An Advanced Degree

I ran away from home when I was fifteen—haven’t returned. The most advanced degree I have is Oak Hill Middle School, with honors. But I want to go to college. I should go to college.

I walk down the long hill—the Bay rises beneath me like a hot fog—and through downtown to the Berkeley campus. The sky burns blue, totally clear, like the day before and before that.

I walk up and down Cal—all over it—looking for direction. Most everyone’s with friends. I smile at a Muslim girl. She’s wrapped in a burqa, but she’s wearing eyeliner and jeans tight as stockings. And her nose is pierced.

“Hi?”

“Hey do you know where the English department is?” I hadn’t known I’d been looking for it.

“No.” She turns her shoulders away.

A band is playing—it’s not good—and I wander toward it, push to the front. Students jump and twist, happy to be unobligated and present here, on Sunday, at Cal, now. I’m jealous.

I want to go to Cal.

I find the English building—it’s Wheeler—and enter every room with an open door. Shakespeare. Milton. Contemporary African literature. Creative writing senior seminar.

Creative writing seminar.

A man in white robes is doing Tai Chi in the tall lobby, and classical music plays down the hall in a graduate student lounge. I follow it. The door is open.

Three men, bearded and wearing vests, sit at a long table around a bottle of wine. They are talking.

“Excuse me,” I say, my head in the doorway. “I—I’m going to go here. Is it good?”