somehow I knew that wasn’t true. The ten-year plan was dead; all I could do was make the most of the wake. And so, in a much more cosmic than deliberate way, I packed whatever college experience I might have had into a weird, sweaty, euphoric night. I danced to Pixies songs and sobbed outside the venue for no reason, glitter running down my cheeks. I got engaged, sort of. I felt so lucky to be known.
My friends and I took the bus home, mostly drunk, some driving the sexual intruders back to their filthy dorms. They flitted back and forth, filling the bus with the energy of beautiful people for whom the best and the worst were yet to come. I slipped into a tacky corner seat and watched, kindling a smile when a phone’s camera was turned towards me, lay my head on the shoulder of someone I no longer know, headphones in the headphones, aware, in a rare way, of the feeling of time passing through me. I was listening to “Fairytale of New York”, my favorite Christmas song.
Another treasured friend (the only one of us with a car) drove me to the airport at 4am, and I entered the silent terminal with my passport clenched between my teeth – pulling all my material possessions behind me, sequins streaked across my face, lipstick smudged, dress stuck to my body from the rain.
Rayne Fisher Quan is the author of the Substack Internet Princess newsletter.